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The Dagon and the Shadow

Summary:

The war is over, but for Hiccup, the battle has just begun. When his kingdom falls, he is taken as a living reparation by Astrid, the celebrated war hero of Berk. He can't understand why the most dangerous warrior in the North would choose a skinny stable boy as her personal squire, and the mystery only deepens as he's subjected to her relentless training regimen.

Surrounded by warriors who mock him and serving a master whose strength is as intimidating as her beauty, Hiccup is determined to prove his worth is not measured in muscle. He'll have to fight clever, because in the land of Vikings, a sharp mind might be the only thing that can survive a Dragon's attention.

Notes:

I read a story by the legendary P_Artsypants and thought their story and artwork was amazing as always. It inspired the central dynamic of this story so I just plopped it into one of my weird machinations. If you haven't read their work, you must.

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I had writing it. I am still writing other stories, so please leave a comment on what you think or what I can improve on as I only have a few stories under my belt so far.

I hope you enjoy. - JMF

Chapter 1: The Stableboy and The Dragon

Chapter Text

The royal stables of the Archduchy of Welton smelled of three things: sweet hay, warm horses, and Hiccup’s unending exhaustion. At twenty-three, Hiccup should have possessed the vigor of a man in his prime. Instead, he had the wiry frame of a half-starved teenager and the weary posture of a man twice his age. Years of servitude and a consistently less-than-full belly had left him small and deceptively young-looking, a fact that earned him no favors among the burly guards and pompous knights of the castle.

Here, though, in the cathedral-like quiet of the stables, his size didn't matter. The horses didn't care that his shoulders were narrow or that a strong gust of wind might give him a run for his money. They cared that his hands were gentle, his voice was a low, soothing murmur, and he knew precisely where to scratch behind the ears to make their eyes go soft and hazy.

He moved with a quiet efficiency that bordered on invisibility, a skill honed by a lifetime of trying not to be underfoot. His fingers, though stained with dirt and grease, were deft as he worked a series of stubborn knots from the silken mane of a palfrey mare named Glimmer.

“There now, you see?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Not so bad. You just have to be patient with it.”

Glimmer huffed a warm, grateful sigh against his cheek, nudging him affectionately. Hiccup smiled, a rare, genuine thing that briefly erased the weariness from his face. He was a king in this dusty, hay-strewn kingdom, and these magnificent beasts were his loyal subjects.

His peaceful reign was interrupted by a sharp, pained whinny from a few stalls down. Hiccup’s head snapped up, his smile vanishing. He recognized the sound instantly. It was a young colt, Baron, a recent acquisition for the Duke’s prized cavalry. Hiccup was over the stall door in a flash, his small frame allowing him to slip through the bars rather than fumbling with the latch.

Baron was in distress, kicking at his own belly and trying to roll in the tight confines of the stall. His eyes were wide with panic. The other stablehands would have shouted, maybe even struck the animal to make it stand still. Hiccup did neither.

“Easy, Baron. Easy, boy,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady as he approached the colt’s head, avoiding the flailing hooves. “I know it hurts. We’ll make it better.”

He ran a practiced hand along the horse’s tense, sweat-slicked flank. Colic. Bad. But not a death sentence, not if you knew what you were doing. He began to massage the horse’s abdomen with firm, circular motions, speaking to him the entire time. He didn’t use nonsense words but full sentences, telling the colt about the pasture they would run in later, about the sweet taste of the clover that grew near the stream. He worked methodically, his hands knowing just how much pressure to apply, his voice a constant, hypnotic anchor in the colt’s sea of pain.

Slowly, miraculously, the colt’s frantic movements began to subside. The wildness in his eyes softened. He let out a low groan, less of pain and more of relief, and leaned his weight into Hiccup’s small frame. Hiccup, who probably weighed less than the horse's head, grunted but held firm, continuing the massage until the tension had bled completely from the animal’s muscles.

“There you go,” Hiccup sighed, patting Baron’s neck. “See? All better.”

He stayed with him for another ten minutes, ensuring the danger had passed, before finally slipping back out of the stall, his work done. No one had seen it. No one would thank him. But Baron was safe, and for Hiccup, that was enough.

An hour later, the stable doors groaned open, and a river of horseflesh flowed out into the brilliant midday sun. Hiccup led the charge, not on his own two feet, but on the back of a creature that seemed forged from midnight and lightning. He was a stallion as black as a starless sky, with intelligent, emerald-green eyes that missed nothing. Hiccup called him Toothless, a silly name for a horse with a full set of teeth, but it had felt right.

While the other horses were content to trot, Toothless moved like a coiled spring finally released. With a barely perceptible shift of Hiccup’s weight, the stallion launched forward, leaving the rest of the herd in a cloud of dust. The wind whipped Hiccup’s auburn hair back from his face and tore a shout of pure, unadulterated joy from his lungs.

Out here, on Toothless’s back, he wasn’t the runt of the castle staff. He wasn’t the boy people looked through. He was just a rider, fused to his mount, moving with a speed that felt like flying. Toothless was faster than any warhorse in the Duke’s cavalry, a secret Hiccup kept jealously to himself. The horse was technically the Duke’s property, a strange, undersized colt that had been gifted as an afterthought in a trade. No one else had been able to get near him. But with Hiccup, there was a bond, a silent understanding that transcended words.

They raced across the open pasture, their movements a perfect, synchronized dance. Hiccup leaned low over Toothless’s neck, his small frame an advantage that made them impossibly aerodynamic. They were a single entity, a black arrow streaking across a canvas of green. This was the only time Hiccup ever truly felt big.

The freedom, as always, was fleeting. After ensuring the horses were settled and grazing peacefully, he guided Toothless back toward the stables, his brief taste of glory dissolving back into the mundane reality of his duties. He fed and watered the herd with practiced efficiency before his own stomach gave a low, mournful rumble. It was time to brave the servant’s mess hall.

He slipped into the cavernous, noisy room, grabbing a wooden bowl and a stale hunk of bread. As he ladled a thin, watery stew into his bowl, his ears, always attuned to the undercurrents of the castle, picked up the whispers. They were hushed, frantic, and laced with a delicious thread of terror.

“…saw the smoke from the western garrison,” one kitchen maid whispered, her eyes wide. “They say he didn’t even use siege engines. Just walked right through the gates.”

“I heard he’s nine feet tall,” a pot-boy added, puffing out his chest. “And carries an axe so big, it takes two normal men just to lift it.”

Hiccup found a quiet corner and listened as he ate. They were talking about the Dragon of Berk. For weeks, the name had been a ghost story told to frighten children. Now, the ghost was real, and he was at their doorstep. The Archduchy of Welton, in its infinite wisdom, had picked a fight with the northern island kingdom of Berk. And Welton, for all its pomp and polished armor, was losing. Badly.

The legend of the man leading the charge grew more ludicrous with every retelling.

“My cousin’s brother is a guard,” another servant chimed in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “He says the Dragon of Berk cut down three hundred of the Duke’s best men. By himself. In an afternoon.”

“And his horse,” the first maid gasped, “they say it’s a monster from the pits of Hel. A demon clad in horseflesh that eats the other horses on the battlefield!”

“He’s not even a man,” the pot-boy declared with the absolute certainty of someone who had heard it third-hand. “He’s half-man, half-giant, and half-dragon.”

A nearby baker’s apprentice, a boy who was better at sums than most, frowned. “That’s three halves.”

“That’s because he’s one hundred and fifty percent of everyone else!” the pot-boy shot back, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hiccup almost choked on his bread. He had to admit, that part was almost clever. The worst part of the rumors, however, wasn't the mythology. It was the truth simmering beneath it. The Dragon of Berk had shattered their army and was now marching on the capital. He was coming here. To demand their surrender, or to burn the city to the ground.

The familiar clang of a hammer on steel was a welcome sound, a beacon of sanity in a castle spiraling into panic. Hiccup ducked under the heavy timber frame of the blacksmith’s forge, the heat from the coals washing over him like a warm blanket.

“Ah, look what the wind blew in,” a booming, cheerful voice echoed from the back. “And here I was thinking it was just a stray leaf.”

Gobber, the castle blacksmith, emerged from the shadows, wiping a soot-covered hand on his leather apron. He was a mountain of a man, with a single leg, a prosthetic hammer for one hand, and a magnificent, braided blonde mustache that seemed to have a life of its own. He had taken Hiccup in years ago, giving him a place to sleep in the forge in exchange for help with odd jobs.

“Very funny, Gobber,” Hiccup said, setting his empty bowl down. “Did you finish the hinges for the main gate?”

“Finished them this morning while you were still dreaming of ponies and rainbows,” Gobber retorted, clapping Hiccup on the shoulder with his good hand, the force nearly sending him stumbling. “And what has you looking more miserable than usual? Did the Duke’s prize mare look at you funny again?”

“Worse,” Hiccup said, his voice dropping. “The whole castle is in a panic. The Dragon of Berk is coming.”

The change in Gobber was immediate. The jovial, sarcastic light in his eye flickered and died, replaced by the grim, weary look of a man who had seen too many wars. The rhythmic clang of the forge suddenly seemed very far away.

“So, the rumors are true, then,” Gobber said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against his anvil, the great slab of iron that had been his life’s companion. “I’d hoped it was just talk.”

“They say he’s a monster,” Hiccup murmured, repeating the mess hall gossip. “A giant who breathes fire and eats men for breakfast.”

Gobber let out a short, harsh laugh devoid of any humor. “He doesn’t need to breathe fire, lad. Men like that, they’re worse than any story. They don’t have to be giants. They just have to be good at what they do. And what they do is kill.” He picked up a half-finished sword from his workbench, testing its balance. “I’ve seen what a single, determined Northman can do to a line of our preening knights. They fight like cornered wolves, all instinct and fury. This ‘Dragon’... he’s the king of them.”

A heavy silence settled over the forge, thick with the weight of unspoken fears.

“Our Duke will posture,” Gobber continued, his voice grim. “He’ll thump his chest and make grand speeches about the honor of Welton. He’ll insult this Dragon to his face, and he’ll get us all killed for his pride.”

Hiccup looked into the glowing heart of the forge, watching the embers dance. He wasn’t afraid of the monster. He was afraid for the pot-boys, the kitchen maids, the bakers, and all the other small, forgotten people who would pay the price for their Duke’s arrogance.

“I just hope the King accepts defeat graciously,” Hiccup said quietly. “So the people don’t have to suffer.”

Gobber looked at the boy—the small, kind-hearted boy who thought of others before himself—and his expression softened with a deep, aching affection. He placed the sword back on the rack and rested his heavy hand on Hiccup’s shoulder again, this time with a gentle, reassuring weight.

“Get some sleep, lad,” he said gruffly. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, no matter who comes knocking.”

Hiccup nodded, giving his mentor a small, grateful smile. He made his way to his small cot in the corner of the forge, the rhythmic sounds of Gobber banking the coals for the night lulling him into a state of unease. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come easy. He could only listen to the sounds of the castle preparing for a guest, and pray they weren’t also preparing for a war. The Dragon was coming, and Hiccup could only hope he wasn't hungry.

Chapter 2: The King and The Knight

Chapter Text

The morning air was thick with a tension so palpable Hiccup could practically taste it on his tongue—a bitter, metallic tang of fear. The Berkian delegation had arrived with the dawn, a grim, silent procession of warriors who looked as though they had been carved from the northern mountains themselves. They didn't ride with the polished pomp of Welton's knights; they moved with the quiet, deadly purpose of wolves stalking prey.

Hiccup was in the middle of his morning routine when the stable doors were thrown open with a crash that made him jump. Sir Reginald, a guard whose belly strained the limits of his surcoat and whose temperament was perpetually sour, filled the doorway.

“You, stable boy,” he barked, his voice accustomed to being obeyed without question.

Hiccup sighed internally. “My name is Hiccup, Sir.”

Reginald waved a dismissive, gauntleted hand. “I don’t care if your name is the Archduke himself. The Northmen are here. Their horses are to be housed in the royal stalls.” He jabbed a thick finger toward the pristine, empty stalls reserved for visiting nobility. “You are responsible for them. You will feed them, water them, brush them, and sing them lullabies if that’s what it takes. If so much as a single hair on one of their mangy heads is out of place, the Duke has promised that your head will be forfeit. Do you understand me?”

To emphasize his point, he strode forward and gave Hiccup a sharp slap on the back of the head. It wasn’t hard enough to do real damage, but it was demeaning, a casual assertion of power that sent Hiccup stumbling forward a step.

“Yes, Sir,” Hiccup mumbled, rubbing the spot. “Crystal clear.”

