1181

The reception he received at Riegan Manor was as he expected.

He and Ferdinand strolled in without any fanfare. The main hall was devoid of staff, not even guards wandering around, patrolling or keeping watch.

"This feels off," murmured Ferdinand.

Claude shook his head. "No, this is the state of House Riegan, I'm afraid. There's a lot to tell you about Riegan, but I must meet with my grandfather first. Take the horse to the stables, I have to do this alone."

Ferdinand nodded and walked out the door they'd arrived.

It had been…a long two weeks. Imperials were crawling the Oghma Mountains and a good half of their journey had just been evading capture. With both the heir to the Alliance and the next King of Faerghus on the run, the Empire was hot to capture them. Assuming, of course, Dimitri made it out alive.

Claude hoped he did.

The manor was just as opulent as always, Riegan gold accents everywhere the eye could see. Paintings adorned the walls of the hall, depicting ancestors that didn't share his skin tone. Wealth poured into every aspect of the architecture, even the handrails of the steps were gold.

A waste, he thought. Were he to sell this building, no doubt he could divert those resources into such better projects. But that was an issue for a different time.

Claude walked up the steps, not feeling ashamed that he tracked mud from the road in. Well, he was sorry the servants would have to clean it, but at least it would piss off his grandfather. Spite was what kept him going up the steps after two weeks of minimal sleep and rest.

On the upper level, the building was more populated. Servants paused, bowing in surprise as Claude trudged forward. A few house soldiers saluted him, but he paid them no mind, concentrating on steeling himself for Silas.

He arrived at his grandfather's room. Two armored guards stood outside.

"I have an appointment with Duke Riegan," Claude said. He was aware of how he looked, armor worn from a battle two weeks old, reeking of sweat, blood, and grime.

The guards looked at each other, then at his appearance. They each nodded to him with meaning.

Claude swung the door open and called, "Hello, Silas."

Silas von Riegan stirred in his bed, leaning up. Goddess, he didn't look well. Scant months ago, Claude had seen him weak, but still of sound mind. The look in his eyes, there was none of that anymore.

"Boy," hissed the old man. His mind was working enough to remember his distaste, it seemed. "You finally return."

"There's a war happening, old man," Claude said, sparing no time for niceties. "And you're in bed. Even if you can't leave, there should be advisors here. You are Duke, not an invalid."

"I am aware." He mustered a growl. "We will throw our lot in with the Empire."

That, Claude had not expected. "Excuse me?"

Silas coughed. "You would not understand. You're an outsider."

"Yes, I'm not from here," Claude said. "But I fail to see how that means we should surrender. No, grandfather, rest assured, we are fighting."

Narrowed eyes met his. "Unless I am mistaken, you are not Duke, boy."

"Not yet," Claude said, shrugging. "Unless we reach an understanding here, I'm prepared to do what's necessary."

"You—"

Claude turned away from the bed, towards the wall. Hung on a display set was the Relic of Riegan: Failnaught. It was a huge, gaudy bow, something that was certainly not Claude's style. But he couldn't deny the power in it. Walking across the room, he removed it from the wall, with the arrow it had been mounted with.

"Boy…" Silas trailed off.

"Here's what's going to happen," Claude said, plucking the bowstring idly. "First, you will appoint me your regent. All ducal authority shall be mine, as well as control of the war effort. Second, you will withdraw all idiotic plans of siding with the Empire. Leicester will remain neutral, at least until the time is right. Bloodshed gets us nowhere."

Silas' eyes flared, the hottest emotion he'd had yet. "I didn't take you to be this much of a fool. The Alliance isn't the Kingdom, it isn't the Empire." He broke into a fit of coughing. "We are not powerful in our military. We must pick a side, one that will win."

"You're right." Claude smirked. "I'm just picking our own side."

"I do not agree to your demands," he growled. "Perhaps your usefulness was never existent in the first place. I brought you here, I took you in. This is how you show you're grateful?"

Claude laughed. "Grandfather," he said, twisting the word, "trust me that I am a very different man than you last saw. I don't have patience for your idiocy. I am you progeny, so much as you wish otherwise."

"You are no grandson of mine, Almyran filth," hissed Silas.

That same Alymran just nodded, smile not slipping. "Sorry, gramps, got a new world planned. Don't think you're fit for it."

"Guards!" Silas shouted. In a second, the two men outside the room burst through, swords drawn. The Duke pointed to Claude. "This man is an imposter, he is not my grandson. He is an Almyran agent sent here to sow chaos. Kill him, kill him now!"

"I would think," Claude began as the two soldiers looked at each other, "that the one to sow chaos would be the warmonger, grandfather."

The guards made no move.

