Chapter 1: Song of the Wyvern

Claude looked up from his desk, realising that he had lost track of time. For a moment, he was uncertain whether he was even awake or had dozed off while working. Again. 

He had no idea what time it was.

Late, or early, probably. 

Winter was finally catching up with them. The day had been overcast, and the light was lost by the seventeenth hour. A brisk wind swept in from outside, making the king shiver and the flame of his low-burning candle wobble weakly.

Claude felt queasy looking at the maps spread out across his table and the mindless notes he had made throughout the day. He had poured over the map of the surrounding area, trying to pre-empt. Every. Single. Possible issue that might occur if Byleth’s “strategy” was to be used. He was confident he had managed it, too. The idea wasn’t inherently faulty. If pulled off, it would be a great stroke of warcraft worthy of Claude and Byleth’s reputations as tacticians. But he had bogged himself down with the quintuple and sextuple reviews he was giving it. Too much could go wrong when luring an enemy into a tight spot like the one Byleth had identified in Gwalchmai Ravine, no matter how brilliant the scheme was. For that reason alone, it warranted septuple and octuple checks as well.

Though he still hated the idea of using her to lure out Edelgard’s old buddies, Claude couldn’t deny her logic. The death of Jakob von Bergliez should have marked the end of this conflict. Instead, the mages had discarded his battered body and ambushed them in Miach Forest. They were undoubtedly targeting someone – and it was almost certainly Byleth. 

The truth was that he might have had more fun with it had he been leading the faint. Claude valued his life too highly to do anything that might see its end, but he did love taking risks. Ensnaring the enemy while putting himself on show, like a cherry waiting to be plucked from a cake, was a tried and true method for him during the ‘War of Succession’ that saw him win the crown.

Escaping the clutches of death with a well-cooked scheme was almost as good as sex.

Well, not that good. But pretty good. 

But it wasn’t him, it was Byleth. There was no exciting rush; instead, his mind immediately went to all the ways the plan could fall apart. It ate away at him — the ‘what-ifs’.  If anyone can handle being ‘bait’, it’s Teach… but Byleth was the fire of his being. Just one missed detail could spell disaster. They pursued her against all logic. Unless he nailed down every corner of the plot, it could lead to disaster.

He could lose her.

If something does go wrong, I’ll never forgive myself. 

As sweet an ache as love was the dread, and ‘what-ifs’ were driving him out of his mind.

Claude knew how important it was to use an enemy’s tunnel-vision against them – every foe, every cause, had a Kyphon’s heel. 

During the most recent Succession War, the one that saw him become king, the last of his elder half-brothers, Mustafar Al-Arashnahm, had pursued him to the point of straight-up mania. They had never been close; when Khalid had just begun his education, Mustafar was already reaching manhood. Though not el-shahansennuzad, having been born prior to their father’s succession, the king’s eldest son was hailed by conservative members of the yúdhyatahm – the aristocracy – as the ideal Almyran prince. He was from two renowned bloodlines, ancient and ‘pure’ – his late mother had been from a declining marzpahn family, House Shirin – big, tall, and strong. 

Mustafar had relished in the admiration he received during his early years. Like all Almyran princes, he had been educated by his mother, and then her family after she died. That family clung to their former glory during the age of Xsahxsahran Kurosh III, before the Locket was constructed. While the average Almyran ‘simply’ looked down on Fódlan as cowards hiding behind their little fortresses, House Shirin despised the pallid neighbours and brutalised them at any opportunity. As a result, the Alliance responded in kind, leading to more bloodshed. Many children were taken hostage over the decades by Fódlan in an attempt to ransom them back to House Shirin in exchange for fewer attacks. Unfortunately, House Shirin did not care for the orphans they had made in their numerous battles and never bothered to try and retrieve them, abandoning them to an enemy who saw them as little better than beasts. They were still doing it, up until recently. Claude was reasonably sure this was how Cyril ended up in Fódlan. 