“Good.” Reginald sniffed, casting a disdainful look around the stables. “See that you don’t screw it up.” With that, he turned and marched out, leaving Hiccup alone with his new, life-threatening responsibilities.

The Berkian horses were brought in shortly after, and they were nothing like the sleek, pampered creatures of Welton. They were beasts of war, thick-limbed and powerful, with intelligent eyes that seemed to size him up with a disconcerting awareness. They were also impeccably cared for, their coats shining with health despite the rigors of the road. Hiccup felt a grudging respect for their riders; these were not men who treated their mounts as disposable tools.

He set to work, his earlier anxiety melting away as he fell into the familiar rhythm of his craft. He spoke to each horse in a low, calming tone, introducing himself and running a practiced hand over their flanks to check for sores or injuries. He was gentle but firm, a quiet authority that the animals seemed to understand and accept.

One, however, captured his full attention. She was a magnificent blue roan, a creature of breathtaking power and grace. Her coat was a stunning tapestry of black and white hairs that gave her a shimmering, silvery-blue appearance, like a storm cloud kissed by moonlight. Her muscles were not the bulky, cumbersome kind seen on Welton’s heavy destriers; they were long, lean, and exquisitely defined, speaking of explosive speed and incredible stamina. She stood a full hand taller than any other horse in the stable, yet she carried her size with an elegant poise that was utterly captivating.

Hiccup found himself circling her, his professional admiration bordering on awe. “Well now,” he whispered, reaching out slowly. “You are something else, aren’t you?”

The mare watched him with eyes the color of a winter sky, intelligent and calculating. She didn’t flinch as he touched her neck, but she didn’t offer affection either. She simply stood, allowing his inspection. He gave her the most thorough treatment of all, carefully brushing the road dust from her unique coat until it shone, meticulously checking her hooves, and massaging the powerful muscles in her shoulders and hindquarters.

“You’re built for running,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Not just a battle charger. You’re a tempest on four legs.”

When his work was done, it was time to let them graze. He led the herd out to the vast royal pastures. As always, he swung himself onto Toothless’s back, the familiar feel of the black stallion beneath him a comforting anchor. With a joyful whoop, he gave Toothless his head, and they shot forward.

He expected the thunder of hooves to fade behind him, but as he glanced back, he saw a flash of silvery-blue keeping pace. The roan mare was running with them. Not out of panic or herd instinct, but for the sheer joy of the chase. She ran with a beautiful, ground-eating stride, her powerful legs pumping like pistons.

A wide, delighted grin split Hiccup’s face. “You want to race, do you?” he laughed into the wind.

He urged Toothless on, and the black stallion responded with a surge of speed. The world blurred into a streak of green and gold. Yet, the roan stayed with them. She couldn't match Toothless's explosive acceleration—nothing could—but she was keeping up, her stamina seemingly endless. She was barely a length behind, her ears pricked forward, her blue-gray coat a phantom at their heels. It was the most impressive display of equine athleticism Hiccup had ever witnessed.

They thundered across the pasture, a black shadow and a silver storm, leaving the rest of the world behind. Finally, Hiccup slowed Toothless to a canter, then a trot, coming to a stop near a small, shaded grove. The blue roan pulled up alongside them, her sides heaving slightly but her spirit undimmed.

Hiccup slid off Toothless’s back and approached her, his heart still pounding with exhilaration. “That was incredible,” he said, stroking her damp neck. “Absolutely incredible. You are magnificent.”

The mare seemed to preen under the praise, nudging his shoulder with her head in a clear gesture of approval. As he stood there, sharing a quiet moment with the two most amazing horses he had ever known, he was completely unaware of a pair of calculating, ice-blue human eyes watching him from the distant battlements of the castle.

Lunchtime in the mess hall was an even more chaotic affair than the day before. The delegation was within the castle walls, and the servant’s gossip had reached a fever pitch. Hiccup grabbed his meager meal and found his usual corner, content to listen to the escalating mythology of the Dragon of Berk.

“I saw him!” a scullery maid declared, her voice trembling with excitement. “He was walking across the courtyard. He’s a giant! His head nearly scraped the top of the archway!”

“Nonsense,” scoffed a baker, dusting flour from his apron. “I saw him too, when they were meeting the Duke. He wasn’t a giant. He was just… wide. Broader than a barrel. And he had a beard down to his belt, red as blood.”

“You’re both wrong,” a footman insisted smugly. “I got a good look at him in the Great Hall. He’s bald, with tattoos all over his scalp. And he doesn’t carry an axe, he has a massive war hammer slung on his back.”

Hiccup took a thoughtful bite of his bread. A tall giant. A wide, red-bearded dwarf. A bald, tattooed hammer-wielder. None of the accounts matched. They couldn’t all be right. Which meant… they were all wrong. The stories were just that—stories. Fear and rumor painting a dozen different pictures of the same man. The Dragon of Berk was likely just a man, a very capable and intimidating man, but a man nonetheless. The realization didn’t make him feel safer, but it did make him feel slightly less like he was living in a fairy tale.

He finished his meal and headed back to the stables, his sanctuary of quiet logic. But the moment he stepped through the door, he knew something was wrong. The air was different. One of the stalls—the one holding the magnificent blue roan—was occupied by more than just a horse.

An intruder.

Standing with her back to him was a woman. She was dressed in fine, dark blue formalwear, the kind of tailored tunic and trousers that spoke of wealth and status, but it wasn't armor. A longsword with a simple, practical crossguard hung from a belt on her left hip. And she was tall. Taller than any woman Hiccup had ever seen, taller than most of the men in the Duke’s guard. Even from behind, he could see the powerful line of her shoulders and the defined curve of muscle in her back beneath the fine cloth. This was not a woman who spent her days doing needlepoint.

She was stroking the blue roan’s neck, murmuring something too low for him to hear. The horse, which had been so reserved with him, seemed to melt under her touch.

Hiccup’s heart began to pound a nervous rhythm against his ribs. Sir Reginald’s threat echoed in his mind. Nothing happens to these horses. An unauthorized visitor was the definition of something happening . He took a steadying breath, his hand instinctively going to the small, worn dagger tucked into his belt. He approached silently, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the hay-strewn floor.

“You cannot be here,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. He was startled by how steady it sounded. “There is a visiting delegation, and we cannot accept visitors to the stables at this time.”

The woman froze. She turned her head slowly, and Hiccup got his first proper look at her. If he thought she was impressive from behind, it was nothing compared to the full view. Her face was all sharp, beautiful angles, framed by a thick braid of golden hair. But it was her eyes that seized his attention—they were the same piercing, ice-blue color as the mare’s, and they fixed on him with an unnerving intensity. She was, without a doubt, the most gobsmackingly beautiful and terrifying person he had ever seen in his life.

She raised a single, perfect blonde eyebrow. “I am merely here to check on my horse, to make sure she is being well cared for.” Her voice was a low, melodic alto, but it held an undercurrent of steel.

Hiccup swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold his ground. “I am deeply sorry, my lady, but regardless, you cannot be here without authorization.” He took a half-step closer. “Do you have proof that this is your horse?”

The other eyebrow joined the first. Her gaze swept over him, taking in his small stature, his worn clothes, and the determined set of his jaw. It was a look that could curdle milk. “And what could I possibly have that proves this is my horse, besides her name?”

Hiccup’s mind raced. He had to be careful. She was clearly important. “You are claiming to be a knight with the foreign delegation?” he asked, trying to sound professional.

A ghost of a smirk touched her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest. The movement caused the muscles in her arms and shoulders to flex, a subtle but potent display of power. “Is that so hard to believe? That a woman can be a knight?”

Hiccup’s cheeks flushed. “That is not at all what I am insinuating,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Gender has nothing to do with it. Your presence does. If you are claiming to be with the visiting delegation, then you may visit one horse from the visiting delegation. With proof.” He stood a little straighter. “Show me your banner.”

The smirk blossomed into a full, genuine smile. It transformed her face, making her even more intimidatingly beautiful. She seemed more amused than offended. She reached into a pouch on her belt and produced a small, rolled-up piece of cloth. She unfurled it. It was a miniature banner, bearing the stark sigil of Berk—a stylized dragon’s head—and a personal crest of a white battle-axe on a blue field.

“Happy?” she asked.

Hiccup let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yes, my lady. Thank you.” He relaxed his posture slightly, but his hand did not leave the hilt of his dagger. “But I will have to stay for supervision. The head of the guard was very clear. The last thing we want is something happening to one of the horses.”

She nodded, turning back to the roan. “He took excellent care of you, didn’t he, Stormfly?” she murmured to the horse. “You had a good run.”

Stormfly. It suited her. “She’s an incredible runner,” Hiccup found himself saying. “Fastest I’ve ever seen, aside from my own.” The woman looked at him, her blue eyes sharp with interest. “The fact that she trusted you enough to let you pet her is a big bonus in your favor,” Hiccup added, feeling a surge of confidence. “Otherwise, I would have had to kick you out.”

The woman’s smile returned, wider this time, full of challenge. “Oh, really?” she purred, turning her full attention back to him. “And how, exactly, would a little thing like you do that?”

Hiccup felt a spark of defiance ignite in his chest. Little thing? He drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “I don’t care who you are, my lady,” he said, his voice taking on the mock-posh, airy tone of a Welton noble. “Here in these stables, I am its king. Therefore, I outrank you.” He gave a theatrical, dismissive wave of his hand. “Guards,” he called out to the empty stable, “remove this peasant from my kingdom.” He dropped the act and shrugged. “Something like that.”

The woman laughed. A real, throaty laugh that echoed in the quiet stable. Before Hiccup could react, she closed the distance between them in two long strides. Suddenly, she was there , looming over him, a mountain of powerful femininity that blocked out the light. He had to crane his neck to look up at her. He could smell the faint scent of leather and cold, clean air clinging to her.

Her large, calloused hand came up and gently covered his own, which was still resting on his dagger. Her hand was warm and heavy, and it dwarfed his completely. His fingers, which he had always thought of as nimble and capable, felt like a child’s twigs beneath her palm. He got a real, visceral sense of just how strong she was, a strength that was currently being held in careful check.

Her voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial murmur, her smile widening into a predatory grin. “You have spine, boy,” she said, the word landing like a physical tap on his chest. “I like that.”

Her eyes glinted with a dangerous light. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Before Hiccup could form a coherent protest, she released his hand, strode over to a rack of spare equipment, and pulled out a rusty, poorly balanced practice sword. She tossed it to him. He fumbled with it, catching it awkwardly.

“We’re going to spar,” she announced, her voice leaving no room for argument.

“What? No! I can’t!” Hiccup stammered, his mind reeling. “I have to take care of the horses! Sir Reginald will have my head!”

“The horses will be fine,” she said, already marching toward the stable doors and the open pasture beyond. “And I’ll deal with Reginald.” She glanced back over her shoulder, her blue eyes locking onto his. “Now, are you coming, or do I have to drag you, Your Majesty ?”

Hiccup looked from the sword in his hand to the formidable woman waiting for him, and had the distinct, sinking feeling that he didn’t really have a choice at all.

Chapter 3: The Price of Spine

Chapter Text

The pasture that had been Hiccup’s sanctuary of freedom moments before now felt like a gladiatorial arena, and he was the goat tethered to a stake. The woman—the knight—stood opposite him, her own longsword drawn. It was a proper weapon, not a practice blade, its polished steel gleaming in the afternoon sun. She held it with an easy, one-handed grip, her stance relaxed, her feet planted as if she’d grown from the very earth.

Hiccup, by contrast, felt like a newborn foal trying to stand on a frozen pond. The practice sword she’d tossed him was a monstrosity of poor balance, its weight all wrong, pulling his arm down. He held it in his right hand, mimicking the two-handed grip he’d seen the knights of Welton use during their carefully choreographed training sessions.

“Ready, Your Majesty?” she called out, her voice laced with a teasing irony that made his ears burn.

“Not even remotely,” he muttered under his breath.

She didn’t wait for an answer. She moved, not with a ferocious charge, but with a smooth, deceptively casual glide. Her first swing was so slow he could have read a chapter of a book in the time it took the blade to travel. It was a lazy, telegraphed arc aimed at his own sword. He brought his blade up to block it, a move he’d seen Sir Reginald perform a hundred times.

The impact, when it came, felt like he’d been struck by a battering ram.

A bone-jarring CLANG echoed across the field. The force of her deliberately weak tap traveled up the length of his sword, rattled every bone in his arms, and vibrated through his teeth. The practice sword, ripped from his grasp as if it had a mind of its own, went spinning through the air and landed in a patch of clover a dozen feet away. Hiccup himself stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet in a spectacular display of uncoordination, and landed hard on his backside.

