No, Keita didn’t like that idea at all. So she’d wait. She had talked herself out of worse situations—she’d do it again.

So Keita stared through all those bars hoping to see the guards returning with something to eat. When they didn’t, she rested her hands on two of the bars and that’s when the guard dog right outside her cell leaped at her, snarling and snapping at her hands.

She immediately pulled away and watched the crazed beast attack the bars again for good measure.

Keita smiled and said, “Why…hello there, you yummy-looking little thing you.”

“Do you hope to convince me, my little rain droplet, that you’d give up your power? We both know that sometimes it’s what’s behind the throne that is the true power. But tell me, my adorable lightning strike, does your brother know he’ll be your puppet? Or is he big and dim-witted like your father?”

“Is there a reason you summoned me, Queen Rhiannon?”

“Oooh. Terse. I must have struck a barbarian nerve.”

“Your Majesty…”

She held up a white claw. “Aye. There is a reason I’ve summoned you. I have need of a favor. Two favors, in fact.”

“And they are?”

“Well, one is my son.”

“Your son?”

“Yes. My youngest?”

Ragnar stared at her.

“He’s been with you for two years? So he could learn the illustrious warrior ways of the Lightnings?”

Ragnar still stared.

“He’s very tall? Very wide…very blue?”

“Oh. Right.” The idiot. Well…he wasn’t exactly an idiot. Just young.

Very young. Offspring in the Northlands grew up fast, usually heading into battle before they were fifty winters. But the Southlanders babied their offspring and often those spoiled creatures weren’t ready for much until a century or more passed. The queen’s youngest had that issue. But because he was Southland royalty and the fact that Ragnar’s cousin Meinhard looked out for him, the warriors left him alone. Yet that, and the fact that the young dragon was very good at quickly and efficiently clearing out trees with his bare claws, was all that kept that idiot safe from daily sound beatings. Like Ragnar, the queen’s son liked to read, but he also liked to daydream and eat.

By the gods, could that dragon eat. When they had to have additional cattle shipped in, Ragnar felt it was strictly due to that damn royal. And when he wasn’t eating, reading, or daydreaming, the Blue spent the rest of his time trying to sneak off so he could indulge his ridiculous whims with the tavern girls in the human towns below. He spent a lot of his time in the human towns.

Yet Ragnar never cared about any of this. Not really. For the royal had served a purpose. He represented the goodwill and alliance of the Southland Queen during a time of war among the Hordes. So Ragnar, Vigholf, and Meinhard made it their business to ensure the young royal was kept alive and mostly intact.

“Well,” the queen went on, “I want him to come home for a family feast that will take place in the next two weeks.” That would work. If the royal went home, perhaps he’d never return.

He was no longer needed, and it would be one less thing for Ragnar to worry about.

“Of course. He has my permission to go.”

“Excellent! And when will you two leave?”

Ragnar frowned, his instincts warning him of a trap. “Pardon?”

“You’re coming with him.” Did it ever occur to these royals to ask rather than order? No. Probably not.

“My lady, if you are fearing for his safety, my best warriors will be—”

“You, Dragonlord. You will accompany my son back to the Southland.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Simple. Because it would be a grave mistake for you not to bring my son back here.”

“I was hoping we were beyond threats, Queen Rhiannon.” She came toward him then, moving in until there was only a tail-tip length between them. She dropped several more pieces of fruit at Ragnar’s claws before reaching out and pressing her own claw against the side of his jaw, her talons caressing him there. Amazing. He was still on that freezing plateau and she was thousands of leagues away in her court, but it was easy to forget all that when he could actually feel her touch against his scales.

“We are beyond threats, dear boy. We are. That’s why you must do this. Leave today, tonight—and bring my son. He’ll be a good excuse of why you have to be here.”

“An excuse?”

“Trust me, Ragnar.”

It was true, Queen Rhiannon could be luring him into a trap. She could have her Dragonwarriors waiting for him as soon as he crossed into Southland territories. She could do a lot of things. And yet…he didn’t think she’d bother.

“As you wish.”

It was brief, but he saw the relief that washed over her features before she dredged up that false smile, created specifically to hide any truth she might reveal.

“Excellent. I can’t wait to see my son. I’ve missed him so.” She backed up until she could turn without hitting Ragnar with her tail and walked back to her tree.

“You said there was another favor.”

“Oh, aye. There’s a witch who lives in the Woods of Desolation in the Outerplains. A dragoness, but she lives as human.”

“Yes. I know her.”

“Of course you do. So does my son Gwenvael. And my youngest daughter.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You remember my daughter, don’t you, my lord? Keita?”