"Kill him!" Silas screamed from his bed, spittle flying from his mouth.

Claude flicked the bowstring. "You see, gramps, there's a problem with that."

He drew back an arrow.

"These are my guards, not yours."

With a shot Shamir would approve of, he shot his grandfather through the throat.

There was no scream, no struggle. The weakened man slumped back on the bed, blood spurting on the sheets as his face froze with the last moments of true, genuine fear.

"A fine shot, Lord Khalid," the shorter of the two guards murmured.

"He died in his sleep," Claude explained, returning Failnaught to its former resting place for the time being. "I was unfortunately just too late to see him before the end. It was a tragedy, you see. When I heard the news, I wept for hours."

"Of course, my lord," the other guard said. "You may leave this to us. Sir Nad…ahem, Nardel will wish to speak with you."

Claude took a deep breath and smiled.

"Oh, it is good to be home."

He ran a hand through now shorter hair, brushed back. It was an effort to look older, something he hazarded a guess wasn't totally working. He missed the braid, though. But such things were symbols in Almyra, people weren't considered adults until theirs was cut off. Sometimes that happened when they came of age, sometimes when they proved themselves an adult through some sort of harrowing situation.

Taking power from his grandfather and leading the Alliance seemed like it fit those circumstances.

But the time for such thoughts was for later. He turned to Ferdinand before entering the room. "I look fine?"

Ferdinand took a small step back and looked Claude up and down. Claude wore light, ceremonial armor that wouldn't last a second in battle. But he was a lord of the Roundtable now, and that meant dressing for the occasion. "You look good. Older."

Good, that was his goal. The youngest person he'd see in that room was older than he was, so Claude gambled that perhaps they'd take him more seriously this way.

"Into the viper's nest," Claude muttered, strutting to the door and swinging it open.

He'd seen the actual table many times before, but each time it surprised him how lackluster it was in comparison to the rest of the nobility's Leicester. Each family seemed to exude wealth, but here, on the table that the first Alliance lords had built, that all went away. For it was just a plain, if large, round, wooden table. In the center, a map of Fódlan, but even that was relatively lackluster.

He took his seat in the gaudiest of chairs, adorned with silks and fabrics depicting the Crest of Riegan. Across from him, one other person sat.

Trevor von Albrecht. Claude hid the sour expression on his face as he nodded to the man not much older than he. He'd hoped that seat would be occupied by Judith, but they hadn't anticipated the war. And Gloucester proved more ruthless than expected, pressing the vote as the war began. With Lysithea von Ordelia siding with the Empire, apparently it hadn't proved difficult at all.

The Albrecht was skinny and gaunt, appearing far more nervous than Claude. His black hair was tied back into a bun and if Claude was being honest, he looked like a poor fit to lead.

But his calculations would have to wait, as Leander Gloucester walked in. He, unlike Claude and Trevor, was dressed in pomp and frills, a cravat much like Lorenz would wear expelling from his neck. It was far harder to resist the urge to roll his eyes than he anticipated.

Odd to look upon his biggest obstacle in the room and groan. Claude was used to having enemies that made him afraid, not laugh.

"Riegan," the Count greeted, nodding respectively. "I was relieved you managed to escape alive from the front, though perhaps my thanks ought to be directed at your dear Adrestian friend behind you."

Claude could hear Ferdinand tense, his armored plates brushing together. "Gloucester," he greeted in kind. "Ferdinand is a worthy vassal, indeed. He decided to turn coat to aid me in escaping, much to his own risk."

Gloucester nodded, satisfied with the exchange insinuating what it did. Let Leander call him a traitor all he liked. It was a line of attack Claude was prepared for since his birth.

The fourth to enter the room almost got to his chair before Claude noticed. Alister von Edmund slid into his seat with grace. Unlike his adoptive daughter, his colors were muted deep blues and blacks. His similarly black hair extended past his chin and rough facial hair whisked against his face as if he hadn't shaven in a few days.

They all nodded to one another. Claude wasn't one to wish to break the silence, sensing some kind of faux pas. Oh, how he could have owned this entire room had his grandfather worked with him, rather than against him. Would that the man were a good one, he might still be alive.

If the silence had been something sacred, their next and last member of the Roundtable certainly disregarded that.

Claude had never met Holst. The few Roundtable meetings he'd attended with his grandfather, Holst's father had been Lord Goneril.

If you believed the stories, Holst was a walking goliath who could sever three Almyrans' heads with an axe at one. He won battles before they were even fought, sending the filthy Almyrans running screaming from the Locket, their charges broken upon Holst the Unshakeable.

Claude didn't believe those stories, but he was still surprised.

