It was a good scheme, Claude knew.
An attack from behind by the Wyvern Brigades of Almyra? It was a good plan. An impossible one. Claude knew it, Hilda knew it, even the nobles of Liester- distrustful of Nader as they were- knew it. A plan worthy of the Master Tactician, they'd praised.
Claude understood that his schemes were good. He knew that the Black Eagle Strike force would have no choice but to lay siege to Derdriu personally- no other force in Fodlan would be able to penetrate their defenses. He'd orchestrated it that way. And, once they were trapped within the city walls, they'd bring Nader in. Hammer and anvil. A classic strategy.
Yet, that niggling feeling at the bottom of his stomach refused to settle. Ambushing the Black Eagles…
"Hilda." Claude set down Failnaught to look at his trusted retainer. Too many words needed to be said, yet… There would never be enough time. The battle was about to begin. Claude could already hear the Empire gathering outside their walls.
"Yes, Claude?"
"Nevermind… just make sure you retreat if it gets messy." If they lost, Claude hoped, Edelgard would allow her former classmates the opportunity surrender. If not her, then maybe he'd be able to convince Teach… The uncomfortable knot in his gut twisted again.
Hilda just smiled. "As long as you don't make me work," she replied in a singsong voice, drawing a tired chuckle out of him.
"Of course."
Claude, as always, had a plan.
It was, truth be told, a very basic plan- ambush the other two houses after they fought each other and/or pick off the most dangerous members. A simple route to victory, he'd explained to his house. Complex schemes were all well and good, but without enough information gathered (spying done) on the other houses, Claude didn't have much to work with, so he'd gone with simple.
Direct. To the point. Impossible to mess up. Wait till the other houses got done bashing the living daylights out of each other before swooping in for the victory.
It couldn't have been easier.
But apparently, he groaned to himself, no good plan survives contact with Lorenz. Claude watched, dismayed, as his fellow Golden Deer got themselves "killed" by the Black Eagle house. Still, his plan could still work. Three out of five might not be ideal, but if they executed it right, the Golden Deer might still be able to eek out a victory here.
With this thought in mind, Claude (and a pouting Hilda), crept through the undergrowth towards where the Black Eagles (all five of them still fighting!) and the remaining Blue Lions were fighting. As expected, the two royal heirs were currently going at each other head-to-head. Claude watched in mute terror as Edelgard unleashed a brutal overhead swing at Dimitri who, shockingly, blocked it with no apparent effort- before countering with a swipe of his lance.
Creeping forward even slower now, careful to remain unseen but still in bowrange. Seeing that he was, Claude quietly drew and arrow from his quiver of practice projectiles and nocked it to his bowstring, waiting for an opening. Each tip was coated in a fresh coat of yellow paint- if anyone was to be marked with that same paint on a lethal or crippling area, they'd be considered "dead" and eliminated from battle. He allowed himself a satisfied smile. He'd never be able to win against the other house leaders in a straight contest of strength- but a battle of wits? He definitely held the-
"AMBUSH!" The Black Eagles, as one, turned towards towards the trees. Claude paled as he watched each of the house members pull out a training bows from… somewhere. Edelgard, whacking Dimitri over the head with another savage swing of her axe, barked out an order.
"DRAW!"
Adrestia, Claude knew, wasn't known for producing great archers. Their armies tended towards heavily armoured knights and overwhelming magical firepower. Additionally, Bernadetta, the only Black Eagle Claude had seen practicing with the bow, wasn't participating in the mock battle. Still, at this range and with 4 bows aimed at him, Claude wasn't confident in his chances.
Dropping his bow and holding up his hands, Claude chuckled nervously.
"Heh heh… I surrender?"
Hilda, at his side, dropped her own axe, sighing. "At least it was fun."
The Black Eagles, as a class, had been excited for the first day of class.
After all, their new teacher, Professor Byleth, was mysterious. She, unlike Maneula and Hanneman, was unknown to the students of Garreg Mach. New. Exciting. And she had saved their class leader, Princess Edelgard from bandits!
So, when their teacher had poked her head into the classroom, looking in at the assembled students of the Black Eagle house and succinctly informed them that they would be starting their first lesson in the training grounds, nobody questioned it. They simply got up and followed their teacher, trusting her implicitly and curious at the prospect of training.
The students had formed into a loose single file line as they made then way to the entrance of the training grounds, Professor Byleth nowhere in sight. With nowhere else to go, Edelgard had curiously opened the heavy oak doors of the training ground.
Only to be ambushed as Professor Byleth dropped from above the door frame, barely avoiding Edelgard (who'd jumped out of the way at Hubert's warning shout) and crashing into Ferdinand (who'd been doggedly following Edelgard).
The Black Eagles, as a class, had been excited to meet their new Professor. Now, however, they cursed her name, arms curled around their various injuries where Byleth had stuck them with her wooden training sword.
Byleth drew her sword and tapped it consolingly against Edelgard's head. Edelgard, still smarting over being jabbed harshly in the stomach and trying not to regurgitate her breakfast remained thoroughly unconsoled.
"First rule of getting ambushed: Don't let yourself be ambushed. You could get injured. Or killed."
On the ground, Lindhart groaned as Byleth kicked him in the stomach, ostensibly to wake him up.
"Professor, I don't think any of use were expecting to be ambushed by our own teacher." Ferdinand, still slightly loopy and leaning against the door, complained.
