Chapter Text
1179, Verdant Rain Moon
The heads of the five great noble houses of the Alliance Roundtable convened in a secret meeting in Derdriu Castle’s war room. Unlike the regular Roundtable meetings which were held in the Great Hall, no lesser lords or junior members of houses were allowed to listen in. Nothing was to be recorded. Until a decision was made, nothing that was said in this room could be revealed outside.
The topic, as it had been for the past few moons, was the succession crisis of House Riegan, the preeminent house of the Leicester Alliance since its founding. House Riegan had been in a steady state of decline for many years, with fewer and fewer crested children born each year. When the previous heir Godfrey von Riegan unexpectedly passed, he left only a single crestless daughter. Born out of wedlock and without the Crest of Riegan to prove her lineage, there was little hope she could carry on the line.
If they took the word of Godfrey’s maid that she truly was his daughter, they would have to wait more than a decade for her to come of age, and even longer to see if the Crest re-emerged in the next generation or the one thereafter. Or they could pass the leadership of the Alliance onto a more robust family. If the leadership of the Alliance was to be passed on, and House Riegan give up its seat on the Roundtable, should it go to Holst of House Goneril, a stronger but less willing candidate, or the young Lorenz of House Gloucester, weaker but more willing? House Goneril was militarily stronger, and held in the greatest esteem for defending all of Fódlan against the barbaric Almyran horde, but House Gloucester was more central in location and thus had more connections to the other nations of Fódlan.
Regardless of who won that vote, the repercussions of such a decision would shake the political landscape of the Alliance to its core. There would be unrest; there would be areas of weakness brought – or dragged – into the light. The Adrestian Empire’s ever-greedy hands would grasp at Ordelia and its surrounding territories more brazenly than before, if House Riegan were to fall. The troubles could even spread to Faerghus and back. They, too, were faced with a succession crisis, with most of House Blaiddyd having been murdered some years past, and constant plots to undermine the authority of the young prince before he could reach coronation. House Riegan had once been a branch of House Blaiddyd, and they maintained some relations even after the Crescent Moon War and formal separation. Without House Riegan’s support, would Blaiddyd’s sole heir also fall? Would there be war for the throne of Faerghus?
Negotiations had slowly plodded on with no end in sight, but today the aging but still shrewd Duke Riegan pulled out one last gamble.
Today, in this closed meeting, there sat a sixth person, a young man.
He had the darker looks of a border lad, but the same green eyes as Duke Riegan. To Lords Goneril and Edmund especially, it was apparent that he had some amount of Almyran blood in him, as many commoners in the eastern reaches of their territories had. This impurity, however, was never spoken of in public among the nobility, even if it wasn’t exactly unheard of in their ranks either.
But it was one thing for House Daphnel to have kidnapped an Almyran warrior princess almost a century ago. It was entirely another for the head of the Leicester Alliance to propose that this border lad become their next leader; to put him right beside the pureblood Blaiddyd and Hresvelg heirs and ask the people to turn a blind eye.
The young man stuck his hand into yet another Crest Analyzer, the third this afternoon. In the morning session, he had only done it once before the lords, with the one from the Riegan estate, which Count Gloucester did not trust. So he brought his own after the recess, and asked Count Ordelia to do the same. The Riegans were not known for their mages, he said. They would not know if a Crest Analyzer had been tampered with.
For the third time this afternoon, the Crest Analyzer glowed brightly and brought up the crescent moon image of a minor Crest of Riegan. A true heir had been found. House Riegan yet lived.
“Well?” the old duke asked of Count Gloucester, “Are you satisfied?”
It was no secret that the Count was eyeing the leadership of the Alliance for himself and his heirs. He could never be satisfied with such a result, but he didn’t get to such a position by baring his personal hostilities so openly. He slowly nodded. “Yes, that is proof enough. I acknowledge this boy as the son of your daughter.”