He sat there for a moment, stunned, blinking up at the sky.

The woman stood over him, not even breathing hard, a look of profound confusion on her face. “That was… fascinating,” she said, tilting her head. “You are simultaneously the most comfortable and the most uncomfortable person I have ever seen with a sword. Where in the nine realms did you learn to fight?”

Hiccup groaned, pushing himself up and trudging over to retrieve the sword. “I didn’t, really,” he admitted, rubbing his stinging hands. “I used to sneak into the training yard and watch the knights. I just… picked up what I saw.”

A genuine, startling laugh escaped her. “If you learned from the knights of Welton, that explains everything! Their form is atrocious. I’ve seen better sword work from a farmer swinging a scythe.” She shook her head in disbelief. “No wonder they were so easy to break.”

The casual way she said it— so easy to break —sent a shiver down Hiccup’s spine. He gripped the sword again, his knuckles white. This time, he managed to hold on for three of her slow, methodical swings before she executed a simple, elegant twist of her wrist. His sword was once again flying through the air, and he was once again on the ground.

“What’s your name, boy?” she asked, her voice conversational as if they were discussing the weather.

“It’s Hiccup,” he grunted, pushing himself up. His pride was taking more of a beating than his body. “Just Hiccup. No family name.”

“Hiccup,” she repeated, testing the sound of it. “A strange name for a strange boy.”

“And what’s your name, my lady?” he shot back, his frustration making him bold. “Or should I just keep calling you ‘the terrifying blonde knight who keeps knocking me down’?”

She smirked. “It’s Astrid,” she said, leaving out her own family name. “And you can call me that if you wish, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.”

The ‘spar’ continued, though it felt more like a lesson in humility. Astrid seemed to lose interest in simply disarming him and began to slow the pace, using the time to study him, to probe him. Her attacks were still effortless, but they were punctuated by a relentless stream of questions.

“So, Hiccup,” she said, easily parrying one of his clumsy swings. “You’re the only one who tends the royal stables?”

“Mostly,” he panted, trying to circle her. “There are other hands, but they’re lazy. They handle the grunt work. I do the real work. The treatments, the training runs…”

“And the Duke’s prize cavalry?” she asked, her sword tapping his in a steady, rhythmic beat. Tap. Tap. Tap. “They looked well-fed, but their eyes were dull. Poor morale.”

Hiccup blinked, surprised she’d noticed. “They’re parade horses. They spend more time being polished than being ridden. The men who ride them are nobles’ sons who care more about the shine on their armor than the spirit of their mount.”

Tap. Tap. “And the guards?”

“Underpaid, mostly,” Hiccup said, seeing an opening and lunging. It was a mistake. Astrid sidestepped without effort and tapped the back of his knee with the flat of her blade, causing his leg to buckle. He caught himself before he fell this time. “They grumble about the quality of the rations constantly. Sir Reginald sells off half the good stock and keeps the coin for himself. The men know it, but they can’t prove it.”

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. That was a detail she hadn’t known. A corrupt quartermaster. A simple, devastating weakness. “And the castle’s defenses?”

“The western wall is a joke,” Hiccup said, his confidence growing as the conversation shifted to his territory: observation. “The mortar is crumbling. Gobber—the blacksmith—he’s been telling the Duke for years it needs repointing, but the Duke would rather spend the money on a new set of gold plates for his banquet table.”

He was talking so freely he almost didn’t notice that Astrid had stopped attacking. She was just watching him, her expression unreadable, her sword held loosely at her side. He had been so focused on answering her questions, on showing her that he wasn’t just a clumsy stable boy, that he had revealed critical flaws in the castle’s security to a foreign military commander. He felt a flush of panic.

“I… I’ve probably said too much,” he stammered.

“No,” she said, her voice quiet. “You’ve said just enough.”

She suddenly lunged, her speed a shocking contrast to her earlier pace. He yelped and brought his sword up, but she wasn’t aiming for it. She hooked his leg with her foot and pushed his shoulder. He went down for the fifth and final time, the sword clattering from his hand.

He sighed and reached down to pick it up, his left hand instinctively closing around the grip. He then, out of habit, tossed it a few inches in the air and caught it in his right hand to assume his flawed stance.

“Stop,” Astrid commanded, her voice sharp.

Hiccup froze.

“Give me the sword,” she said. He hesitated, then handed it to her. She took it, tested its awful balance, and wrinkled her nose. “Now, catch.”

Before he could process the command, she threw it, hilt-first, toward him.

Instinct took over. His left hand shot out and snatched it cleanly from the air. At the exact same moment, there was a whisper of steel and a flash of light. He looked down and saw the point of Astrid’s longsword resting gently against the hollow of his throat. The cold steel kissed his skin, and he stopped breathing.

His mind screamed. He’d made a terrible mistake. He’d offended her. He’d done something wrong, and this terrifying Valkyrie was going to run him through right here in the middle of the pasture.

But she didn’t press the blade. She just held it there, her gaze not on his eyes, but on his stance.

“Look at your feet,” she ordered.

He risked a glance down. His left foot was forward, his body naturally angled. His left hand was gripping the sword. He was a perfect mirror image of how she herself stood.

“You’re left-handed,” she stated, a slow smile spreading across her face. It was a smile of discovery, like finding a diamond in a lump of coal. “So why, in the name of all that’s sacred, do you fight with your right?”

“It’s… it’s how the knights of Welton do it,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s what I saw. I thought it was the proper way.”

Astrid chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. She withdrew her sword. “The knights of Welton are fools. You don’t fight with the hand that’s ‘proper.’ You fight with the hand that works.” She gestured with her own sword. “Try again. With your left.”

Hiccup, still shaken, hesitantly switched his grip. It felt… right. Natural. He swung the practice sword, and while it was still heavy and unbalanced, the motion was smoother, less clumsy. He wasn't a master swordsman by any stretch, but he was no longer a flailing disaster. He was just a beginner.

Astrid watched him, a thoughtful, calculating look in her eyes. It was the look of a master craftsman who had just found a rare, promising piece of raw material.

Their lesson was interrupted by the arrival of three figures cresting the nearby hill. Hiccup’s blood ran cold. It was them. The men from the mess hall rumors. One was impossibly tall and lanky with a dopey grin. One was short, wide as a barrel, with a magnificent red beard. And the third was a bald, heavily tattooed man with a scowl etched permanently onto his face. The three myths, all walking side-by-side.

Astrid saw them and sighed, a sound of weary responsibility. “It’s time,” she said, looking up at the sun. She seemed surprised at how late it had become. “Come on, boy. You’re with me.”

“With you? Where?” Hiccup asked, panicked. “I can’t! The horses! The Duke! Sir Reginald will—”

“I said,” she cut him off, her voice once again leaving no room for argument, “you’re with me.” She started walking toward the castle, not even looking back to see if he was following. Because she knew he would.

The Great Hall of Welton was a monument to vanity. Gilded tapestries depicting the Duke’s questionable battlefield victories hung from the walls, and every surface that could be polished gleamed under the light of a dozen chandeliers. The Duke himself sat on a throne that was far too large for him, looking down his long, aristocratic nose at the Berkian delegation.

Astrid stood at the center of the room, flanked by the three men Hiccup now knew were her fellow knights. She was calm, her posture relaxed, her face an unreadable mask. Hiccup stood a few paces behind her, feeling small and utterly out of place.

“We welcome you to our humble court,” the Duke began, his voice dripping with a condescension that was as thick as molasses. He directed his words not to Astrid, but to the heavily tattooed man standing behind her right shoulder. “Though the reasons for your visit are… regrettable, we are prepared to extend the hand of diplomacy.”

He droned on, his speech a masterpiece of self-aggrandizement and veiled insults. He introduced various nobles in the room, highlighting their ancient and important lineages. He spoke of Welton’s rich history and cultural superiority. Through it all, he never once made eye contact with Astrid. He treated her as if she were a piece of furniture, an irrelevant accessory to the real warriors in the room.

Astrid did not seem to care. She stood perfectly still, her patience seemingly infinite. But Hiccup saw it. He saw the subtle tightening of her jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes. She wasn't being patient. She was gathering ammunition.

The Duke was about to address the barrel-chested knight when Hiccup’s mouth decided to act without consulting his brain.

“Your Grace!”

The words echoed in the suddenly silent hall. Every head turned to stare at him. The Duke’s face, which had been a mask of smug satisfaction, contorted into a sneer of outrage.

“Who is this?” he demanded, his voice shrill. “What is the meaning of this interruption? Why is a stable boy in my court?”

Sir Reginald, red-faced and sweating, started forward. “My apologies, Your Grace! I’ll remove him at once!”

As Reginald reached for him, Astrid held up a single, commanding hand. Reginald froze instantly, as if turned to stone.

“He is with me,” Astrid said, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of absolute authority.

Hiccup, emboldened, brushed past the stunned guard and took a step forward. “Your Grace,” he said, his heart hammering against his ribs, “you are making a terrible mistake. You are directing your… pleasantries… to the wrong person. The Lady Astrid is the leader of this delegation. You should be speaking to her.”

A collective gasp went through the court. Astrid’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk appearing for a fraction of a second. She was surprised, but not displeased.

The Duke, however, just laughed, a high, reedy sound. “Don’t be absurd. A woman leading a Berkian war party? The stable boy is addled.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Where was I?”

But the momentum was broken. Astrid took a step forward, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

“He is right, you know,” she said, her voice soft, yet it cut through the hall like a razor. “You are a weak, pathetic man, hiding behind gilded walls and a title you did not earn. I came here prepared to burn your city to the ground for your arrogance. I did not believe this duchy had anything of value to offer Berk.”

She paused, her gaze flicking to Hiccup for a moment. “But this boy—this stable boy you so easily dismiss—has shown more spine and honor in the last hour than you have in your entire life. His intervention has convinced me that razing this capital would be a waste of good stone. So, I will do you the mercy of stripping you bare instead.”

She stood tall. “I have four demands for your unconditional surrender. They will cripple you economically, territorially, militarily, and intellectually, so that you may never again trouble the people of Berk.”

“First,” she declared, “thirty thousand pieces of gold, to be delivered by the next full moon.”

Outraged whispers erupted from the assembled nobles. It was a staggering, ruinous sum.

“Second,” she continued, silencing them with a glare, “the disputed territories in the northern valleys will be ceded to Berk, effective immediately.”

“Third, for your military… I demand nothing. I have already destroyed it.” The cold, simple statement was more brutal than any demand.

“And fourth… for your talent. The only thing of true worth I have found in this entire, wretched duchy.” Her ice-blue eyes landed on Hiccup. “The only thing that saved you from annihilation today. I demand the boy. He will be my reparation.”

The Duke, who had been turning purple with rage at the first three demands, actually brightened at the last one. “The boy? The stable boy? Take him! He is yours!” he exclaimed, laughing with relief.

Astrid sighed, a quiet, weary sound. She looked at the Duke, then at the relieved faces of his nobles, and shook her head. This kingdom was already dead. It just didn’t know it yet.

“The terms are agreed upon,” she said, turning her back on the throne. She looked at Hiccup. “Get your things.”

He had nothing, really. A spare tunic, a worn-out pair of boots, and the clothes on his back. He went to the forge to say goodbye.

Gobber was waiting for him, his face grim. News traveled fast in a castle.

“So,” the blacksmith rumbled. “The dragon came and snatched up my best apprentice. I guess he needed a toothpick!”

“I’m not your apprentice,” Hiccup said, a lump forming in his throat.

“You were learning,” Gobber insisted. “You were getting good.” He fell silent for a moment, then reached into a pouch and pulled out a small, smooth whetstone. “Here. For your dagger. So you can remember old Gobber, and keep your blade sharp.”

Hiccup took the stone, its weight familiar and comforting in his palm. “Thank you, Gobber. For everything.”

“Get out of here, you sentimental fool,” Gobber said, turning away to hide the moisture in his eye.

Hiccup returned to the courtyard with his small bundle wrapped in cloth. Astrid was waiting, Stormfly’s reins in her hand. She looked at his meager possessions and raised an eyebrow.

“Is that all you have?”

“This is it,” he said.

“Where is your horse?” she asked. “The black one.”

“Toothless? He’s… he belongs to the Duke,” Hiccup said quietly.

Astrid laughed, a full, genuine sound that turned heads across the courtyard. “Boy, I just conquered this kingdom. Everything here, including the Duke himself, belongs to me if I want it. The only reason he still has a throne to sit on is because I’m showing him mercy.” She jerked her head toward the stables. “Go get your horse.”

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Hiccup’s face. He started to protest, to say something about the Duke’s anger, but stopped. She was right. He ran to the stables, his heart soaring.