This had been the world Mustafar had grown up in, so Khalid was not surprised the man he became was a sadist who lived only for power, torture and his own ego. He loved himself and damned the rest of the world. Once the boy became a man, Mustafar believed it to be his life’s mission to reverse their father and grandfather’s trade policies, restore the military clout of Almyra, and “erase the ahmixtan ” from the sacred bloodlines. 

He might as well have said, “Kill Khalid!” with that last one. 

In so many ways, Mustafar had been Khalid’s antithesis – and when the time came to fight for the throne, Khalid had known the only path to true unification of the eight houses would be with his last brother’s death. 

Finally defeating him had been an immense relief.

Pins and needles were attacking Claude’s soles. With a delicious stretch, he dragged himself to his feet. Those first few steps were agony as his legs remembered what their function was.  

“I need to stretch my legs!” he told himself aloud. “Fresh air. Exercise–“

Jamilah!

Perfect. There was no air fresher than one hundred feet above the ground. Staying at his desk all day, Claude had neglected his daily ride earlier – and Jamilah would not forgive him for that. She was a demanding wyvern, as all her breed were. 

Originating from Sandahn, the northernmost point of Almyra, rare Saragen wyverns were valued for their resilience to both hot and cold climates as well as the thickness – and beauty – of their scales. When shredded, they made welcome additions to shields and armour. They even made attractive adornments for jewellery. Held up to the light, they had an iridescent quality akin to opals. Claude gave Byleth a couple of Jamilah’s as a farewell gift. After the treaty was signed and they had spent what they thought to be their last night together.

I wonder if she still has them. 

He walked out of the entrance to his pavilion. 

Beyond the awning, the sky was pitch-black. The only light that emulated through the camp was the orange glow of the torches, and a few campfires with soldiers circled around them still burned. Most of his people were probably tucked up in bed —perhaps with a camp follower or even each other.

Gods know I’d rather be cosy in bed with Byleth right now. 

Wallace, the guard on duty outside his quarters, bowed to acknowledge the Shah. “Everything well, janob’e-ahli?”  he asked, words Almyran but accent distinctly Fódlean.

“Very well, Wal,” Claude replied through a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Fifth hour of the brand new cycle, sire.”

“Ah, yes! Girlaspa is riding across the sky now,” the Almyran king remarked, looking up at the night sky. “My mother’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“Many happy returns to the Queen Mother, Your Royal Excellency,” said Wallace, politely.

“Ha, I’ll be sure to pass them along.”

Claude gazed up at the tiny, twinkling stars above their heads and tried to trace out the constellation of Girlaspa, the legendary war-horse. 

“I owe Jamilah a ride,” he continued. “Won’t take long.”

“Should I arrange some pasban to accompany you?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.” Claude patted his sword with a smile. “Just hold the fort until I’m back. I won’t stray far. If I’m not back in one hour, then you can worry.”

Wallace chuckled and bowed. He was used to these requests, whether Claude was sneaking off to be alone, with his wyvern – or with the archbishop.

“Actually,” Claude added, turning back to Wallace. “I might have another letter for you to deliver to Lady Byleth when I get back.”

Might. Claude wanted to sit on his plan a little while longer – perhaps a flight with Jamilah would help clear his mind.

Wallace was decent enough not to roll his eyes at the mention of ‘another letter’. 

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” he said, with another bow.

Claude and Byleth tended to exchange letters on days they could not be together. Claiming them to be dispatches and reports, they passed love notes between their guards. It was the nature of their relationship from the moment they had crossed the line from wistful longing to confessed love. Claude knew that every word he wrote to Byleth likely ended up as fuel for the hearth – a necessary (yet hurtful) act. A reminder of his place in her life. Her lover. Her secret. Her sin. Condemned to the shadows. Hushed whispers, quick dalliances, stolen kisses, and love letters they couldn’t keep.

Each letter was sealed with wax and their enchanted stamps, her rota and his toghra. Not that he believed one of his men would dare break the royal seal and expect to keep their fingers, but one could never be too careful.

My stars-above, memories of our fantastic dance still warm me, but the sight of you so pale this morning had me spooked. As soon as I left you, I wanted nothing more than to turn back.

