Shivers had Stour under one arm, holding him up and dragging him forwards at once, his hands tied behind him and his bare feet scuffing uselessly. He’d lost half his weight and all his pride, lips cracked, eyes sunken, squinting up at the sun like he’d never seen it before. Hadn’t been out of that cage in Skarling’s Hall for months, so the sky was coming as quite the shock to him.

“Here he is!” called Rikke as Shivers hauled Stour up to the parapet where the whole valley could get a good look. “The grandson of Bethod! The bane of Scale Ironhand! The King of the Northmen in all his glory! Stour Nightfall!”

And she thrust out an arm towards the ill-smelling cripple who was once the terror of the North. There was a pause while those below took in the state of him and wondered if it could truly be the same man.

Seemed like there might be some damp glinting in Calder’s eyes, but maybe it was the wind. “You all right, son?” he croaked out.

“They cut my legs.” And there was a tearful whine in Stour’s voice that made Rikke think of a child complaining over getting the smallest slice of cake. “They cut my legs.” She felt, of all things, a scratch of guilt, and had to remind herself of all the scores she had against him.

“Well, he said he’d see me fucked by pigs,” called Rikke. “Break what they love, he said! I reckon he’s got off lightly.”

Even at this distance she could see Calder grinding his teeth. “Carleon’s yours,” he growled. “Now cut him free and send him down.”

“Well, I’ve got no more use for him.” Rikke snapped her fingers at Shivers. “Daresay you’ve a knife, don’t you?”

“You can never have too many.” He pulled one out, the work-polished handle towards her. Not a big one. But a small blade can do the job, more often than not. “Sure you don’t want me to do it?” he asked, in that husky whisper.

Rikke had seen this moment. Knew how it’d go. What came after was the question. She gently shook her head. “My father would’ve said there are some things a leader has to do themselves.”

“Just one o’ you get on and do it,” snarled Stour over his shoulder, jerking his tied hands towards her.

“Patience, Great Wolf.” And she plucked the knife from Shivers’ hand. She’d seen this come, knew it had to come, but even so, it wasn’t easy. Had to make of her heart a stone, like Isern always told her, even if her mouth was dry as dust and there was chill sweat on her back and the knife weighed like an anvil. She reached out, and took one of Stour’s wrists, and carefully sawed through the ropes that bound him.

He grinned a twisted grin. “Been waiting for this a while.”

She forced herself to grin back. “Oh, me, too.” And she stabbed him in the throat. The blade hardly made a sound as it punched into the crosspiece where his neck met his shoulder, and straight out again along with a spurt of blood that soaked her hand. Shocked her, how hot it was.