He returned a few minutes later, leading a very happy Toothless. He had a friend for the journey. He had a future that wasn't covered in hay. He had been chosen by the most terrifying and incredible person he had ever met.

He was also the war prize of a conquering knight, heading to a strange, northern land he knew nothing about. He looked at Astrid, now mounted on Stormfly, a warrior looking down at him, and he was filled with an equal, dizzying measure of joy and absolute, bone-deep terror. What had he just gotten himself into?

Chapter 4: The Dragon and The Deep

Chapter Text

The transition from a conquered castle to a departing warship was a whirlwind of organized chaos. The Berkians moved with a purpose that left the Welton staff looking like startled sheep. Astrid, having concluded her business, found Hiccup where she had left him: standing awkwardly in the courtyard between his meager bundle and his very happy horse.

“The horses need to be secured for the voyage,” she said, her tone all business. “The hold is midship. See to it. Especially Stormfly. She doesn’t like unsteady footing.”

With that, she strode off toward the gangplank, leaving Hiccup to figure out the rest. He took a deep breath. This, at least, was a task he understood. He led Toothless and the magnificent Stormfly toward the ship, a massive longship with a single, imposing mast and a carved dragon head at its prow that seemed to snarl at the Welton sky.

The horse hold was a feat of engineering, a section of the ship designed to be as stable as possible, with sturdy stalls and thick bedding. Several other squires and stable hands were already there, tending to their own masters’ mounts. They were a rough-looking lot, broad-shouldered and loud, and they gave Hiccup a collective, curious stare as he entered with not one, but two horses, one of which was the legendary steed of their war leader.

“Oi, who’s the twig?” one of them grunted, nudging his companion.

“That’s the reparation,” another whispered, not quietly enough. “The one we took from the castle.”

Hiccup ignored them, his focus entirely on the animals. He settled Stormfly and Toothless into the largest, most secure stalls, checking the latches, adding extra bedding, and ensuring their water troughs were full and securely fastened. He moved with a quiet confidence, his hands gentle and sure as he spoke to them in low, soothing tones.

His concentration was broken by a friendly, hesitant voice at his elbow. “Wow. You’re really good at that.”

Hiccup turned to see a boy who was the physical opposite of every other Berkian he’d met. He was round, with a kind, open face and wide, inquisitive eyes. He was large, yes, but soft, without the hard, warrior’s edge of the others.

“Uh, thanks,” Hiccup said, surprised by the lack of hostility.

“I’m Fishlegs, by the way,” the boy said, offering a slightly grubby hand. Hiccup shook it. “You’re Hiccup, right? The whole ship is talking about you. Is it true the you were personally demanded from the Duke?”

Hiccup shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. “That’s what happened, yeah. I was the stablehand back at the castle. I guess she was impressed with my work.” He didn’t sound arrogant when he said it; it was a simple statement of fact. He knew he was good with horses. It was the one thing in his life he had ever been praised for, however rarely. It was the only logical reason he could fathom for why he was here. “Truth be told, I have no idea why she really chose me, but I’m not going to complain about getting out of Welton.”

Fishlegs’ eyes went wide with admiration. “That’s amazing! She never takes a personal interest in things like that. Your work must be masterful!” He gestured to a sturdy-looking Gronckle-horse in a nearby stall. “This is Meatlug. She belongs to my master. She gets a bit anxious on the water. Would you… would you mind taking a look? See if I’ve secured her properly?”

Hiccup, relieved to be on familiar ground, readily agreed. He spent the next ten minutes with Fishlegs, showing him a specific way to tie a quick-release knot that wouldn’t come undone with rocking but could be untied in an emergency, and pointing out how to brace the feed bins to keep them from spilling. Fishlegs soaked it all up like a sponge, firing off a billion questions about horse care, Welton, and what it was like to be a war prize.

Once the horses were settled, Fishlegs took it upon himself to give Hiccup the grand tour, or at least, the tour of their small corner of the world. “This is the squires’ quarters,” he announced, gesturing to a cramped, low-ceilinged section in the belly of the ship. Hammocks were strung up three high, so close together that a man couldn’t sit up without hitting the one above him. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and damp wool. “You can take that empty one over there. No one’s used it since Bjorn got promoted.”

He showed Hiccup the mess hall, which was just a collection of rough-hewn benches near the galley, and the armory, a dark, intimidating space filled with racks of axes, swords, and shields that all looked brutally functional. It was a world away from the gilded, ceremonial armory of Welton.

“So, who is your master, Fishlegs?” Hiccup asked as they navigated the crowded passageway.

Fishlegs’ cheerful demeanor dimmed slightly. “Oh, uh, technically it’s Lord Ingerman, my father. But I mostly just help out wherever I’m needed.” He sighed. “All my cohort already made knight. I’m… not the best at the fighting part of things. I’m much better with books and animal husbandry, but there’s not much call for that when you’re trying to earn your shield.”

“There should be,” Hiccup said, thinking of the dull-eyed parade horses of Welton. “An army is only as good as its supply lines and the health of its animals.”

Fishlegs beamed, his face lighting up. “That’s what I always say! But try telling that to someone like Snotlout Jorgenson.” He shuddered dramatically. “He thinks the only way to solve a problem is to hit it with an axe. Repeatedly.”

The tour concluded back at the stables. It was a small, cramped, and functional world. A world Hiccup understood. He felt a strange sense of comfort. He might be a prisoner, a piece of property traded in a treaty, but at least he knew his place.

That comfort lasted until the ship left the harbor and hit the open sea.

The storm rolled in that night, a violent, churning tempest that turned the sea into a black, raging monster. The longship, which had seemed so massive and steady at the dock, was now tossed about like a child’s toy. For the Berkians, this was Tuesday. They moved about the deck with practiced ease, their sea-legs infallible, their laughter booming over the howl of the wind.

For Hiccup, it was a personal hell.

He spent the first hour of the storm hunched over the railing, emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the churning waves. His body, completely unaccustomed to the violent motion, betrayed him at every turn. A group of Berkian sailors saw him and let out a chorus of jeering laughs.

“Look at the land-lubber!” one shouted. “He’s turning greener than his tunic!”

“Aww, is the little prize from Welton gonna cry?” another mocked.

Hiccup wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his pride a distant, forgotten memory. He was used to this kind of treatment. It was the background noise of his life. He ignored them and staggered away, his focus on a more pressing problem: the frantic, terrified sounds coming from the horse hold.

He stumbled down the ladder, his stomach lurching with every pitch and roll of the ship. The hold was chaos. The horses were panicking, their eyes wide with terror as they were thrown against the sides of their stalls. Their whinnies of fear were sharp and piercing.

Hiccup’s own misery was immediately forgotten. He pushed past it, his duty taking precedence. He went to Stormfly first, murmuring to her, his voice a strained but steady anchor in the storm. He braced himself against her stall, using his own small body to cushion her from the worst of the impacts.

He was in the middle of calming her when another wave slammed against the hull, sending a fresh wave of nausea through him. He couldn't stop it. He turned and wretched into a nearby bucket, his body convulsing. When he finished, panting and miserable, he looked up to see three pairs of intelligent eyes watching him. Stormfly, Toothless, and Fishlegs’ horse, Meatlug.

A strange thing happened. As they watched him, this small, sick human who was clearly suffering more than they were but was still trying to care for them, a sense of calm seemed to settle over their corner of the hold. It was as if they understood. Stormfly nudged his shoulder gently. Toothless let out a low, rumbling nicker. Meatlug simply stood still, her earlier panic gone.

Hiccup, still feeling wretched, managed a weak smile. He spent the rest of the night there, moving between the three stalls, speaking to them, stroking their necks, and occasionally making a desperate dash for the bucket. He eventually slumped against the wall between Toothless and Stormfly’s stalls, the comforting warmth of the two great animals on either side of him, and drifted into an exhausted, uneasy sleep.

The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a calm sea and a bright, clear sky. Astrid was looking for her new squire. He wasn’t in the hammock Fishlegs had pointed out, nor was he in the mess. Annoyed, she headed for the one place she suspected he might be.

She found him in the horse hold, curled up in the hay, fast asleep. His face was pale and gaunt, but he looked peaceful. She chuckled quietly to herself, not surprised in the least. But as her gaze swept the hold, she noticed something odd. Most of the horses were agitated, their stalls messy from a night of panic. But three of them—Stormfly, the black stallion, and the Ingerman’s Gronckle-horse—were perfectly calm. They were standing quietly, their coats less ruffled, their eyes clear. And they were the three horses surrounding the sleeping boy.

She approached quietly and nudged him with the toe of her boot. “Up and at ‘em, boy.”

Hiccup shot awake with a panicked yelp, scrambling to his feet so fast he nearly fell over. “My lady! I’m so sorry! I fell asleep! I promise it won’t happen again! Please forgive me!” He bowed low, his body trembling, a torrent of apologies tumbling from his lips.

Astrid just stared at him, utterly bewildered by his reaction. “What in Thor’s name are you losing your marbles about?” she asked, genuinely confused. “You did a great job. These three are in much better shape than the rest of the lot.” She nodded toward Stormfly. “As always, you’ve taken excellent care of her.”

Hiccup stopped his bowing and stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. A compliment. A genuine, straightforward compliment. He didn’t know how to react. “Oh. Uh. Thank you, my lady.”

“Come on,” she said, turning to leave. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

He scurried after her. The tour she gave him was of a completely different ship than the one Fishlegs had shown him. They didn't go below deck. They stayed on the main and upper decks, the world of high command. She showed him the war room, a spacious cabin dominated by a massive table covered in nautical charts. She pointed out the Admiral’s private quarters and the well-appointed cabins for the senior knights. She even showed him her own cabin, which was larger than the entire squires’ sleeping area, complete with a proper bed, a desk, and a weapon rack holding a terrifying assortment of axes.

In every room they entered, a profound silence fell. Every warrior, no matter their rank, snapped to attention. Even the ship’s grizzled Admiral, a man who looked like he wrestled sea serpents for fun, shot to his feet when she entered his cabin. Astrid paid it no mind, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. But Hiccup noticed. He’d seen the men show deference to the other knights, but this was different. This was a deeper, more absolute form of respect. It was the respect reserved for the one at the very top of the food chain.

She never seemed to realize the chasm between the world she was showing him—a world of strategy, command, and relative comfort—and the world of cramped hammocks and watery stew he had been introduced to just the day before. To her, it was all just ‘the ship’. To him, it was a stark, dizzying reminder of just how far apart their stations truly were.

That night, Hiccup couldn’t sleep. The lingering nausea and the whirlwind of the day’s events left his mind racing. He quietly made his way to the top deck, hoping the cool night air would settle his stomach. He found Astrid there, leaning against the railing, her gaze fixed on the endless tapestry of stars.

He approached her cautiously. “My lady,” he said softly.

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable in the faint starlight.

“Have you ever heard the tale of the Dragon of Berk?” he asked, deciding to take a leap.

A small, amused chuckle escaped her. “Can’t say that I have. I’m from Berk, and it’s not one of our stories.”

“That’s because it’s one of ours,” Hiccup said. He then proceeded to detail all the ludicrous rumors he’d heard in the mess hall. The nine-foot-tall giant. The barrel-chested man with the blood-red beard. The bald man with the war hammer. The creature that was three-halves of a man and part dragon. He concluded, “It was all just fear and speculation. But they got one thing very, very wrong.”

“Oh?” she said, turning to face him, a curious glint in her eye. “And what’s that?”

“They said it was a man ,” Hiccup stated, his voice gaining confidence. “But it’s not. It’s you. You’re the Dragon of Berk.”

Astrid laughed, a full, delighted sound that seemed to dance on the quiet sea air. “I’ve never heard that title before, but I won’t deny it. What makes you so certain I am this… Dragon?”

“The way the men look at you,” Hiccup explained. “It’s more than just respect for a commander. It’s awe. It’s fear. That means you must be more than a knight; you’re a war hero who earns their regard on the front lines.” He gestured vaguely at her powerful frame. “You clearly fight alongside them. So you have to be the mythical Dragon of Berk they’re all so terrified of.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “I’m surprised you could deduce all that just from the reaction of a few men on a ship. But you’re right. I suppose I must be this Dragon of Berk.”

Hiccup chuckled, a wave of relief washing over him. “I guess you can never trust a rumor. They all painted you as some ugly troll haunting the battlefield, when in reality, you’re… divinely beautiful.”

The words were out of his mouth before his brain could catch them. The air crackled with a sudden, awkward silence. Hiccup’s face erupted in a blush so hot he was certain it was visible in the dark.

Astrid leaned in slightly, her voice a low, teasing purr. “Divinely beautiful?”

