“Do tell,” said Rikke, offering him the bottle.

“They made it stupid for me not to betray ’em. I’m hoping you’ll be craftier.” And he slid something from an inside pocket. A golden chain of weighty links, its dangling diamond sparkling in the light from the tall windows. The one she’d seen Scale Ironhand wear at the duel. The one she’d seen Stour Nightfall wear at her father’s funeral. The chain Bethod had forged, before she was born, when he forced the North together with fire and sword. “Guess this should come to you now.”

“You keep it,” said Rikke.

Clover’s brows shot up. “Me?”

Isern’s shot up, too. “Him?”

“Bethod wore it, and Scale, and Stour. Look how things turned out for them. Look how they turned out for the North. Don’t think it’ll suit me.” Rikke hooked a thumb into her necklace of green stones and dragged them gently around her neck. “Reckon we’ve had enough kings for now.”

Clover held up the chain, frowning at the dangling diamond. “It’ll suit me even worse.”

“Melt it down for coins, then. Set the stone in your eating knife. Consider it a fair price for bringing me its owner.”

“Then I will.” Clover tucked the chain back into his pocket. “You are as wise as you are generous, Chief.”

“I wouldn’t count too much on either one,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What happened over in the Union?”

“I didn’t hang around for the outcome.” Clover took a swig from the bottle, daintily wiped the neck, then handed it to Isern. “There was quite the battle going on and I do my best to avoid ’em. From what I could tell, Orso won.”

Rikke found she was rather pleased about that. And not only ’cause she’d betrayed the other side and victory for the Young Lion could’ve put her in quite the awkward spot. Never took much to make her thoughts wander back to the palace in Adua, morning sun streaming through the windows. Time had softened the smashing headache she’d been nursing. She remembered Orso coming through the door, grin on his face, tray in his hand. I brought you an egg. He hadn’t struck her as a winner of battles, it had to be said. But then neither had she, and here she was with Skarling’s Hall for her living room.

There was a clang as the Nail flung the cage door shut on Stour and left him huddled, filthy back pressed against the bars and one hand dangling between them. “Looks like we hold all the cards.”

“You’ve still got to play ’em right,” said Clover, frowning over at the remnants of the Great Wolf.

“Carleon’s ours,” said Shivers.

“And half the North besides,” crowed Hardbread, “and Nightfall’s men are trickling back wounded and ruined and Black Calder hasn’t much left to fight with, I reckon.”

“We should hit him now,” said the Nail. “Hit him hard.”

“Calder’s weak!” growled the big man with all the beard.