The Broken Spoke, The Hidden Chains
Eighteenth Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC
The pair of men in the well-appointed chamber cut off quiet laughter, even as their conversation finally began to wind down again. Governor-General Ferrego Antaryon was not a man to show such a display of emotion before many, but he had begun to think of the young Lord Keyholder as a personal project, more than merely passing the time, having offered them more guidance than one misbegotten fool who he was sorely related to, one he hoped redeemed himself before he died to heatstroke or jungle plague, though either was unlikely with healing magics on hand for all but the most lethal threats one might find in those blighted lands. There was hope yet that fool's children would rise further on their own, yet the Lord of Braavos had not gotten as far as he had by standing idle when could be planting trees for others to enjoy decades later.
Beren Dynymion and he had enjoyed a toast to good fortune and swift resolution of the Pentoshi 'Spice Rebellion', if one could even call it that. One could see it in the absence of the usual marks of war upon the younger man's countenance, still the same firebrand, Ferrego considered, only well-leashed by militant discipline, that he might better rise in his own estimation, as he had instructed many moons ago.
Finally, Ferrego rose up and strode across the room to stand by the door, grey mists gently obscuring the view from the palace for the moment, contemplating his next words carefully: "Your father was a fool to overlook you so," he said, to Beren's great shock. "It is the way of Braavos, of course, that an heir should rise above notions of adventure on the high seas or duels at midnight hour, for such might find its place in theater and even in history, but as always it is the province of men of enterprising nature, who would realize comfort and security is sooner earned at the end of a pen rather than that of a sword."
Ferrego glanced over his shoulder to watch Beren's expression, "But there have been many excellent men of high stature who sought their fortunes on and off the battlefield, and of course there comes a time when there can only be swords, for a pen cannot slay a beast, and might barely gentle a man's condition against folly. Yet, you wore the scorn of your peers like a cloak, to better hide honed blades, for what man would see subterfuge in the bold as brass Braavo who had shown little interest in balancing ledgers?"
Ferrego shook his head, scoffing quietly, knowing full well much of one's work at the rank of Colonel would likely involve shifting numbers between the margins, the ever-shifting calculus of war. "Better to have encouraged you in a manner that stimulated you further, as you were no fool to have secured your House's fortunes by any means available at the time, even given his unfortunate passing."
"Fortunate, after a fashion," Beren replied quietly. "I never confided in him like I did you, I never expected you to send me headlong into what turned out to be political theater, but I can't say I resented it given how it raised my standing among the Legion when I had finally enlisted. For all their talk about merit, it was not hard to show a surfeit of skill, skill enough to rise through the ranks, given how quickly they expand their forces." Beren shook his head, recalling, "A Legion raised every month--granted they have been training a hundred thousand former slaves and freemen how to run the same drills over and over again until they can do them in their sleep, while sick or perhaps even upside down, all for the better part of a year, but still."
Beren stood to join the older man where he stared out into the night painted in greycast tones, a thousand fairy lights overlooking the canals and harbor dimmed behind the hardened glass window, and one might almost hear the rush of activity in a metropolis so overturned by construction and expansion.
"Every month I wonder when this army, along with the many other institutions the King raised, will crumble under the weight of its own urgency and scope. Yet, still the gold flows into the King Viserys' coffers like fish leaping up onto a boat, still men with will and ambition join under his banner to add more hands to 'the Work' unfolding, or I suppose I should say Scepters and Notes, as that is near enough the same as the word of Lords of Stone and Air, and further guaranteed by that of Fire, thankfully without their own assent." Beren shot a glance towards Ferrego, who chuckled lightly at that, shook his head for a wonder, for he had often stayed up late into the night dreading the same things, and for all the various reassurances had never fully let his guard down, always thinking how to leverage changing circumstances to the best of his abilities. Beren set aside his glass, pulling the Lord of Braavos away from his recollection.
"Have they told you..." Ferrego probed carefully. The chamber was warded, all the same.
"Aye," Beren whispered softly. "Do you want to hear the worst part?" His voice was rough as he spoke, "I couldn't even be bothered to ask a priestess if he was alright, out there...
Beyond." He vaguely gestured towards the window, toward everything and nothing at once. "What use to it? Miss him now after years of shouting and fighting, when he could be boiled down for soup or spare parts by some
devil-thing? Just another cog in a ever-spanning machine, and for what? That Chaos might be stymied one more fraction, that they might wedge those corroding gates an inch more forward when the distance might be as vast as creation and neverborn time?" His hand fisted upon the glass, though Ferrego hardly worried it would break even if the man slammed his fist against it.
"We broke the Wheel, finally,
finally broke it, and it was
all for nothing." There were tears in his eyes, but Beren did not let them fall. Could not. "It was all one great sham, theater, as you said. We didn't end it, broke no chains, we just hid them from plain sight. And it kills me to say this, but we paid well for it, as it would bring them all yet more despair, such that when millions have just been granted a reprieve through the efforts of the King, the mantle of duty laid down the burden of a terrible truth upon us responsible. I should hate him for this truth, but I cannot...
I cannot."
"Father was right all along."
Ferrego said no more, only offering what paltry comfort he could to a man grieving, and if there was weeping to be done, forever would he remark it was merely rain.