Byleth paused as she considered his point. "That's true. New first rule of getting ambushed: Always expect to be ambushed."
"We didn't even have weapons!" That was Caspar.
Byleth narrowed her eyes.
"First rule of being a mercenary: Always be armed." A pause. "You never know when you're going to be ambushed. Now, all of you, get up."
The members of the Black Eagle house, many of the keeled over on the ground, groaned and moaned as they climbed to their feet.
"Your objective for today is to make it into the training grounds."
Bernadetta squeaked in terror as the Demon took up a defensive stance in the doorway, wooden sword pointing meanincingly at her. Unable to process, Bernadetta decided to take the the safest route out and promptly fainted. The rest of the Black Eagles, still unarmed and likely bleeding internally, wished they could join her.
The second day wasn't much better.
"So, kid, what do you think you should do when you're getting outnumbered?"
Byleth's answer was immediate. "Attack the flank."
Jeralt sighed. "That's when your being surrounded, not outnumbered. Hey- don't give me that look."
Byleth continued to glare petulantly at her father.
"Fine, fine. If your getting surrounded, your probably outnumbered, I get it."
Satisfied by her father's concession, Byleth gave her father a smug smile.
"Cheeky brat." Nudging her daughter with an elbow (which, from a man as well-built as Jeralt was, felt like much more a nudge to the twelve-year old), Jeralt picked up his lance from where it was, leaning propped up against the log they were sitting on. Pressing the heavy butt of the spear into the ground, he began to draw as Byleth winced and rubbed her side.
"When your outnumbered, the best way to not die is to maintain control of the situation. They're all gonna be targeting you, but that also means that their targeting you."
Jeralt heard his daughter let out a small puff of air through her mouth- which was her equivalent of a loud snort of laughter. Shooting her a glare, he continued.
"This-"pointing to a crudely drawn stick figure holding a sword, "is you. These," gesturing to several (far larger) stick figures he'd drawn, "are the people trying to attack you."
"Best way to not get killed it to make sure-" Jeralt quicky reversed his grip on his lance, turning it around quickly so that the tip of the spear was now pointed at the ground, and drew two lines on the ground, parallel to one another and surrounding the smaller stick figure with the sharp point. "is to make sure they can't approach you together- prevent them from surrounding you. Find a hallway, a dense grove of trees, a market stall, or anything that'll prevent them from attacking you more than one or two at a time. When you get outnumbered, remember that maintaining control is key, and choosing the proper position is critical to control"
Byleth nodded once, signalling that she understood.
"And if I can't find a good position?"
Jeralt pondered the question for a moment, drumming his fingers against the lance shaft. To his side, Byleth drew her own sword and began adding little details to the stick figures on the ground.
"I'd say don't let yourself get into that kind of situation. But, if you were to get outnumbered like that, run. If you can't run, try to make use the fact you're outnumbered- make it difficult for them to attack you without also hitting their allies. And the best way to do that is?"
He let the question hanging, waiting for Byleth to answer.
Dutifully, his daughter replied. "Take initiative. The enemy won't expect an outnumbered enemy to go on the offense. Use that element of surprise to eliminate the most dangerous members and send the rest into disarray." Another smug smile. "Attack the flank."
"That's right." Satisfied with Byleth's answer, Jeralt turned his head up to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Silently he wondered if what he was doing was the right thing to do- teaching his child such things before she even reached her teenage years. Goddess help him, he hadn't been sure since he set fire to the monastery a dozen years ago and left for a life of mercenary work- and it wasn't like anyone was around to tell him if he was doing the right thing. Byleth herself hardly ever talked, much less complain about her situation- not that she'd know any better. Still, the life they led was a dangerous one, and he'd rather regret teaching her to survive than regret not teaching her. Besides, Byleth seemed to enjoy the training! Hopefully. It was hard to tell sometimes.
Looking back to his daughter, still scratching in the dirt, he smiled to himself. She was growing up to remind him for and more of Sitri every day. His wife always did love doodling- even if she wasn't any better than he himself. Basking in afternoon sunlight and memories of the past, Jeralt absentmindedly looked down at the the drawing Byleth had commandeered from him. wondering if their daughter was any better.
"... Is that supposed to be me?"
Byleth had added a man with a scruffy beard next to the small figure he'd drawn to represent her. The man was holding a lance, much like his, and a horse with a bushy tail, much like his own mount- Alain. It'd be a heartwarming picture- if not for the fact that the man was also very clearly unconscious, with swirls for eyes and little stars flying around his head, the smaller stick figure very heroically standing in front of them.
Byleth, nodded and hopped to her feet, sticking her tongue out at him briefly before scampering away, towards to cooking tents.
Jeralt laughed as he pushed himself to his feet, cracking his back and feeling every one of his… hundred something years in his aching joints.
"Stop her!" he yelled out to his men, and watched, amusedly, as one who happened to be walking past, scooped Byleth up, holding her like a sack of potatoes as she flailed under his arm, before submitting and allowing the mercenary to put her onto his shoulders. The man, grinning, yelled back at Jeralt.
"And what should we do with our little thief?"
Jeralt looked again and observed that Byleth had managed to snag a loaf of bread before being captured- and was now munching happily as she was carried back to her father. Life, Jeralt thought, was good.