Realizing the tiny barbarian was right, Keita looked at her sister and said, “Sorry.”

“Aye,” Morfyd replied. “Me too.”

“Thank you.” Dagmar began to walk away but was blocked by the human queen and her new squire’s seething mother.

“Are you trying to get my daughter killed?”

“Yes!” Annwyl said, spinning around to face Talaith. “That’s what I want. To get my niece killed. That’s my whole f**king goal!”

“Mum!” Izzy charged up, her giggling baby sister in her arms, her well-armed twin cousins hanging from around her neck. “You promised me you wouldn’t do this!”

“Stay out of this, Izzy. I’m talking to your betraying whore of an aunt!”

Dagmar glanced back at Keita and Morfyd. “I won’t discuss it,” she said simply. “I just won’t.”

She walked off and a few seconds later, snapped, “Canute!” The dog pressing into Keita’s leg looked up at her with big brown eyes.

“You’d better go,” Keita whispered.

And, sighing, he walked off after his mistress. The arguing sisters-in-law and Izzy had also moved to another spot so they could give all the guests in the Great Hall a clear view of their hysterical yelling.

“I don’t know about you,” Keita said when Briec had to rush over to help Izzy separate her mum and the human queen of all the Southlands from a rousing yelling match and slap fight, “but I’m having a most entertaining night.”

Morfyd signaled to one of the servants for more wine. “Surprisingly, sister, and perhaps for the first time in the history of all dragons—I must agree with you.”

“She’s mine, you know.”

Ragnar let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure The Beast would use that particular term, but all right.”

“I’m just making it clear where we all stand, Liar Monk,” Gwenvael explained. “So you’ll understand why I’ll have to kill you if you try anything.”

“You still haven’t figured out I love your sister?”

“This isn’t about Keita. This is about me.”

“I thought it was about Dagmar.”

“In relation to me.”

Unable to stand any more of this, Ragnar leaned in and whispered into the Ruiner’s ear, “I’ve heard you’re getting your hair cut. All those long, golden tresses falling helplessly to the floor…”

Gwenvael lunged away from him. “Bastard! ” Keita quickly stepped aside—the two mugs of ale she’d been carrying over nearly tragic victims to a Gold’s idiocy—and let her brother pass.

“What was that about?” she asked, handing him one of the mugs.

Ragnar stared into it. “Is this your father’s brew?”

“Don’t be weak, warlord. Swill it!”

“Perhaps later.” He placed the mug on the table behind him.

“Well?” she asked, grinning.

“Well what?”

“Did my brothers come over here and threaten you yet? Tell you if you try to take their adorable baby sister as your own, they would beat you within an inch of your life?”

“Uh…no.”

Her brows lowered. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no. They haven’t said a word. Wait. That’s not right.” Her face lit up. “The two eldest said, ‘Move!’ and I said, ‘Piss off!’ That was about it.”

She stamped her bare foot, and he knew at some point he’d have to find out why she refused to wear shoes. “Does this family not love me at all?

Do I mean nothing to anyone?”

“I—”

“Don’t say it!”

Ragnar laughed, pulling Keita into his arms.

“They threaten Brastias all the time,” she whined. “Why not you?”

“Because they know you don’t need their protection. You take care of yourself just fine.”

She sniffed. “That was actually very good.”

“I thought so.”

Smiling, Keita placed her ale on the table and put her arms around Ragnar’s neck. “Tell me, warlord, this Battle Slag—”

“Maid.”

“—position. Does it make me queen of the Northlands?”

“No.”

“Is there a throne?”

“No.”

“Shopping trips? A gold carriage? An entire troop of handsome warriors to protect me at all times?”

“That would be ‘no’ three times in a row.”

“Then what is the purpose of a Battle Trollop?”

“Maid. And, basically, you’ll get to braid my hair before I fly off into battle.”

Keita stared up at him. “You’re joking.”

“And unbraid it when I return.”

“Yes, because after more than a century of being a Protector of the Throne, I so look forward to braiding your hair for the next six or seven centuries.”

“I was desperate,” he admitted. “My c**k was hard, you were wet, and I needed to come up with an excuse that would get you to travel with me. I was almost positive telling you that I love you and want you to meet my mother would not do the job.”

“And you would have been right.” Instead of running off once faced with the truth, she asked, “But what am I going to do while you’re out battling Irons? Besides sitting around looking beautiful and shaming all those pathetic Northland females?”