“Ajsdfns,” Hiccup stammered, his vocabulary abandoning him entirely. “I mean—it’s just—the stars—it’s not what I—I meant…”

She laughed again, a softer sound this time, and he could have sworn he saw a faint blush on her own cheeks in the moonlight. “Thank you for the compliment. I’m not often called beautiful.” She turned back toward the sea. “Though you should know, not all the rumors were untrue. They all start with a shred of reality.”

Hiccup, deeply embarrassed and desperate to change the subject, latched onto her words. “Is that so?”

Astrid smiled wickedly, her teeth flashing in the dark. “I can defeat five hundred men all by myself. I have before.”

Hiccup paled. “The rumor said three hundred.”

Her smile widened. “That’s because I killed the other two hundred before they could tell anyone.”

He went white as a sheet. She just laughed at his expression. “I’m joking, boy. Mostly.” She patted his shoulder, her hand warm and heavy. “You’re fun to have around. Now, get some rest. We arrive in Berk tomorrow.”

She turned back to the stars, leaving him standing there, his heart thumping a terrified and exhilarated rhythm. He looked from the endless, glittering expanse of the night sky to the formidable woman standing next to him, and wondered which one was more vast, more dangerous, and more breathtakingly beautiful.

Chapter 5: The Squire Line Up

Chapter Text

A gentle, rhythmic rocking was the first thing Hiccup registered. Not the violent, stomach-churning lurch of the storm, but a soft, cradle-like sway. The second thing was a persistent poking in his ribs.

“Hiccup? Hey, Hiccup, wake up. We’re here.”

He cracked open an eyelid, his entire body aching with a profound weariness. Fishlegs’ kind, round face was hovering over him, silhouetted against the light filtering down from the deck. “We’re here?” Hiccup mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“We’re at Berk!” Fishlegs said, his voice brimming with the excitement of a homecoming.

The words acted like a splash of cold water. Hiccup sat up, his head swimming for a moment. He was in the horse hold, the scent of hay and animals a familiar comfort. He looked around. The hold was calm, the ship steady. The storm was over.

He and Fishlegs went to check on the horses. The stalls of the animals tended by the other squires were a mess—bedding thrown about, feed bins overturned. But the three stalls in their corner were remarkably orderly. Stormfly and Toothless looked at him with placid, intelligent eyes, and Meatlug gave a happy little snort.

Fishlegs looked from his calm horse to Hiccup, his expression one of awe. “You really did it. She’s never this calm after a crossing, especially not one like last night.” He shook his head in wonder. “Thank you, Hiccup. Really. I… I slept through the whole thing.”

Hiccup stared at him, incredulous. “You slept? Through that ? It felt like the world was ending!”

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” Fishlegs said with a sheepish grin. “Once I’m out, not even Thor’s own hammer could wake me.”

Hiccup just shook his head, unable to comprehend such a superpower. Together, they prepared the horses for disembarking, brushing down their coats and checking their bridles. As the massive gangplank was lowered to the docks of Berk, Hiccup led Stormfly and Toothless out into the light, and for the first time, he saw the home of the Vikings.

It was breathtaking.

Welton’s capital had been built to be pretty. It was a city of elegant spires, whitewashed walls, and manicured gardens. It was a city designed to be admired.

Berk was built to endure .

It wasn’t so much a castle as it was a fortified mountain. The city was carved directly into the black rock of a massive sea cliff, its structures seeming to grow organically from the stone itself. Great halls with heavy timber roofs were nestled against sheer rock faces, connected by stone stairways and sturdy wooden bridges that spanned dizzying chasms. A massive wall of dark, impenetrable stone, topped with watchtowers that looked like snarling teeth, protected the harbor. There was no glitter, no gold, no pointless ornamentation. Every single stone, every beam of wood, served a purpose. It was a fortress designed by people who understood hardship and valued strength above all else. It was the most intimidating and impressive place Hiccup had ever seen.

He found Astrid on the docks, directing the unloading with an air of absolute command. He presented Stormfly’s reins to her.

“Thank you, boy,” she said, her voice softening as she turned her attention to the horse. She immediately began cooing and fussing over Stormfly, stroking her neck and murmuring things in a low, affectionate tone. The mighty warhorse melted under the attention, nudging Astrid’s shoulder and making soft, happy noises.

Hiccup watched them, a small smile playing on his lips. The knights of Welton treated their horses like status symbols. Astrid treated her horse like a cherished partner. It was a small thing, but it spoke volumes.

“Now,” Astrid said, turning back to him, her business-like demeanor returning. “Fall in with the other squires. Fishlegs can show you where to go.”

And with that, she was gone, leading Stormfly up the stone ramp toward the heart of the fortress. Hiccup stood there for a moment, feeling a bit lost, before Fishlegs appeared at his side.

“Come on,” his new friend said cheerfully. “The squires’ barracks are this way. You’ll need to get your assignment.”

As they walked, weaving through the bustling activity of the docks, Hiccup’s mind buzzed with questions. “So, what exactly does a squire… do?” he asked, feeling foolish.

Fishlegs looked at him, surprised. “You don’t know? Well, everything, really. You maintain your knight’s armor and weapons—that’s the most important part. A dull blade or a weak strap can mean life or death. You care for their horse, attend them in the hall, run messages for them. And you train. Constantly.”

“Train for what? Just sword fighting?” Hiccup asked, his heart sinking a little.

“Oh, no,” Fishlegs said, shaking his head. “Sword, axe, shield, spear, archery, wrestling, tactics, formations… everything. Being a knight isn’t just about being good with a sword. It’s about being a warrior. Though,” he added thoughtfully, “being good with a sword is probably the most important part.”

“Right,” Hiccup mumbled. “So who do I report to? Is there a squire-captain or something?”

“Sort of. The Master-at-Arms oversees all our training, but for daily duties, you report directly to your knight. They are your master. Their word is law.”

“And… do we fight? On the front lines?”

Fishlegs shuddered. “Sometimes. If things are desperate. Mostly, a squire’s job in a battle is to stay behind the lines, guard the camp, and be ready with a fresh horse or a new weapon if your knight needs it. It’s still dangerous, though.” He looked at Hiccup’s slender frame. “But don’t worry, you’ll bulk up. The training and the food here will see to that.”

They finally arrived at a large, open courtyard behind one of the main halls. It was filled with young men, all bigger and broader than Hiccup, all bustling with purpose. This was the squires’ area.

“Sven!” Fishlegs called out, waving to a tall, stern-looking squire with a braided beard that was surprisingly neat. “We’ve got a new recruit!”

Sven, the head squire, strode over, his eyes doing a slow, critical scan of Hiccup from head to toe. What he saw was, to a Berkian, profoundly underwhelming. The boy—and he certainly looked like a boy—was built like a dry twig. He had the lanky frame of his later teen years, but none of the muscle. His tunic hung loosely on narrow shoulders, and his wrists looked thin enough to snap. It was clear he was underfed; his cheekbones were a little too sharp, his face a little too pale, giving him an almost sickly appearance that contrasted sharply with the ruddy, well-fed squires around him. He was the physical embodiment of the soft, decadent southern kingdom they had just conquered.

Sven finally finished his assessment, his expression one of deep skepticism. “A new one, eh?” he grunted. “Bit scrawny. Who’s your knight?”

Hiccup’s mind went completely blank. In all their interactions, Astrid had never once mentioned her family name, her house, or her official title. He just knew her as Astrid, the terrifyingly beautiful knight who had claimed him as a war prize. He scrambled for a descriptor.

“The, uh…” he stammered, “the female blonde knight.”

Sven’s stern expression immediately melted into one of profound, almost comical pity. He let out a low whistle. “Oh, you poor bastard,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “But… you don’t really look like Ruffnut’s type.” He gestured with his thumb toward a group of squires who were lifting a massive log for training. They were all mountains of muscle, with arms thicker than Hiccup’s legs.

Hiccup stared at the hulking squires, then back at Sven, utterly confused. “Ruffnut? No, the other blonde knight. She said her name was Astrid? Rides a blue roan called Stormfly?”

A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, it was shattered by a loud bark of laughter from Sven. It was contagious. A wave of snickers and outright guffaws rippled through the entire courtyard. Squires stopped what they were doing to point and laugh.

Sven clapped a heavy hand on Hiccup’s shoulder, his whole body shaking with mirth. “Nice try, kid! That’s a good one! ‘Astrid’s Squire.’” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Hilarious. Now get to the back of the line and peel potatoes before you get a boot up your arse.”

Humiliation washed over Hiccup in a hot, prickling wave. His face burned. Utterly confused and mortified, he did as he was told, shuffling over to a massive pile of potatoes and a waiting cauldron, the laughter of two dozen squires following him like a physical blow.

Fishlegs hurried over, his face a mixture of shock and awe. “You’re her squire?” he whispered, his eyes wide.

“Yes!” Hiccup hissed back, furiously attacking a potato with a peeler. “What’s the problem? Why is everyone laughing?” He felt a familiar surge of defensive anger. “I know I’m not the physical depiction of a squire or a knight, but I can still be useful!”

“That’s not it! It’s not you, it’s her !” Fishlegs explained in a frantic whisper. “Hiccup, she never takes a squire. Ever. In all the years she’s been… well, her … she’s never had one.”

“That’s odd,” Hiccup said, frowning. “Maybe she just wanted me as a stable hand. I am good with horses. But then… why tell me to come to the squires’ quarters?” He dropped a peeled potato into the cauldron with a splash and grabbed another, his mind racing.

“I don’t know,” Fishlegs said, starting to pace. “Maybe she wants you to train as a warrior but keep up your stable duties? Or maybe it’s a political move, to hold you as leverage over Welton? Or maybe she saw your potential with the sword! You must be a prodigy, and she saw it!”

Hiccup snorted, remembering his pathetic performance in the pasture. “Definitely not that.”

“Then… then maybe…” Fishlegs stopped pacing and looked at Hiccup with wide, speculative eyes. “Maybe she just thinks you’re… attractive? Maybe it was love at first sight!”

Hiccup froze, the potato and peeler slipping from his fingers. He stared at Fishlegs as if he’d just started speaking in tongues. The sheer, astronomical impossibility of that statement short-circuited his brain.

“Are you insane?” Hiccup finally managed to say. “Fishlegs, look at her. She’s… she’s a Valkyrie. She’s tall and strong and… and divinely beautiful.” The words slipped out again, making him blush. “And look at me! I’m… me. I’m a twig. A useless fishbone. I’m small and weak and I can’t even hold a sword properly. The idea that someone like her would look twice at someone like me is… it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He started talking faster, a torrent of self-deprecation pouring out of him. “I can’t do anything right, I’m clumsy, I probably talk too much, I’m no good at fighting…”

He was so lost in his tirade that he didn’t see the other squires listening in, their earlier laughter turning into knowing, salacious smirks. He didn’t see the birth of a new rumor, one far more humiliating than just being a joke. The Dragon of Berk’s reparation. Her new boy-toy .

The word struck a nerve deep inside him. Boy . It’s what she always called him. The realization cemented the idea in his head, a cold, hard knot of shame. That’s all she saw him as. Not a man. Not even a squire. Just a boy. A pet.

Fishlegs was stunned into silence by his friend’s passionate and painful self-deprecation. “Hiccup, that’s not true!” he finally said, trying to comfort him. “What everyone is saying is ridiculous! You’re great! You shouldn’t have such a negative opinion of yourself!”

But Hiccup just shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s fine, Fishlegs. I’m used to it.” He picked up the peeler and went back to the potatoes, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He spent the rest of the day in silence and went to his hammock early, the whispers of the other squires following him into his dreams.

The next morning, the courtyard was a hive of frantic activity. Everyone was running around, polishing armor and sharpening blades. Hiccup emerged from the barracks to see what the commotion was about and saw her.

It was Astrid. She wasn't in full plate armor, but in her practical leather training gear, which somehow made her even more intimidating.

She was a masterpiece of functional strength. Standing well over six feet tall, she towered over every squire in the yard. Her physique wasn't the bulky, cumbersome mass of a bodybuilder; it was the lean, densely-packed power of a predator. Her broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and her arms, bare from the elbow down, were corded with the kind of well-defined, practical muscle earned from a lifetime of swinging an axe, not lifting stones. She moved with a fluid, confident grace that was utterly captivating. She was a Valkyrie from the old stories brought to life, a perfect fusion of deadly power and feminine grace, and her presence sucked all the air out of the courtyard.

Astrid was standing in the middle of the yard, looking annoyed. Next to her was a man Hiccup hadn’t seen before. He was tall and handsome in a rugged sort of way, with broad shoulders, dark, braided hair, and a confident swagger. He wore fine leather armor and had a crossbow slung on his back. He looked every bit the competent, seasoned warrior.

