He'd put off writing the letter all day.
It wasn't in Oswald's nature to procrastinate. He intended to write it in the morning, but—the drapes in his study room needed replacing, didn't they? And then Margrave Edmund sought his advice on some minor concern, and of course Oswald would help the newest and most malleable member of the roundtable. After that there came a parcel from that poor Daphnel girl, Judith's niece, the one he locked his late son into a betrothal with when he was 18 years old and she was 18 months. It was another piece complaining about Godfrey's death, her unmarriageable status, her impending fate as a spinster, oh-won't-you-help-this-poor-Crestless-bitch—
Oswald ripped the letter once-twice-three times, engraved it with his personal seal, and instructed his carrier to deliver the torn pieces to her as his official response.
By then it was late afternoon. It was his intention to sit down and write, but instead of making the left to his office he continued on ahead to the highest balcony of the Riegan Estate. Oswald looked down at his city, upon the thousands of well-off-yet-still-commoner ants who called it home. The workday wasn't quite done for them yet, and they were all too caught up in their own little lives to notice the spindly old man eyeing them behind his wire-rim glasses. Even if one did catch sight of him, they'd have no way of knowing who he was. The members of House Riegan were famously secretive and wary of commoners, stemming from the assassination of the second Sovereign Duke not long after the Crescent Moon War. The killer had been some lowborn ragdoll disgruntled over the lack of commoner representation in the newly-established Alliance. She was shot through by an archer squad and deserved every last arrow that pierced her, but the incident scarred the psyche of Riegan clan. Oswald could still hear his own father ranting about how they needed to seclude themselves for their own protection, a paranoia he continued to live under despite his entire lived experience being evidence to the contrary.
Commoners were not to be feared; they were largely irrelevant. It was the nobles, he'd learned, that needed to be handled like the poisonous snakes they were.
Oswald looked out at the mountain range that surrounded Derdriu and wondered—once again and for the thousandth time—if he was doing the right thing. He was aware of how unhappy Tiana and Godfrey had been growing up, their fates shackled to the demands of House Riegan and the Leicester Alliance. He arranged for Tiana to marry the future Count Ordelia to strengthen the bond between their houses and counter Gloucester influence, and nearly twenty years later her runaway was still the most severe humiliation he'd ever been forced to endure. Oswald punished his son by proxy, choking him with the bonds of obligation until there was nothing left to him but the future Sovereign Duke.
And then he died.
Godfrey died and Count Ordelia was also forced to endure a parent's greatest loss, six times in a row. In contrast: Tiana ran away, married the man she 'loved', and became the queen of a nation five times the size of the Alliance. Oswald could lie to himself until the Goddess came back, but the results spoke for themselves.
However, inheritances weren't generational in Almyra. Her good fortune was not Khalid's good fortune.
Oswald grimaced. Khalid. He had a grandson breathing the air of this world for the past sixteen years, and not once did Tiana find the time to tell him. And for what—so he couldn't interrupt her grand love story? To spite him? It certainly wasn't to protect the boy. It was well known that Alymrans thought little of the Fódlanese, and every bit of the discrimination they could not impose on their queen was levied onto Khalid instead.
Oswald didn't realize how hard he'd been gripping the balcony edge, knuckles gone white and numb. He straightened his posture as best he could, fixing his embroidered vest and coat. He supposed he should be grateful for Tiana's neglect; it would only make the Alliance all the more appealing. After all, why should Khalid labor under the hatred of his own people when he could rule over a country of his own?
Dear Khalid,
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Oswald von Riegan, Sovereign Duke of the Leicester Alliance. But far more importantly than that, I am your grandfather.
I'm writing to you now from our estate in Derdriu, the capital of the Leicester Alliance and our family's ancestral home. Years ago, your mother used to chase her crying younger brother through these very halls. She was educated by our tutors in the library across from my office; she was trained in archery and swordplay by the same war veterans who taught me. Just above my bedroom door is the family portrait we sat for in 1138, my late wife seated in the center holding baby Godfrey, three-year-old Tiana posed to her right, and myself looming large behind them in my best regalia.
The furniture in our estate is themed around the color yellow—for the color of the moon above, our flag, and our family insignia. The average citizen doesn't know much about us and I prefer to keep it that way, but commoners bow at the sight of our crescent banners. The nobility halt their snide, insolent chatter when our knights make my presence known. We are not royalty, but are still equals to the Adrestrian Emperor and the King of Faerghus. We bend the knee to no one. That is the Leicester way.
Your mother relinquished her claim to House Riegan when she married your father, and your uncle was murdered six months ago by enemies of the Alliance. I am an old man nearing the end of my life, with nothing to lose and not a care as to who I offend. All that I have—our fortune, our esteemed place as leaders of the Alliance, the thousand-year history of our family name—is yours. It is only yours.
I ask that you travel to the Alliance to meet with me in the Riegan Estate. I wish to know my only grandchild. We have much to discuss about the future.
No matter where you were raised, who you are now, or whatever sort of man you may become: you will always have a place with me.
Your grandfather,
Oswald von Riegan
Sixth Sovereign Duke of the Leicester Alliance
Oswald scanned the letter. He painted as lovely a picture as he could without writing a novel, made sure to convey a sense of shared ownership, and even dared to throw in an appeal to Khalid's heart at the end.
He felt warm as he read and re-read that final line. He was nearly 75 years old, and in all that time he had never committed such vulnerability to paper. No matter the strict instructions he conveyed to his carriers, there was no guarantee Khalid would be the only one to read his letter. Tiana might snatch it from his hands; his barbarous father might demand that it be read to him; some conspiring servant might tear it to shreds. But what else could Oswald do? He knew he would likely die en route if he tried to make the commute to Almyra himself. Oswald was no longer afraid of death, but he refused to leave the world without securing House Riegan's future.
Allowing Khalid time to read the letter, consider his words, and respond, Oswald was told could expect to hear back from his grandson in three weeks.
Khalid's response arrived in one.
When his carriers handed it to him, Oswald immediately noticed the weight of the envelope. The paper used in Almyra was thicker than what he was used to, grainer, nearly opaque when he held it up to the light. The Almyran royal seal held the letter shut, a burnt orange stallion that was a nod to their desert landscape and history as nomads. Oswald shooed his carriers away, and as soon as the heavy wood doors of his study were heaved shut he reached for his letter opener. And then he sat there, paralyzed, eyes glued to the unopened letter as if by gravitational pull.
When I'm nervous, I take a step forward and do it anyway!
It was what Tiana would tell Godfrey when she wanted to goad him into some mischief, like when they dropped eggs on Duke Daphnel's head from the balcony or filled Countess Hyrm's purse with lard. Hate her as he might, in his moments of uncertainty it was the words of his bitch queen daughter that spurred him on. He slipped the opener beneath the insignia and ripped it open.
Gramps:
I read over what you wrote, and let me tell you! I hemmed and I hawed. I meditated on your words. I read volumes of Alliance history. I intensely interviewed many of your closest allies and associates. I had a very dramatic fight with my dad in the rain, complete with appropriately timed lightning and some servants playing sad violin music in the background. Then mom came in, tied me to a horse, and dragged me naked through the streets of the capital. I am still reeling with shame.
This is all to say that I've decided to meet with you in the Leicester Alliance. My parents support this decision whole heartedly. I'm told it'll take upwards of a week to get there. I'll see you soon!
Prepare yourself.
Your Favorite Grandson,
Prince Khalid
At least no one could say he wasn't Tiana's son.