Roberto drags the body up to the cold, spindly palace and pauses at the threshold. He hadn’t worried so much about presentation as he had about technique and precision. Gamely, he announces himself to the solid wooden doors and uses his foot to kick the body into something other than a heap.

One of the doors opens and Ivan sticks his head out, frowning.

“What do you want now?”

“Brought a relative,” he nods at the body.

Ivan rubs his forehead. Roberto wonders if he should be concerned; Ivan seems to get a lot of headaches.

“I don’t need you murdering my relatives for me.”

“But they were trying to arrange a coup.”

“Yes, I’m aware. The majority of my relatives seem to be trying to dispose of me. That doesn’t mean you can go around and murder them!”

Roberto puts his hands on his hips, “I don’t see why not. You obviously need a bodyguard and I am obviously good at protecting you.”

“Please stop trying to woo me with dead bodies.”

But he’s smiling so obviously he doesn’t really mean it.

“I can check your perimeter,” he offers.

“I’m sure it’s secure.”

Roberto doesn’t pout; he’s a hulking mess of a man with scars and unwashed socks. Pouting is not his thing. It’s more like a grimace.

“Roberto,” Ivan says pointedly, “I live in a palace made of ice and the blood of my enemies in a frozen wasteland with monsters of hail to protect me.”

“I still got in.”

Ivan glares at him; the little crown of sparkly ice tilts on his head. Roberto reaches up to right it and doesn’t even lose a hand.

“It’s cold out here,” Roberto says, “is it warmer in your bed?”

Ivan throws open the door and stalks deep into the house, “You might as well stay for tea.”

It’s a start.