Holst sank into the chair, wearing armor the color of his and Hilda's hair: bright pink. His hair was a mess, the kind of windswept that young men and women fawned over. He had thin lips, a trusting smile, and a jagged scar running down through one of his eyes.

He leaned forward, with a warm smirk, looking at Claude as he rested his head on folded hands. "Claude, I'm sad it took us this long to meet. Hilda speaks well of you and I'll admit that despite everything happening, it makes me happy to see she seems to not have exaggerated." His voice was smooth, like a flute.

No wonder the stories depicted him so. Any opponent wouldn't take the man seriously.

But there was fire in those eyes, behind the sincerity. The kind a child learned early not to touch, lest they get burned.

"You've beaten me to the words, Holst." Claude smiled and wasn't surprised to find it was genuine. The man wasn't dissimilar to Hilda. "If you'll be in the city long, by all means come by the Riegan estate. We would love to host you for a meal."

Holst grinned, leaning back. "The Locket is in good hands. I'd be remiss to turn down an invitation from the Sovereign Duke." He grew serious for a moment, idly playing with one of his earrings, a design Claude could have sworn he'd seen Hilda make before. "My sister, I must ask, is she safe? There hasn't been word yet."

Claude noticed Gloucester lean forward as well, trying very hard to feign disinterest, no doubt over the fate of his son. "Hilda is safe, as are Lorenz and Marianne. We all left Garreg Mach alive, though I can't speak to any delays they might have met on the road."

"Good," breathed Alister von Edmund. If Holst's voice was that of a flute, then Edmund's was a rough bass, vibrating naturally. "I was worried my wayward daughter might stay so."

"I should hope she finds her home soon," Claude said, speaking carefully. Turning his head away from Edmund, he addressed the Roundtable. "Shall we begin?"

Edmund drew out a sheet of paper; the agenda. He cleared his throat. "Our first item would be welcoming our newest member of House Riegan, as well as mourning the loss of the late Silas von Riegan."

Gloucester raised his hand. "I motion to move on to matters of import."

Claude raised his hand. "Seconded."

Edmund cleared his throat again. "Those saying aye?"

Five hands raised. "Motion passed," Edmund said. He'd been given the position of running the meetings more so out of lack of interest from the rest rather than his own skill, but he'd risen to the occasion.

Papers shuffled. "Then our second item on the agenda would be the war, and how Leicester will respond." Edmund afforded a small smile. "It is the only other item for today's meeting, as it was the purpose for being called. Nevertheless I don't believe any of us expect this to be a quick meeting as the nature of such a thing is so broad. Therefore, whomever wishes may begin."

Gloucester raised a finger and Edmund pointed to him. "The floor is yours, Leander."

The man stood and Claude had to remind himself that it wasn't Lorenz who sat at the table with him. He was a splitting image of his father, making it difficult to dislike him. But of course, that was remedied as soon as the Count opened his mouth.

"We cannot win this war," Leander said, voice carrying through the room. "It's foolish to think we could fight the Empire ourselves. I do not think anyone in here could disagree with that. As of a week ago, the Kingdom has formally declared war upon the Empire. I believe we have a clear choice here, do we support Faerghus or Adrestia? I will not pretend the Alliance does not have military prowess, but we cannot hold back the threat from the East as well as fight both Kingdom and Empire."

Claude took a deep breath, then stood to begin what would turn into a long crusade of neutrality.

He rarely left his study, time slipping away from him as hours into the night turned into days. Claude collapsed at his desk some nights, only for Ferdinand to wake him as the guard changed.

Not that Ferdinand was much better. He insisted on taking at least one shift guarding Claude every day. At the start, Claude resisted, demanding his friend get sleep.

But once the assassination attempts began, he shut up.

The first had come after he declared intentions for neutrality at the Roundtable. Shortly after said meeting, a servant he'd never seen before tried knife him as he got changed in the morning. It was sloppy and Claude had disarmed the man easily. Ferdinand arrived before long and the two questioned him.

He broke under pressure and gave up his contact, someone Claude traced to Trevor von Albrecht. Perhaps it was his own volition, or a favor for Gloucester. Claude didn't know, so he tucked the card into his hand to play later.

The second attempt came after he opened the manse to refugees. With so much room in the manor, Claude had ordered a majority of it to house those fleeing from the war. His servants had been scandalized, but obeyed. Soon, word spread and Claude had to take effort to find more housing for the wayward souls. It was a problem he didn't mind tackling.

But his second assailant was much more skilled. He'd attacked while Claude visited the refugees, and likely would have murdered him in broad daylight had Ferdinand not been there. His bodyguard had run the attacker through before the knife ever reached Claude. The Duke hadn't even noticed it happening.

Ferdinand stayed by Claude for twelve hours a day, despite Claude telling him to get rest.