She scanned the crowd, her expression one of pure annoyance. “Where is he?” she barked. “Where’s my squire?” Astrid’s voice boomed across the yard, silencing all activity.

Every head turned. Every eye landed on Hiccup.

Astrid saw him and her expression cleared. “There you are. Come on.” She gestured for him to follow her and the handsome knight.

Hiccup, his heart pounding, scurried forward, acutely aware of the dozens of shocked, disbelieving stares fixed on his back. He fell into step behind them.

“Where are we going, my lady?” he asked quietly.

It was the other knight who answered, his voice a smooth, confident baritone. He glanced back at Hiccup with a curious, almost amused expression.

“The Queen,” he said, “has requested your presence in the throne room.”

Chapter 6: A Terrible Posture

Chapter Text

The Queen.

The words echoed in the cavern of Hiccup’s skull, chasing away all other thoughts. The Queen had requested his presence. Not a knight, not a general, but the absolute monarch of this terrifying, warrior nation. His blood, which had been slowly returning to a normal temperature after the morning’s excitement, turned to ice water in his veins.

This was it. He was being brought before the ultimate authority, probably to be officially assigned his duties, or, more likely, to be scrutinized, judged, and found wanting. He could already picture it: a formidable, older, stern-faced woman looking down at him from a massive throne, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist for being too small, too weak, too… Hiccup.

He nervously wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on the sides of his tunic and fell into step behind Astrid and the handsome knight, Eret. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

“Am I in trouble?” he whispered frantically to Eret, his voice barely audible. “Is this about the… the squire arrangements? What is she like? Is she… nice?”

Eret didn’t even glance at him. His gaze was fixed forward, his expression a mask of professional neutrality. “Just keep your mouth shut and try not to faint,” he murmured, his voice a low baritone. “You’re representing your master, after all.”

The words, meant to be a warning, only confirmed Hiccup’s belief. He was here as a representative of his new master. He had to make a good impression, not just for his own sake, but for hers. The thought did nothing to calm his frantic heart.

Astrid, who had been walking in silence, stopped as they reached the massive, iron-banded doors of the main keep. She glanced back at them, her expression unreadable. “I need to gather the council,” she said, her voice crisp and authoritative. “Eret, show him around. Make sure he understands his duties.”

With that, she gave a sharp nod and disappeared through a smaller side door, leaving Hiccup alone with the intimidatingly competent knight.

Eret sighed, a sound of mild annoyance, and turned to face Hiccup. “Right then. Let’s get this over with.”

The tour that followed was a dizzying journey into the heart of Berkian power. Eret led him through corridors of cold, dark stone, past doors guarded by stoic, silent warriors. This wasn’t the world of the squires’ barracks or the bustling mess hall. This was the domain of the elite. He was shown bedroom after bedroom, all spartan but well-appointed, belonging to the various knights and lords of the council.

Strangely, Eret also showed him the kitchens—a vast, steaming cavern of activity—and the linen rooms, where maids scurried about with armfuls of sheets. Hiccup was thoroughly confused. Why was he being shown the servants’ areas alongside the nobles’ quarters?

Their tour eventually led them to a large, circular room dominated by a massive round table made from a single, ancient oak. Maps and strategic markers littered its surface. This was the war room Hiccup had seen briefly on the ship.

“As your master is on the War Council,” Eret explained, his voice taking on a formal, instructive tone, “you will be required to attend all meetings held in this room. You will stand where you are told, you will speak only when spoken to, and you will fulfill any and all of her requests. Is that understood?”

Hiccup nodded profusely, his head bobbing like a child’s toy. “Yes, Sir. Absolutely.”

“Whether that is fetching her a drink, sharpening her pencils, or giving her a foot massage after a long day,” Eret continued, his eyes narrowing as he watched Hiccup’s reaction, “you will perform your duty with your utmost being.”

Hiccup blinked at the mention of a foot massage but nodded again. “My utmost being. Got it.”

Eret crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. The interrogation had begun. “You might have her fooled with that whole ‘plucky stable boy’ routine, but I won’t trust an outsider completely. Not yet.”

Hiccup was taken aback by the directness but found he respected it. “You shouldn’t,” he agreed immediately. “It would be unwise to place your trust in a stranger from a land you just conquered.”

“So you admit you can’t be trusted?” Eret pressed.

“I admit I haven’t earned your trust,” Hiccup clarified. “There’s a difference.”

Eret considered this for a moment, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. “Fair enough. But can you fulfill your duties? All of them? Can you be a proper squire to a warrior of Berk?”

Hiccup’s brief flash of confidence vanished. He looked down at his own small hands. “No,” he said, his voice quiet with honesty. “I can’t. I was just a stablehand. I can tend to the horses better than anyone, but that’s it. I don’t know the first thing about armor or battle tactics or… or any of this.” He gestured vaguely at the imposing room. “I don’t know what Astid sees in me, or why she chose me to be her personal squire.”

He didn’t notice the way Eret flinched almost imperceptibly at the casual use of their leader’s first name.

“So you’re just a stable boy,” Eret stated, his tone flat.

A spark of defiance flared in Hiccup’s chest. He was tired, he was scared, and he had been called ‘boy’ one too many times. “I am not a boy,” he snapped, his head shooting up to glare at the knight. “I am twenty-three years old.”

The declaration hung in the air. Eret’s jaw went slack with genuine shock. He looked Hiccup up and down, at his slight frame, his skinny arms, his youthful face. “You’re… twenty-three?”

“YES!” Hiccup exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in sheer exasperation. “I am a grown man in my early twenties, and I would very much like to stop being called ‘boy’ by people who aren’t that much older than I am!”

Eret was so taken aback by the sudden, passionate outburst that he took a step back. A slow smile spread across his handsome face. He let out a low chuckle. “Alright, alright. Point taken.” He leaned forward again, his smile turning predatory. “You do realize, of course, that I could have your head for speaking to a knight of the Royal Guard in that tone?”

Hiccup’s face went white. The fire of his indignation was instantly extinguished by a tidal wave of pure terror. “I’m so sorry, Sir! It won’t happen again! I just—my mouth—it runs sometimes—”

He was so panicked he didn’t even think. “I did it to Lady Astrid, too! I threatened her when I thought she was an intruder in the stables! I told her I was the king of the stables and I’d have her thrown out!”

Eret’s face, which had been amused, went as white as Hiccup’s. “You what ?!” he choked out, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

Seeing the knight’s reaction, Hiccup’s fear was suddenly replaced by a giddy, hysterical sense of the absurd. He let out a nervous laugh. “I tend to run my mouth without thinking,” he confessed. “I thought she was just some trespassing knight, not the legendary Dragon of Berk!”

The tension in Eret’s shoulders dissolved as he burst into a loud, hearty laugh. He leaned against the wall for support, shaking his head. “You threatened the Dragon of Berk. To her face.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “By the gods, I can see why she picked you. You may be a runt, but you have spine.”

Hiccup managed a weak, relieved laugh. “Funny,” he said, a genuine smile finally reaching his eyes. “She said the exact same thing.”

The rest of the tour was much more relaxed. Eret’s aggressive posture had softened into a grudging camaraderie. He led Hiccup to the royal stables, a magnificent structure of stone and timber that made the stables of Welton look like a hovel. Stormfly was in the largest stall, looking utterly content.

Hiccup immediately went to her, stroking her neck and checking her feed. He then turned his attention to the horse in the stall next to her, a powerful warhorse with a coat the color of rich soil. He began doting on it as well, scratching behind its ears and speaking to it in the same low, soothing tones.

Eret watched, surprised. His horse, Skullcrusher, was a notoriously grumpy beast who tolerated no one but Eret himself and a select few others. Yet here he was, leaning into the touch of this strange, skinny boy from another land as if they were old friends. Eret’s appreciation for Hiccup grew another notch. He was beginning to understand. The boy had a gift.

“Come on,” Eret said, his voice much friendlier than before. “It’s time. The Queen is waiting.”

Eret led him from the stables, through another set of corridors, and stopped before a pair of massive doors carved with intertwining dragons.

He turned to the squire beside him. "Listen, Hiccup," he began. "I like you. I can practically feel you buzzing with nervous energy."

 

"That obvious, huh?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

 

"Yes, but just so you know, this is merely a formality," the knight replied, his tone reassuring. "You must be introduced to the royal court. You are not in any trouble."

 

"Thank you, Sir," he said, relief washing over him. "That means a lot."

The doors swung open silently at Eret’s approach, and Hiccup was ushered inside. The Great Hall of Berk was the heart of the mountain. It was vast and imposing, the stone walls covered in shields and weapons, not as decoration, but as a stark reminder of the kingdom’s martial history. The air was filled with the low murmur of dozens of stern-faced, armored Berkians—a proper royal court, Viking style. They all turned as one to stare at him, their gazes heavy and judging.

At the far end of the hall, raised on a stone dais, sat a large, imposing throne carved from dark wood and the living stone of the mountain itself.

It was empty.

Eret led him to the exact center of the room and then, with a nod, melted back into the crowd, leaving Hiccup standing alone like a lost sheep in a den of wolves. His heart began to pound a frantic, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He smoothed his tunic, his hands trembling slightly, and prepared to bow, expecting a side door to open and some formidable, regal woman to enter and take the throne.

A side door did open. But the person who walked out, speaking in low tones to a council member with a flowing grey beard, was Astrid.

A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over Hiccup. Oh, thank the gods. A familiar face. She must be here to introduce me to the Queen. It made perfect sense. She was the Dragon of Berk, the Queen’s champion. And his master. Of course she would be the one to present him.

Astrid finished her conversation, dismissing the council member with a sharp nod. She then turned and began to stride confidently across the hall. Hiccup watched her, a small, relieved smile on his face, expecting her to stop and stand beside him, a reassuring presence in this intimidating room.

She didn’t.

She walked right past him without a glance, her boots echoing on the stone floor, her path taking her directly toward the dais. Directly toward the empty throne. She didn’t sit immediately. She ascended the two stone steps and placed a hand on the carved armrest, her powerful fingers gripping the snarling dragon head as she surveyed the room. Her room. Her court.

And then, very slowly, as if they were grinding against a great stone, the gears in Hiccup’s head began to turn with a horrible, screeching protest.

Wait… she’s walking to the throne.

The entire room is silent for her. Eret, the Royal Guard, everyone.

She made the demands back in my kingdom. A knight can’t do that. Not even a champion.

The “Dragon of Berk”… the most powerful person in the kingdom…

Oh no.

Oh, by all that is holy, she is not IN the royal court…

…SHE IS THE ROYAL COURT.

The realization was not a thought; it was a physical event. A dam of denial burst in his mind, and a flood of memories, now horribly re-contextualized, crashed down upon him. Threatening her in the stables. Calling the absolute monarch of this warrior nation "my lady." Arguing with her. Sparring with her. Joking with her. Telling her she was divinely beautiful to her face. Every single interaction, every moment of his foolish, misplaced confidence, played back in his head in a horrifying, high-speed montage. He hadn't just been insubordinate to a knight; he had been treasonously familiar with the Queen. His entire existence for the past several days had been a masterclass in how to get himself executed in the most embarrassing way possible.

His knees gave out. He dropped into a kneel so fast and with such uncoordinated panic that he overbalanced, his hand slapping against the cold stone floor to keep himself from toppling over completely. He looked like a fool. A terrified, pathetic, stable-boy fool.

From her position by the throne, Astrid finally turned her gaze directly onto him. Her ice-blue eyes were sharp, and a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips. She had clearly seen the exact moment the truth had crashed down upon him. She had enjoyed every second of his dawning, abject horror. She let him tremble there for another long, agonizing moment before her voice cut through the silent hall, imbued with a regal authority he had never heard before, yet which sounded completely, terrifyingly natural.

“On your feet, squire,” she commanded. “You have a terrible posture.”

Chapter 7: The Queen's Pet

Chapter Text

The sharp, metallic clang of a practice sword hitting the packed earth of the training yard had become the defining sound of Hiccup’s new life. That, and the subsequent grunt as he picked himself up off the ground. Again.

He was in the Queen’s personal training yard, a secluded space behind the royal keep, and he was getting thoroughly, comprehensively, and systematically beaten to a pulp. He was encased in unfamiliar steel plate armor that was too big for him, despite being the smallest set they could find. It was hot, it was heavy, and it pinched in places he didn’t know could be pinched. He was sweaty, he was tired, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest.

And it was the most fun he’d had in years.