Duke Riegan was about to call the meeting adjourned, to go ahead with his plan to legitimate his grandson and have done with it all. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Count Gloucester cut in once more. “However,” he said sharply, “I propose that blood relations and a Crest are not enough to name him next in line for the title of Sovereign Duke.”
Duke Riegan’s eyes narrowed. “House Riegan has always led the Alliance, and you’ve acknowledged him yourself. This is the son of my daughter. By that alone, he is of the proper breeding.”
“Yes, but where is she? Where is Lady Tiana that she cannot be here to vouch for her own son!”
“She has chosen the life of a warrior, not a duchess. Her letters are all right there on the table before you, in her handwriting, stamped with her signet ring. We’ve been over this, and we’ve proven they are not forgeries.”
“That’s true, Your Grace, that’s very true. But there is one possibility you’ve not entertained, perhaps because you are a father who wants only the best for his children. We are all fathers as well,” he said, gesturing to the other lords, “and we cannot let our hopes blind us to this very real threat.”
“What are you implying?” Duke Riegan’s hands were clenched into fists. His grandson wisely remained silent and still as the tides turned against him.
Lord Gloucester was quite a theatrical man, and he took this moment to look each of the other lords in the eye before speaking. “I’m merely pointing out that Lady Tiana has not been heard from in years. If she were happily married, even to a commoner, she would be here with us now.”
Lord Edmund interjected then. “A kidnapping, you’re saying? Forced marriage?”
Sighing, Lord Gloucester nodded. “It cannot be ruled out. Not until we see Lady Tiana and her husband here before us, to prove she was not coerced into writing these letters.” He looked to Lord Goneril, who he knew loved his young daughter more than anything. “We all know the value of Crests, and it is not wrong to covet them, but what precedent would it set to place Crests above the welfare of our children? If we allowed anyone who flashed a Crest to join our noble houses, it would be painting a target on our children. Any bandit could force his way into our families if we so lowered our standards! I hate to be so crass, but it must be said. If an Almyran snuck across the border and captured a lady, should House Goneril let the children of this savage rapist represent them in the Roundtable?”
There was silence as the lords thought on this issue. All of them, save Lord Gloucester himself, had daughters. They could imagine very well what their enemies would do if they knew the Alliance lords prized Crests so much they would even prop up foreign agents born of rape as the heads of their noble houses. They had been at war with Almyra on and off for centuries, and both sides had captured many spoils of war. If the Almyrans knew they could weaponize that…
Duke Riegan’s teeth were clenched. He said nothing, though his anger was palpable. Beside him, his grandson also frowned. The young man spoke up for the first time since his introduction.
“My mother is not a captive. It was her choice to elope and give up any claim to the Riegan title. If my word means anything to you at all, let me assure you she is happy. As her son, I would not stand for it otherwise. I will swear it, on my honor, on my Crest, on the goddess, on anything you would have me swear upon.”
It was improper for him to have spoken, and Lord Gloucester sniffed in disdain. The other lords, however, heard the sincerity in his rushed words, and the distress.
“I believe you, boy,” said Lord Edmund, who was known for his fairness. “And I will not oppose your taking of the Riegan name, in time. But I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said to Duke Riegan, “I cannot in good conscience vote for your grandson to so suddenly inherit the title of Sovereign Duke. I cast my vote, that this boy be given a chance to earn his legitimation through deeds proving his loyalty to the Alliance, but that for the time being House Riegan must step down, unless Lady Tiana testifies before us.”
“Aye, that is my vote as well,” Lord Goneril agreed, gruff as ever. “Plenty of good border lads on our side, but they earn their posts. I’ll not risk having an Almyran lead us, Crest or no.”
Lord Ordelia, scholarly and frail, gazed at the Crest Analyzer he had brought to the meeting. His eyes were shadowed and distant, as if recalling some unknown horror. “Perhaps that is better,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it is a step forward, to prize our children’s happiness over their Crests. We must not become like the noble houses of the Kingdom or the Empire, who force marriages to produce crested children and disown the crestless. Our bloodlines may fade sooner than theirs, but at least we will go with dignity.”
