Last Dragon Standing

Yet it could only mean one thing for Dagmar to unleash vicious insults and barking rage at the obviously insane human ruler who bored easily—that she was comfortable. Not comfortable in a sitting-in-a-soft-padded-chair-after-a-long-walk way. But comfortable enough around these humans and dragons to reveal her true nature and thoughts while trusting that Annwyl’s insults would go no further than “barbarian” and “savage beast”—words and phrases Dagmar would only take as compliments.

Focusing on the queen, Ragnar watched her chant “Boring! Boring!

Boring!” over and over again while Dagmar tried to explain how visiting nobles and dignitaries should be treated during meals. Dignitaries and nobles that he sensed did not visit too often. Obviously the human queen ran her court very differently than the Dragon Queen ran hers. In fact…he took a quick glance around the enormous Great Hall. Nope. Just this small group and the servants. No nobles or dignitaries anywhere in sight. For some reason the realization made Ragnar like the human queen.

Like a true warrior, Annwyl had scars. Lots of them. On her face, hands, arms. He was sure there were more under her sleeveless chainmail shirt and leather leggings. She also brandished the marks of her Claiming by Fearghus with great pride, wearing no bracelets or armbands on her forearms to hide the branded dragons she had there. She didn’t seem to have the same issues as Keita did about being Claimed and he was finding it harder and harder to dismiss Annwyl as just another insane monarch.

Ragnar leaned forward a bit to look at the book she’d slammed onto the table. He studied the cover and laughed. The queen’s green eyes turned to him, and he could understand how anyone’s first impression of her was of someone insane. It was that scowl combined with those wild green eyes and the fact that she always seemed to be glaring through her hair. But now Ragnar was beginning to see her as he’d seen Dagmar all those years ago.

The warlord’s tiny daughter that he’d almost dismissed as shy and probably a little slow—until he realized she simply couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her. Once that issue had been addressed, the real Dagmar had made her very dangerous appearance.

Finding the connection with Dagmar had been easy back in those early days. He’d brought her a puppy he found. It was the equivalent of handing some a gold-filled cave.

With Annwyl it was even simpler. He held up his book. She scowled at it, read the title, and then grinned. And gods, what a grin!

“Isn’t his writing amazing?” she asked, suddenly eager to talk to him when only an hour before she could barely be bothered to smile and nod in his direction.

“I agree. But I didn’t enjoy his last book.”

“But didn’t you see? He wanted you to look deeper. He was challenging the reader.”

“Perhaps, but his third book is still my favorite. With that amazing line: ‘If I knew then—”

“—what I know now—”

And together they finished it: “—I would have killed the bitch when I had the chance!’”

They laughed until they realized everyone was staring at them.

Annwyl shrugged. “Gorneves, Royal Spy to the Queen.”

“A spy novel?” Dagmar asked. “You two are talking about a spy novel?”

Annwyl threw her hands up in the air. “Not just a spy novel!”

“It’s much more than that,” Ragnar argued, and when Dagmar gawked at him in disgust, he added, “I can’t read deep, meaningful, thought-provoking philosophy all the time.”

“Exactly. Sometimes you have to read about a completely amoral hero whoring and killing his way across an unnamed land in the name of the queen that he’ll always love—”

“—but never have.” Then both Ragnar and Annwyl sighed a little.

Dagmar briefly closed her eyes. “I think I’m going to vomit on my new gown.”

“Oh, no, dear,” Keita counseled. “Don’t do that. Just aim to your left.” Now the Ruiner threw up his hands, as he was sitting to Dagmar’s left. “Was that reall y necessary, Viper?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Morfyd packed up her equipment, put out the pit fire, and headed back to the castle. She’d spent longer than she’d originally planned casting protective spells around Garbhán Isle and her nieces and nephews, but to be honest, she hadn’t been ready to go back. Not yet. Especially when she’d gotten word that Brastias would be late this eve. But she’d run out of things to do and knew she couldn’t stay out by this small stream much longer.

She trudged back to the castle and, after taking a deep, fortifying breath, headed up the stairs. The dinner was already winding down, which she was quite grateful to see. Walking into the Great Hall, Morfyd smiled, nodding at her kin and their guest. She wasn’t surprised to see that only one of the Northlanders had made it to dinner. The one with the broken leg— uh, Meinhard…I think—would need the night for her Magick and his natural power as a dragon to heal that damage. And she knew the other one— Vig-something or other—was still morbidly embarrassed about his hair. Not that she could blame him. Although she hoped the Northlanders would be far from here when Annwyl received her new helm. She’d already handed the braid of hair over to her blacksmith and told him to add it.

Morfyd rested her hands on the back of Gwenvael’s chair and smiled.

“How was everyone’s meal?”

“Did you eat yet?” Talaith asked after everyone agreed the food was delicious. Her ability to mother seemed innate some days, as she always checked up on all of them to ensure they’d eaten, slept enough, and spent enough time with the children. “There’s more than enough—unless your brother plans to unhinge his jaw again and inhale what’s left.”