For the first time in his life, someone was paying attention to him. Not just any someone, but the Queen of Berk herself, a living legend, giving him a private lesson. It felt like cheating. It felt like a dream. A very painful, exhausting dream.

“You’re dropping your shoulder again,” Astrid’s voice cut through his haze of fatigue. She stood opposite him, a vision of martial perfection in her full suit of dark, practical armor, her helmet off and her blonde braid glinting in the sun. “And you’re holding the shield too far from your body. It’s a wall, not a serving tray. Keep it tight.” She demonstrated with her own shield.

He adjusted his grip, the heavy shield feeling like a millstone on his arm. He felt a profound sense of gratitude for her instruction. She wasn’t just knocking him down; she was teaching him. Each correction, each sharp critique, was a gift. It was an investment of her time, and that was a currency more valuable than any gold.

She came at him again, her movements a blur of controlled power. He managed to block the first swing, the impact jarring him to his teeth. He sidestepped the second, a clumsy but effective maneuver. He was getting better. Not good, by any stretch of the imagination, but marginally less pathetic.

As she prepared for a third strike, a metallic snap echoed in the yard. One of the leather straps on her breastplate gave way, and a section of the steel plate sagged, hanging at an awkward angle.

“Damn it,” she grumbled, momentarily distracted as she looked down at the offending piece of armor.

It was the opening Hiccup had been waiting for. He saw his chance and lunged, putting all of his weight into a desperate thrust.

Without even looking up from her broken strap, Astrid’s arm shot out in a lazy, one-handed swing. Her sword connected with his, and the familiar, humiliating sensation of his weapon being ripped from his grasp followed. The practice sword flew across the yard.

“We’ll have to continue this another day,” she said, finally looking up at him, her expression one of pure annoyance at her faulty equipment.

“No, wait,” Hiccup said, panting as he went to retrieve his sword. “Let me fix it. It’s my duty as your squire.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “The royal blacksmith can see to it. He’s more qualified.”

“But it’s my job to maintain your armor,” Hiccup insisted, a stubborn set to his jaw. “Please, Your Majesty. Let me try.”

She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But if you make it worse, I’m making you spar with Stoick.” She began to unbuckle the remaining straps. “Help me out of this thing.”

It was his duty. He knew this. But knowing it and doing it were two very different things. He approached her, his hands fumbling as he tried to work the complex buckles and clasps of her armor. He had to stand on his tiptoes to even reach the fastenings on her shoulders. After a minute of him struggling fruitlessly, she let out an amused snort.

“Are you trying to disarm me or give me a hug?” she teased.

His face burned. He grabbed a nearby stool and climbed onto it, which finally gave him the height he needed. Now at eye-level with her shoulders, he was faced with the sheer reality of her. The linen of her undershirt was damp with sweat, clinging to a landscape of powerful muscle that shifted with every breath she took. Her back was a tapestry of strength, every line and curve speaking of years of relentless training. 

He reached out, his hands fumbling with the heavy leather straps and iron buckles. To get enough leverage to undo a particularly stubborn clasp near her shoulder blade, he had to brace one hand flat against her back. He could feel the immense, latent power there, the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. It was like leaning against a living mountain. His fingers, which he’d always thought of as nimble, felt clumsy and small against the rugged hardware of her armor.

From Astrid’s perspective, she could feel his small hands working with a focused, almost desperate determination. She felt the slight pressure as he leaned against her for leverage and was struck by the contrast—his slight, wiry frame straining against the massive weight of her protection. He was so small, yet so utterly unwilling to give up on a task he had deemed his duty. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through her chest, and she had to suppress a smile. It was… endearing.

Finally, with a triumphant grunt, Hiccup managed to unhook the last pauldron. He tried to lift it off her shoulder, his arms shaking with the effort. It was like trying to pry a boulder off a cliffside.

Astrid chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Alright, that’s enough, before you give yourself a hernia.” Reaching up, she unhooked the other side herself with one hand and lifted the entire chest piece away as if it weighed nothing. She set it on the ground with a heavy thud. “Leave it for now. You’re coming with me.”

She dragged him to a private dining room adjacent to the Great Hall, a space reserved for the Queen and her inner circle. He was seated at her right hand at the massive oak table, feeling like a field mouse at a lion’s feast. Servants brought in platters of food—roasted meats, fresh bread, cheeses, and fruits. Hiccup, accustomed to the watery stew of Welton’s mess hall, didn’t know what to do. He sat stiffly, unsure of the proper etiquette, not knowing which of the three forks was the correct one to use.

Suddenly, a massive roasted chicken leg was unceremoniously dropped onto his empty plate. He looked up to see Astrid looking at him, a faint, almost shy smile on her face. Her own plate was piled high enough to feed a small family.

“You’re too skinny, boy,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’ll never build any muscle if you eat like a sparrow. You need to eat more if you’re going to survive my training.”

Hiccup looked at the chicken leg, then back at her. It was the gruffest, most roundabout expression of care he had ever received. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, a genuine warmth spreading through his chest. He picked up the chicken leg and began to eat.

Later that day, the warmth had faded, replaced by the familiar chill of ostracism. He was back in the squires’ courtyard, struggling to carry Astrid’s heavy, damaged breastplate. His arms ached, and the awkward weight of the steel plate made him stagger. The other squires, lounging nearby after their own training, watched him with predatory amusement.

“Look at the Queen’s pet,” one of them, a burly squire named Spitlout, sneered. “Can’t even carry her chest piece. How’s he supposed to carry her shield?”

“He doesn’t need to,” another snickered. “He’s not for fighting. He’s for… other duties.”

The group erupted in crude laughter. Hiccup gritted his teeth and kept walking, his face burning. He was used to insults. He could handle them.

“I just feel sorry for her,” Spitlout continued, his voice loud enough for the whole yard to hear. “She’s at least three times his size. She’s liable to squash the little boy-toy flat!”

Something inside Hiccup snapped. They could insult him all they wanted. They could call him weak and useless. But the insinuation about Astrid, about their Queen, was a line he wouldn’t let them cross. He carefully set the heavy breastplate down on the ground, turned, and faced them.

“What did you just say?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through their laughter.

Spitlout’s smirk widened. He stood up, swaggering forward. “You heard me, stable boy. I said she’s three times your size and will probably crush you under her weight!”

“I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating about your Queen ,” Hiccup said, his hand drifting toward the practice sword still belted at his hip.

Spitlout laughed in his face. “I don’t care what you think. You’re nothing but her boy-toy.”

The sword was in Hiccup’s hand before he even realized he’d drawn it. It was the rusty, ill-balanced practice sword, but he held it steady, his left hand gripping the hilt. “Take it back.”

Spitlout drew his own sword, a much finer weapon. “Make me.”

The duel, if it could be called that, was over in seconds. Hiccup, fueled by righteous fury, managed one clumsy but heartfelt swing. Spitlout parried it with contemptuous ease, kicked Hiccup’s feet out from under him, and sent him sprawling face-first into the mud.

“Pathetic,” Spitlout spat, delivering a sharp kick to Hiccup’s ribs for good measure. He then literally spat on the back of Hiccup’s head before turning and walking away, followed by the renewed laughter of his cronies.

Hiccup lay there for a long moment, the taste of mud and humiliation in his mouth. With shaky, trembling hands, he pushed himself up. He ignored the pain in his side and the jeers from the courtyard. He walked over to the breastplate, picked it up with a grunt, and trudged toward the forge, his resolve hardening with every painful step. He gave a small, terse greeting to the blacksmith on duty and, in the quiet corner of the forge, began the patient, methodical work of repairing his Queen’s armor.

A few days later, Hiccup stood behind Astrid in her private chambers, the repaired breastplate in his hands. He had hammered out the dent, replaced the broken leather strap with a new, stronger one, and polished the steel until it shone.

“It’s ready, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

She turned, and he began the now-familiar, awkward process of helping her into her armor. This time, it felt different. More charged. He stood on the stool, his hands working the buckles on her back, his face inches from her powerful shoulders. He could see the intricate web of muscles move beneath her skin as she breathed. The squire’s crude comment— three times his size —ran through his head, and he felt a hot blush creep up his neck. Crude? Yes. Wrong? No.

As he was fastening a strap, her hand shot out and grabbed his arm, her grip firm but not painful. He flinched, startled. She pulled his sleeve back, revealing a large, ugly bruise blooming on his forearm from the duel.

Her eyes narrowed. “Where did this come from?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

“It’s nothing, Your Majesty.”

“It is not nothing,” she countered, her thumb tracing the edge of the bruise. “Where. Did. You. Get. It.”

He sighed, knowing he couldn’t lie to her. “I… got into a fight with some of the other squires.”

“A fight?” she scoffed. “Did you win?”

“I lost,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “Miserably.”

Astrid let go of his arm with a sound of disgust. “Then you shouldn’t pick fights you know you can’t win. It’s foolish.”

Hiccup clenched his fists at his sides. “Even if it’s something important?” he shot back, his own anger surprising him. “Something worth fighting for?”

The question seemed to catch her off guard. She paused, her icy gaze faltering for just a second. She, who solved every problem with overwhelming force, was faced with a philosophy she didn’t quite understand. The idea of fighting for a principle, even in the face of certain defeat… it was foreign. It was… noble.

“Then you fight clever,” she said finally, her voice softer. “If you can’t win with a frontal assault, you find another way. You use your head, not just your sword arm.” She turned back around. “Now finish up. We have a bandit camp to clear out.”

Hiccup nodded, a flicker of gratitude in his heart. He finished buckling her armor, his hands much steadier than before.

They were at the edge of a wooded valley, the staging ground for the assault. Hiccup struggled across the muddy camp, carrying Astrid’s massive, kite-shaped shield. It was almost as tall as he was, and it weighed a ton. He finally reached her and handed it over, nearly collapsing from the effort.

Nearby, Spitlout and other squires were watching, their whispers carrying on the wind. Hiccup heard them, and his face tightened with anger. He didn’t catch all the words, just the usual insults— “Queen’s pet,” “useless,” —but then he heard the phrase that made his blood boil.

“…three times his size…”

His expression turned thunderous. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He forgot where he was, forgot the impending battle. All he could feel was a white-hot fury at the disrespect they showed her.

Astrid, taking the shield from him, noticed the look on his face. She followed his gaze to the smirking group of squires, then back to Hiccup’s furious expression. The pieces clicked into place. The bruise. The fight he’d lost. The anger. It was all connected to that one, stupid phrase.

She gave him a long, searching look, then simply said, “Thank you.” She slung the shield onto her back, drew her sword with a sound like singing steel, and without another word, launched herself toward the front lines.

“Look at the little boy-toy,” Spitlout sneered as Hiccup watched her go. “Can’t even do anything but stand there while the woman does the fighting.”

Fishlegs appeared at Hiccup’s side. “Just ignore them, Hiccup,” he said kindly. “They’re idiots.”

But Hiccup wasn’t listening. He walked to the edge of the camp, to a small overlook that gave him a clear view of the valley below, and watched the battle begin.

It was not a battle. It was a slaughter.

He watched, mesmerized, as Astrid became the Dragon of Berk. She moved through the enemy ranks like a natural disaster, a whirlwind of steel and fury. Her sword was a blur, rising and falling, each movement economical and utterly lethal. She wasn’t just a brawler; she was a tactician. He heard her voice, clear and commanding even over the din of combat, directing her warriors to flank, to charge the archers, to break the enemy line.

She took on three men at once, her shield blocking and bashing, her sword finding every gap in their defense. She was a force of nature, beautiful and terrifying in her element. Hiccup finally understood. The rumor wasn’t that she could defeat three hundred men. It was that she had . And watching her now, he realized that number was probably a conservative estimate.

An hour later, she returned. The sounds of fighting had died down, replaced by the shouts of victory. She was spattered with blood and grime, but she looked more alive than he had ever seen her. She strode up to him, her presence so powerful it was almost a physical force.

She dismounted from Stormfly, and removed her helmet, her movements still full of adrenaline. She held out her sword to him, its blade dripping.

“Clean and sharpen my weapon, boy,” she commanded, her voice rough with the aftermath of battle. She unstrapped her shield and let it fall to the ground with a heavy thud. “And help me out of this armor.”

Hiccup, still in awe, silently took the sword and began the familiar, awkward process of unbuckling her armor.

“How… how did the campaign go, Your Majesty?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

She looked out over the valley, at the smoke rising from the defeated bandit camp.

“It is finished,” she said.