With all the other great lords against him, that was the end of the old Duke’s proposal. They named Holst first in line, Lorenz second, subject to change. The details would be written and signed at the next official Roundtable. Some vague mentions would be made for the possibility of House Riegan reclaiming its title at a later date, should suitable heirs be found.
It had gotten late. The lords filed out, escorted by the castle’s servants, leaving Duke Riegan and his grandson alone in the war room. They sat in silence for a somber moment until the young man asked, “What should I do now, grandfather?”
“Nothing, boy. Or everything. It’s your choice.”
His grandfather’s words were exceedingly unhelpful, so he asked in a different manner. “What would I have to do to prove loyalty to the Alliance?”
At this, the old man scoffed. “Squire yourself to Holst Goneril, I suppose. Next time a skirmish breaks out, you’ll take that as an excuse to restart the war. Kill or displace every Almyran along the eastern stretch of Fódlan’s Throat, and the Alliance will be yours. Could you do it?”
“That’s… a bit much, don’t you think. I’d much prefer peace.”
“Of course you would. And as much as I dislike Almyra, I’d never force a son to march against his father.” He sighed and shook his head as he continued. “But Fódlan’s history is steeped in blood, Claude. They won’t accept you otherwise. The most I can ask of you now is to go out there, learn about this land. Perhaps if you find a good Fódlish wife and have plenty of children by her, they can revive our House.”
Claude hummed in contemplation. He got up to draw back the curtains on the windows, and when he looked out, it was evening. The sun still set quite late at the end of summer, so the sky was streaked in pinks and oranges. The window overlooked Derdriu’s bustling port, and the first twinkling stars were visible in the dark veil slowly descending from high above the sea.
He smiled at the sight. It was his first since greeting his grandfather and their servants at breakfast, and the first to reach his eyes since arriving in Fódlan one month prior. Everything from then until now had been endless speech coaching and etiquette lessons to pass him off as Fódlan-born for this meeting, and it had all busted in the end.
Good riddance. If they had succeeded, he would have had to sit through six more months of even more stuffy lessons on ballroom dancing, proper Adrestian opera seating, or how dropping a knife at the dinner table was an invitation to duel in Faerghus or something of the like. The puffy, frilly Leicester nobleman’s fashion didn’t suit him anyway, Claude thought. It wasn’t too great of a loss since he always had back up plans for his backup plans. Besides, he’d always loved a long game.
“Leicester is a Merchant Republic, isn’t it? Like Morfis. It’s been able to stand equal to the other countries of Fódlan, despite having less land and soldiers, because of the wealth of the merchant class.”
“Obviously, boy. What are you getting at?”
When Claude turned around, the soft glow lingered in his eyes. “I think I’d like to try my hand at being a merchant. Really get to know the Alliance middle class,” he said with a grin.
“What would you sell?”
“Tea. Spices. Silks. You know, the things everyone thinks are from Morfis, but actually make their way there from Almyra? Have you seen the tea prices lately? They’re absurd! The Alliance could make such a profit by cutting out the middle man, and I’ll still be able to make my way to Garreg Mach, as you intended, to influence the politics there.”
Duke Riegan hadn’t known his grandson for long, but he already knew he was a headache. Stubborn, unable to be persuaded once he’d sunk his teeth into something. Willful in the pursuit of grander dreams no one else could seem to see. Just like his mother. The old man sighed and shook his head once more. He wondered if he would ever understand those secret dreams.
“You’ll want a ship then, and some caravans?”
“That would be great, thank you!”
“Hmph. You’d wheedle them out of your father instead, if I refused.”
“That’s true, but thank you nonetheless,” Claude said. He bent to embrace his grandfather lightly around the shoulders, and then the two got up to proceed to the dining hall for dinner.