They had no clues as to who sent the man. Ferdinand assumed it was Albrecht or Gloucester, but Claude made no judgements. Perhaps Holst had learned of his birth. Perhaps Edmund was making a power play. Or maybe they were Empire. There were far too many people who wanted him dead.

A month passed before the next, as the Alliance publicly declared their neutrality, much to Gloucester's chagrin. But he'd been outvoted, three to two. Whereas the indecisiveness of the Roundtable was usually a hindrance, Claude played into it, delaying and confusing people out of decisive action. Then, he proposed neutrality. Holst took it in stride and Edmund came around soon after.

The third was a poisoning attempt. One of Ferdinand's guards had discovered a cook slipping something into his soup when he'd decided to sneak to the kitchens for a snack. The cook was Adrestian, but Claude found secret messages in their room written in Almyran.

Oddly enough, the attempts made Derdriu feel more like home than anything else. He was no stranger to them in his youth. Hell, Garreg Mach had been a lovely respite away from such things.

He stopped counting them soon after. There weren't innumerable occurrences, just too many to bother tracking. Ferdinand's guard became elite and he only let the best protect Claude.

Which certainly helped when Leonie showed up on his doorstep, months later.

She'd recovered to an extent, having been seen by the best healers in Gloucester. Having been staying with Lorenz, when he mentioned the attempts on Claude's life, she left to help.

It was a weight off Ferdinand's shoulders, having someone else he trusted implicitly.

Claude let those two worry about security, while he focused on ruling. He seldom got more than three hours of sleep, too busy with staving off the four great houses from taking sides. Letters were sent to other countries, extending hands in friendship. Some responded well, others, less so. He needed an ambassador. Or several.

"You should take a break," Leonie said one day, as the sun had begun to raise for the day. He had not slept yet.

He blinked, weary. "I'm a servant of the people, Leonie. And they need help."

That wasn't her point and they both knew it. But, Leicester began to grow under his lead. Not in grand ways, but small ones that he was pleased with. Alliance budgets were diverted from eastern defenses into public works projects. He worked on a proposal for a schooling system nationwide that gained more support than he expected, albeit ultimately failing. He'd try again, in a few years, but it was reassuring.

The war worsened between the Kingdom and the Empire. But Leicester, well, Leicester prospered. And the rest of Fódlan took notice. He had messengers arriving almost daily from the Empire. As for the Kingdom, the new Margrave Gautier himself paid a visit. Not that Claude could deny Sylvain such a thing, especially when they were both so new to leadership.

"You take to this well," Sylvain complimented. "But dear Goddess, you look exhausted."

Claude only smiled. "You're not the first person to tell me that."

Friends came and went through his door. Raphael and Ignatz the most frequent, both the backbones of his economic plans. Shamir worked mercenary for him for a brief period before vanishing again.

When Ordelia withdrew from Leicester and became occupied by imperial forces, that was when he finally thought of Byleth again.

Oh, how it was so easy to not think about her. A list of casualties from the Battle at Garreg Mach had long since been released, her name on the missing in action list. For a time, he'd prayed—yes, prayed—she'd made it out. But as days turned to weeks turned to months, he accepted it. The woman he loved was dead.

But he couldn't allow such a thing to deter him. No matter that all his friends told him to stop working himself to death, he persisted. She taught him to always fight even when pinned. So while the grief was insurmountable, he persisted. Memories of her dogged his steps, but he persisted. He did cry, eventually, on one of the few nights he allowed himself to take a break. Ferdinand had to have heard it through the door, but he did not mention it.

Claude was thankful for that.

As the first year of his rule came to a close, he looked at himself in the mirror and didn't recognize the man who looked back. It wasn't the beard that graced his face nor his longer hair. He was weathered, weary. The bags under his eyes carried oh-so-many unshed tears.

But he persisted.

Author Notes: Ahhhhhhh sorry for taking so long and then only delivering a short chapter. Everything's been a mess, especially this chapter. I kept arguing with myself about two subplots and I finally decided to cut them. Which was hard to do since one heavily involved Lorenz and I know how much you all enjoy him. I've shelved it, and hope to come back to it after timeskip, but I just needed to get this chapter out and done. The other one, that one is dead. It just wasn't good.

But in more positive news, I've been busy, and it's not job related! Okay it kinda is. Since some of you enjoy my little life updates, I'm interviewing for a new job, one that's writing related! But most importantly, one that doesn't have overtime. So if I get it, I might finally get a full weekend for the first time since July. I have my final interview this week and I'm feeling very confident about it all, but wish me luck!

Editing Notes:
5/9/2021: Minor grammatical adjustments. Corrected a minor continuity issue.
10/30/2021: Minot grammatical adjustments.