Looking at the maps spread out across my table, the maddening notes, ideas and considerations of your plan I realise that try as I might to accomplish your ‘assignment’, my thoughts are only for you.

Puzzling, dreaming, imagining, fearing; they control and consume me, as always.

Please tell me how you are – and be honest! In the meanwhile, alas, I’ll be working through the day—perhaps even the night. My bed will be cold, so best avoid it ’til done.

Keep yours warm for me until we have our scheme. ⚝ 

Claude thought of yesterday morning.

Though he had been dog-tired when he left her, Claude wished he could have stayed with Byleth. Vomiting, nightmares, and looking so drained… Something didn’t sit right with Claude about any of it, though he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. Unfortunately, he had been there longer than was decent. Had most of the night not been spent in view of his pasban (and, eventually, the inept Gatekeeper), the wider world might have raised its collective eyebrow at them. He hoped people around camp would simply chalk up his midnight visit to the unsociable hours he preferred to keep, and not a compulsion to make love to the married archbishop.

His pulse hammered with a mix of clandestine memories.

Last night had been exceptional, even by their standards. Remembering the tang of Byleth’s desire on his lips sent frissons through his body anew. 

Watching her writhe atop him. Peeling away that sheer silk number she wore to unveil her naked body. Illuminated by the dim candlelight. 

The knot of devotion tightening in his heart. 

The scorching flame in his stomach. 

The spark in his blood. 

The overwhelming hunger. 

Entwined, entangled and engorged in their crushing ‘dance’—coming so hard that they forgot where they were.

Her response to his letter enflamed him all over again.

I’m thinking of you, too, my golden-hart.

Slight nausea still phases me – but please don’t worry about me! – I’m more worried about passing whatever it is onto you.

Ashe came by – (It seems your assumptions about Countess Rowe was correct!) and we discussed the matter of love over breakfast this morning. Despite my best efforts to advise him as his ‘Professor’, you never too far from my mind. 

It made me long for you all over again. Your scent is still on my pillow, lulling me back though its fading fast. I close my eyes and imagine your breath pushing words through your lips— the intonation of your voice and timbre of its sound—its sincerity scoring desire into my ear—the breeze of your life tickling my skin—how those lips—all of your body—pleasured me last night, and so many nights before—your arms encircling me and holding me close—all I long for is to feel your presence and hear your voice.

The world needs me to be so many things, but all I want is to be yours.

Please don’t take too long. Once you’ve completed your task, I’ll give you some well-deserved tea. ♡ 

Her letter seared his soul, reminding him of her pledge last night all over again. They reverberated through him like a bell, making his skin leap as though she was in the room with him now.  

“You reach something inside me, no one else can.”  

He hoped that was true. It echoed his own belief that they were meant to be together. Joined. Two parts of a single whole. Twinned flames burning within their souls. Bookends who are back-to-back, alike despite all the rules, guidelines and walls between them.

Claude had missed her all day.

The Almyran king began his brisk walk to the wyvern pit. 

His legs cried as he walked, cramped from hours of being crouched over his harried notes was a far cry from the warmth of Byleth’s bed last night.

I really hope she’s being honest when she says she’s feeling better.

It was too late (or early) to visit Byleth – or ask her to come to him now. Moreover, Claude had resolved only to go to her once he was ready to share ‘The Plan’. But after hours of deliberation, pondering over the same points like a madman, he lacked the decisive push to tell her his idea.

I just need to relax. Decompress. 

The ride would help with that.

Jamilah was restless in her pen, seeming as agitated as Claude was. Scratching at the floor and batting her wings, the other wyverns hissed and growled at her for disturbing their rest.

She must have smelled me coming, Claude thought amusedly. “Stop sulking, old girl. I’m here.”

She butted him lightly with her snout, demanding a pet.

“I know, I know,” he whispered sweetly, assuaging her request. “Tata  was busy with one of his schemes.” He began to saddle her, muttering of his woes in the same crib-talk voice. “His Amuxa, his delaxah, gave him some tough homework; it’s driving Tata out of his crafty little mind.”

Jamilah snorted smoke at the mention of ‘Amuxa’, his Teach, and seemed offended that ‘his heart’s desire’ wasn’t her.

Claude rolled his eyes, leading the oversized lizard outside. 

Byleth was convinced Jamilah didn’t like her. During a rendezvous on the Starry Terrace, she had noted the albino wyvern eyeing her moodily as Claude caressed her.

“I don’t think she likes me,”  Byleth said worriedly.

He had grinned, kissing her neck. 

“ Don’t take it personally. She’s just a spoiled girl who doesn’t like to share.” 

A gleam crossed Byleth’s eyes. 

“ She doesn’t like you riding anyone but her, huh?”

“Ha! Something like that.” 

Rubbing Jamilah behind her horns, Claude said the same now as he did then. “Don’t be like that, girl. You know I love you, too. Just in a very different way.”

Climbing on, he urged her to go.

“Around the campsite and the lake, Jami,” he instructed quickly in their native tongue. The sky was too clear to go too high or further afield, lest they give away their position to an enemy. When the moon was full and bright, the light bounced off Jamilah like a mirror. “Don’t go too close to the ravine.”

Stretching her wings wide, Jamilah took to the skies. 

The early morning was beautiful. Quiet. Restful. It reminded Claude of his childhood when Jamilah was small enough to sit on his shoulder. They would ride his father’s wyvern as he swooped about, trying to teach the hatchling how to fly. Very quickly after, she began to pick it up and started to fly beside them. Then, a year later, she was large enough to carry her young master.

Since then, Khalid never felt as peaceful as when he was a mile-high.

Jamilah climbed up, plunged down, banked left and right. Flexing the leathery membrane of her wings, she began to sing happily. In flights like these, Claude was just along for the ride. He was happy for his mount to soar and swirl about to her heart’s content. Switching off his mind, he was only there to stop her from getting carried away and to steer her away from any danger should it arise. 

Below, Claude saw the glistening outline of Lake Awen, where he and Byleth had liaised in that little alcove the other day. His stomach curled – and back ached – sweetly at the memory.

A little further on, he heard the whooshing of Afanc Falls, nestled within Miach Forest, where they had made camp after tracking Jakob von Bergliez, the original belligerent of this conflict, and Dark Mages from the township of Gwydion to this point. He recalled how desperate he had been for Byleth’s company during that time, but had been denied because of propriety. Within the safety of Garreg Mach’s walls and hidden tunnels, Byleth had welcomed Claude’s advances keenly. 

Out in the field, she was significantly more cautious.

“I want to,”  she had pleaded through hitched breaths. “But if we’re caught–” 

“I won’t let them catch us.” 

“Claude, don’t make this any harder than it already is.”  Byleth had barely dared to kiss his lips. “I long for you every moment of every day. I want to scream in frustration that we can’t speak openly with each other.”

“Why waste your breath screaming when we can do this?” he asked, taking her into his arms and returning her earlier kiss.

He was far less wary and felt somewhat validated when her resolve cracked a little. Deepening the embrace, her tongue had slipped into his mouth.

Still, she pulled away quickly after, much to Claude’s disappointment.

“Life is short, By,”  he groaned then. “And the longer I wait, the less I care about being caught.” 

It was only for decorum’s sake Claude continued to elicit tricks and slights of hand to keep their affair a secret. For his part, Claude had come to a point where he was fully prepared to meet Dimitri face-to-face and tell him the truth. He was beyond the guilt and shame, he just wanted it to come out. The whole truth, or at least as much as Byleth would be willing to share as long as how they felt was out in the open.

He had had enough.

“I’m not frightened of Dimitri,”  Claude had told Byleth frankly, and her eyes had been troubled as she replied.

“I’m glad one of us isn’t.” 

The midnight sky was beginning to take on a more glaucous hue, making the trees of the woods below clearer. It brought back other memories of battles past – the ambush of Miach Forest. That’ battle’ had not gone as smoothly as the one that followed at Gwalchmai’s Mouth. 

It wasn’t even a battle – they had stumbled right into a snare, and one he and Byleth later kicked themselves for not foreseeing. 

They had been too distracted by Count Bergliez’s gangrenous body and the question of whether they should bring the body back to Gwydion, or press on to round-up the stragglers of his army. It had sidetracked them, so they were caught off-guard when the Dark Mages attacked suddenly that evening. 

The allied defensive line had been broken, and they had been scattered into two groups.

If ever Claude thought he might die in this war, it was then.

Under risk of potent magic and stray arrows, he had been forced to dismount Jamilah and fight on foot, lest she would have ended her life as a pincushion for arrows. 

It had been a long time since he had lacked the aerial view of a battlefield – he wondered how Byleth managed to direct troops so well without it!

He might have died ten times over during that struggle against the mages but, somehow, he survived and victory was secured. 

Byleth had been right beside him when they had killed the last of them who had failed to retreat into the darkness from which they came.

Claude had closed his eyes, thanking the god of fate for seeing them both through this attack.

“Are you alright–?”  he had asked her.

Byleth had responded by grabbing his hand and dragging him further into the woods. He could still see the frenzy in her eyes when she looked at him, as though her life was passing before them. Mind hazy, Claude had followed like an obedient puppy. She could have led him to his death at that moment, and he wouldn’t have noticed until he was coughing up blood. 

Once they were deep enough into the grove, Byleth had smothered him with kisses so powerful he would have toppled over had she not backed him against a tree. It was such a far cry from the nervous, stolen kisses of the past few weeks or so that Claude had practically devoured her in pent-up relief.

Then, she tugged at the knot of his belt.

“By…?” he muttered, questioningly.

“Make love to me,”  Byleth had moaned into his mouth, kissing him over and over, arching her body into him. “Please…?”  

His body had lurched at the invitation. 

“Are you serious?!”

“Yes. Please!”

What had happened to make his stars-above throw all caution to the wind? What possessed her? Making love in the middle of a flaming forest?! Literally, a forest aflame. Or rather, a ‘smoking’ forest, at that point. In the distance, some of the brushes had been set alight by blaze barrels and distressed wyverns who were not as lucky as Jamilah, only now starting to die down with the fall of rain. 

Either way, this was risky.

“Byleth, are you sure–?”

She tore at his regalia, adamantly rubbing herself against him. “Kiss me. Take me. Hold me. I want to be yours alone. Right now.” 

It had been against all reason and logic – but Claude hated common sense. It didn’t matter that they were fresh off the battlefield and barely hidden by foliage.

He wasn’t going to refuse. 

There’s a special place in Hell for men like me, he thought weakly. Women like Byleth, too. They were walking the path to Hell. But Hell would be a small price to pay in the next life if he could be with Byleth in this one.

He answered her plea. 

They flipped positions and tussled with the fabric that got in the way of their goal. Her touches and the fervour of her plight had Claude erect. Freed from his constraints, he had her flush against the tree. Gripping her thighs tightly, he passionately made love to her. Screeches erupted from Byleth’s lungs, sounding magnificently bestial.

He could still feel Byleth’s legs squeezed around him and her arms grasping his shoulders and hair, whispering how wonderful he was, how much she loved him and imploring him never to leave her — as if she feared he would disappear in a puff of smoke. 

Would their allies – or enemies – find them together like this? Tangled in this dangerous dance, their illicit, adulterous love on view to the world? 

They did not. The venue they had stumbled upon for this intrepid dalliance had been far enough removed from the overall chaos that none came upon them. Everything had been eerily silent beyond their own lewd noises of damp flesh and beckoning release. 

Her coo had been deep, low, and content.

“I love you.” 

Every time he heard those words, his heart hummed with conviction.

“I love you, too.” 

They had stayed pressed together against that firm oak. Claude had buried his face within the crook of Byleth’s neck as she spread slow, happy kisses below his ear.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you. Never again.” 

That had thrown him a little.

Again…? 

“What do you mean?”  Claude managed to pant in response. “I’m fine. I’m here… with you.” 

He opened his eyes again and motioned Jamilah to begin her first round. It would take a few more laps before she would be satisfied.

A guilty part of Claude wished someone had caught them that day just to end the enforced secrecy. 

He dreaded the end of the war; it clouded his mind to a fatal degree. Once this conflict ended, so too did his reason for being in Fódlan. His debt to Byleth – the people of Fódlan – for their assistance against the final pretender to his title, his only sister, would be paid. He would have to leave, and Byleth would be Dimitri’s again. 

So, he almost didn’t want it to end, just to have a little longer with her.  

It’s why I just won’t let this plan go. 

‘The world needs me to be so many things, but all I want is to be yours,’ she says. 

And how often had Byleth justified her marriage to Dimitri because he ‘needed’ her? Need, need, need. As if he were an enemy fire-trap seconds from igniting and she alone could starve the flames before they blew up the whole kingdom! 

Claude was sorry for all Dimitri had been through…  but it’s worse to live a lie. 

“We should have always been together, Jami,” Claude muttered, fully aware of how pettish it sounded. “At the Officers Academy, if she had chosen me instead… No one would have to get hurt.” No, stop dwelling on it. What was the point? It was now that mattered. He had her heart, but on paper, it belonged to another. “I don’t think I have the will to hide anymore.”

The wyvern continued to sing, enjoying her flight and not even acknowledging her rider’s utterances. 

They continued their sky dance, back and forth, over the captured land. In the distance, Claude could see the valley of Gwalchmai Ravine, the venue for Byleth’s final stand against the mages.

For the good of all, this conflict has to end. 

Claude knew he had to speak to Byleth about all of this – how-to bait the mages, and what they should do once their one excuse to be together was resolved. 

Heart-racing, Jamilah looped around triumphantly as she entered her final circuit of the camp.

Gazing upwards at the stars, Claude tried once again to trace the outline of his mother’s straum. Girlaspa was on the Almyran emblem, being the mighty mount of Arash. Those born under that collection of stars named for the dread-horse were thought to be forces of nature – adventurous and wild, independent and proud, bad-tempered and exuberant, and above-all brave. Though the maid of Riegan had not been born under an Almyran sky, the queen she became embodied her star-sign well. Claude did not believe the stars themselves made a person who they were, but if he could share anything with his mother, it would be her fearlessness.

And her willingness to fight for love. 

He returned Jamilah to her pen; she was now in a calmer mood and ready for a doze. 

“An excellent notion, Jami,” he said, through a yawn.

He was ready for a nap himself – but not before a wash, and letting his scheme for the upcoming battle go. 

It’s time to talk to Byleth.

Claude made his way back to his tent.

He greeted Wallace again before asking him to “hold tight for that letter”.

Striding back into his quarters, Claude lit a few more candles. He blinked his dry eyes and slipped back into his chair. Sitting alone at his little desk, Claude resolved to write the note. It could probably have held until sunrise, but he didn’t want to leave it any longer and risk any further hesitation.

Grabbing the small sheet of paper, his quickly moving hand wrote.

Come to me as soon as possible.
I want to talk with you.
Let’s have tea and go over the plan.
♡

Double-sealing it with wax and a kiss, Claude etched his enchanted toghra and quickly went back outside. He practically threw Wallace the letter, he was so desperate for it to be out of his hands.

“Here we go! Deliver this to Lady Byleth,” Claude ordered. “Let no one see it but her.”

The guard deposited the tiny scroll into his pouch and nodded. “At once, Your Royal Excellency.”

Stumbling back inside his tent, Claude kicked off his boots and loosed his belt to remove his clothes. Washing the grime from a long day’s work with lavender and chamomile oil had been immensely satisfying as well as soothing before bed.

He felt ‘civilised’ again.

I won’t get much sleep, he granted. But even an hour or two on a mattress rather than at a desk is just what I need.

Throwing on a loose-fitting shirt and trousers, he shuffled towards his bed. Falling face-first onto it, he breathed a sigh of relief. The softness felt good against his cramped muscles, the furs cosy and warm upon his skin, and the weak flicker of the candles on his desk eased him towards a very welcome slumber.

At last, Claude slept.

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