Chapter 8: The Trojan Horse

Chapter Text

The air in the Queen’s war room was heavy with the scent of beeswax, old parchment, and the simmering frustration of powerful people facing a difficult problem. Hiccup stood in his designated corner, a silent shadow whose only purpose was to be invisible until needed. The great round table was surrounded by the most important figures in Berk: Eret, the handsome knight with the crossbows; a council of grizzled, scarred lords whose names Hiccup hadn't yet learned; and at the head of it all, Queen Astrid, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared at the map spread before them.

The map depicted their new enemy: the Free City of Kartholm, a maritime mercantile fortress on an island to the south. Inspired by tales of ancient Carthage, its founders had built it to be a bastion of trade and naval power. It was protected by near-impregnable sea walls and a devastating armada that had, until recently, been a valued trading partner. But Kartholm, a known ally of Welton, had made a fatal error in judgment. In a show of solidarity with the defeated Duke, they had embargoed Berk and sent a grossly insulting letter to the Queen. It was a declaration of war, and Astrid did not suffer insults gladly.

“Their navy is their strength,” one of the grizzled lords, a man with a beard like a spade, rumbled. “But they hide behind their walls like cowards. We could break our fleet against their harbor chain and still not reach the city proper.”

“We could mine the walls,” another suggested. “Send a team of sappers in the dead of night.”

“Too risky,” Eret countered, his arms crossed as he studied the map. “Their sea patrols are constant. We’d be spotted before we got within a hundred yards of the foundation.”

Astrid waved a hand dismissively, not taking her eyes off the map. Hiccup instantly moved forward, pouring her a glass of water from a nearby pitcher and placing it silently at her elbow. As he did, his eyes scanned the intricate drawing of Kartholm. He saw the outer walls, the heavily fortified harbor entrance, the sprawling city, and at its very heart, the tall, isolated keep where its ruler, Duke Lagos, resided. The whispers started up again from the council members. The Queen’s pet. He ignored them, his mind already tracing patterns, seeing not just the fortress, but the city’s lifeblood.

“Ladders are out of the question,” Astrid stated, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “The walls are too high and patrolled by crossbowmen. Catapults could soften them up, but it would take weeks, and they’d see our fleet coming from miles away.”

Every proposed strategy—explosives, siege towers, brute force—ended at the same, bloody conclusion: a frontal assault on the walls that would cost them hundreds, if not thousands, of Berkian lives. The thought of it sat like a stone in Hiccup’s gut. It was wasteful. It was inefficient.

The talks dragged on, a circular debate of death and attrition. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the war room. Astrid, noticing the late hour, finally looked up.

“The other squires were dismissed an hour ago,” she said, her tone weary. “You may return to your quarters.”

He didn’t move. “With respect, Your Majesty, as long as my Queen is at work, so is her squire.”

She gave him a direct order. “Go. That’s an order.”

Hiccup simply met her gaze and raised a single, defiant eyebrow. He didn’t budge. A flicker of something—surprise? satisfaction?—danced in her eyes before she let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. A tiny smirk touched her lips for a fraction of a second. “Fine. Stay.” She turned back to the map, but the mood in the room had subtly shifted.

Eventually, the council members departed, their plans no more advanced than when they had begun. The room emptied until only Astrid and Hiccup remained, the silence thick between them.

“Your Majesty,” Hiccup said, his voice dangerously quiet. “If I may?”

Astrid looked up from the map, rubbing her temples. “What is it, boy?”

“The current plan is inefficient,” he stated bluntly.

She scoffed. “You think I don’t know that? Do you have a better idea, then?”

“Perhaps. But first, some questions.” He stepped closer to the table, his finger hovering over the map. “How do you declare the fortress officially taken?”

“The castle is taken once their lord is in our hands,” she answered, intrigued despite herself. “We can ransom him for their unconditional surrender.”

“And where will we find this Duke Lagos during an assault?”

“In his keep,” she said with a sneer. “He’s a merchant prince, not a warrior. He’s too afraid to fight on the front lines.”

“Final question,” Hiccup said, looking her directly in the eye. “Could you, and one hundred of your best honor guard, take that keep by yourselves?”

“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “If the walls weren’t there.”

Hiccup smiled, a slow, dangerous thing. “Then that is our plan. We will take Kartholm without ever attacking the walls.”

Astrid stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a Trojan Horse,” he explained, his voice alive with energy. “First, we use their own arrogance against them. We send a small merchant envoy, a single ship disguised as traders from Welton. On board are not soldiers, but bards and minstrels. For six days, they will spread tales in the taverns and marketplaces of Kartholm. Songs and stories of the fearsome, unstoppable Dragon of Berk, exaggerating your prowess, detailing the fall of Welton, stoking the fires of fear.”

He paused, letting the idea sink in. “Then, on the seventh day, we launch the real attack. You and one hundred of your best warriors will hide in the cargo hold of a large Berkian merchant vessel, also disguised as a Welton trader. It will be noon, the busiest time for the harbor. Your ship will blend in with the dozens of others arriving to trade. Once you are inside the harbor, past the sea chain, you strike.”

Astrid was silent for a long moment, her mind racing, seeing the audacious shape of his plan. “We could take the keep,” she admitted, her voice cautious. “But what about the city garrison? They won’t just surrender because we have their lord. They’ll storm the keep. We’ll be trapped.”

Hiccup shook his head. “You are mistaken, Your Majesty. These are not Berkians. They are allies of Welton. Their strength is in their navy and their gold, not their honor. Their soldiers are mercenaries and city guards who fight for coin, not for glory. Your army fights for Berk. They fight for a paycheck. One is worth dying for; the other is not.”

“And escape?” she pressed. “How do we get out once we have the Duke?”

Hiccup chuckled. “Who said anything about escaping?” He looked her in the eye and repeated her own words back to her. “ Boy, I just conquered this kingdom. Everything here, including the Duke himself, belongs to me if I want it. The only reason he still has a throne to sit on is because I’m showing him mercy.

He pointed to a spot on the map just over the hills from the city. “While you are sailing into the harbor, our main army will march into position, hidden just beyond the crest of that hill. Once you have Duke Lagos on the balcony of his keep with a sword to his throat, you give the signal.” He tapped the map. “A single, long blast from a horn. The sound will carry. And the entire Berkian army will appear on the horizon. Anyone brave, or stupid, enough to consider fighting will lay down their arms. These people are not honorable Berkians. They are cowards glittered in gold.”

Astrid stared at him, her expression a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a dawning, terrifying respect. The plan was insane. It was audacious. It was brilliant.

She stood there for a long, long moment, the silence stretching between them. Then, she gave a single, sharp nod.

“Send the merchants,” she commanded. “I trust you to handle the arrangements for the ship. I’ll hand-pick my honor guard.” She looked at him, her eyes burning with a new intensity. “We set sail in six days.”

Six days later, Hiccup stood at the tiller of a repurposed Berkian trading cog, the salt spray misting his face. His stomach was performing a series of unhappy flips, but he fought down the nausea with sheer force of will. He was disguised as a simple blacksmith from Welton, his hands grimy with charcoal, a small, portable forge set up on the deck as part of his cover. Below deck, hidden amongst crates of what was supposed to be iron ore, were the Queen of Berk and one hundred of her deadliest warriors.

He guided the ship into the queue of vessels waiting to enter the magnificent harbor of Kartholm. The city was even more impressive up close. The sea walls were massive, gleaming white in the sun, topped with scorpion ballistae and patrolling guards in polished bronze armor. The harbor itself was a bustling hive of activity, ships from a dozen lands jostling for space at the crowded docks. He blended in perfectly.

Once they were moored, a portly man in fine robes, the harbormaster, came aboard with two guards. “A Welton ship!” he said, his tone sympathetic. “Business must be difficult. I heard what that monster, the Dragon of Berk, did to your Duke.”

“Times are tough,” Hiccup said, his voice rough and common. “Hoping to peddle my wares here. The steel in Kartholm is said to be subpar.”

The harbormaster chuckled. “That it is. Let’s have a look at your cargo, then.”

He and his guards headed for the cargo hold. Hiccup gave a silent, pre-arranged signal. The moment the harbormaster descended the ladder, he was met not with iron ore, but with Eret and a dozen silent, waiting Berkians. The fight was over before it began.

A few minutes later, Astrid emerged onto the deck. She was a vision of terror and glory, kitted out in her full suit of dark steel armor. Hiccup stopped her before she could leave the ship.

“Your Majesty,” he said, holding something out to her. It was a helmet, forged from the same dark steel as her armor, but its shape was new. It was crafted to look like the snarling, stylized head of a dragon, with swept-back horns and a menacing visor.

She took it, surprised. A slow smile spread across her face. “Really playing into the whole ‘Dragon of Berk’ thing, are we?” she chuckled. She donned the helmet. It completed the image. She was no longer just a queen in armor. She was a myth made real.

(Astrid’s Perspective)

The moment her boots hit the stone of the docks, she was moving. Her hundred warriors fanned out behind her, a silent, disciplined wave of dark steel. The plan was working. The psychological warfare had done its job.

As they moved swiftly through the crowded streets toward the keep, she saw commoners and merchants gasp, their faces paling in terror.

“It’s her!” a woman shrieked, dropping a basket of fish.

“The Dragon! The Dragon of Berk is here!” a man yelled, stumbling backward into his own stall.

Panic spread before them like a plague. People were too busy scrambling for safety, too consumed by the terrifying legend Hiccup’s bards had woven, to even think of sounding an alarm. The city guards they encountered were no better. They were frozen in fear at the sight of the mythical Dragon, her dragon-helm a terrifying confirmation of the stories. Some dropped their spears and ran. Others whispered curses and were cut down before they could raise a proper defense.

This is too easy, she thought, a thrill running through her. The boy’s plan… it wasn’t just about tactics. It was about using fear as a weapon.

They reached the keep with shocking speed. The elite guards at the gate, supposedly the best soldiers in Kartholm, took one look at her and the silent, deadly warriors behind her, and their discipline shattered. They broke and ran.

Her honor guard stormed the keep, cutting down anyone who was foolish enough to stand in their way. They swept upwards, a rising tide of Berkian fury. They reached the top floor, kicked open the ornate doors to the Duke’s personal office, and found him cowering behind his desk.

They dragged the whimpering Duke Lagos out onto the main balcony overlooking the city square. Astrid held her longsword to his throat, the polished steel glinting. She took a deep breath and her voice, magically amplified by the acoustics of the square, boomed over the city.

“The people of Kartholm! Your Duke is my prisoner! Surrender now, or he dies, and your city burns!”

Shouts of panic and confusion erupted from below. The remaining city garrison began to form up, their captains debating whether to charge the keep. They still had the numbers.

Astrid nodded to Eret, who stood to her right. He raised a great horn to his lips and blew a single, long, piercing note.

For a moment, there was only the echo. Then, the world began to shake. A low, rumbling thunder grew from beyond the city, the sound of ten thousand hooves. Over the crest of the far hill, the entire Berkian army appeared, a forest of spears and a sea of banners, a black tide ready to crash upon the city.

The sight broke the last of the garrison’s will. Spears and swords clattered to the cobblestones as soldiers raised their hands in surrender.

Astrid looked out at her army, then down at the captured Duke, then at the city that was now hers. They had taken an impenetrable fortress in less than an hour. Without a single siege engine. Without attacking the formidable walls.

All thanks to her squire.

She threw the Duke to the floor and banished him from his own city, turning to a stunned Lord Sven. “This fortress is now yours to govern for Berk,” she declared. She looked at Eret. “Losses?”

Eret’s face was split by a wide, disbelieving grin. “Zero, Your Majesty.”

The word echoed in her mind, more powerful than any battle cry. The victory was absolute, the cost nonexistent. She spent the next hour issuing a whirlwind of commands—to Eret, to the newly-appointed Lord Sven, to her other commanders—securing the gates, disarming the garrison, and establishing martial law. The city of Kartholm fell into Berkian hands with the cold efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Yet, as she walked back through the now-subdued streets toward the harbor, her mind wasn’t on the logistics of occupation. It was on the impossible plan that had made it all possible. A victory won not by a frontal assault, but by a Trojan horse. It was a foreign, almost unsettling way to win a war, and it had been flawlessly executed by the last person anyone would have expected. She needed to see him. The boy. The squire. The architect.

She found Hiccup back on the ship, anxiously waiting. She strode up to him, her mind still reeling from the sheer, elegant brutality of his plan.

“I was hesitant,” she admitted, her voice raw. “This was not my style. A frontal assault is honest. This was… deceitful.” She paused, a small, begrudging smile on her face. “But perhaps my style could use some deceit. That was… amazing.”

She looked at him, truly looked at him, not as a tool or a project or a boy, but as the architect of her greatest, most bloodless victory.

You’re amazing, Hiccup.”

The words, and the name, echoed in the sudden quiet of the ship's cabin. Hiccup. Not "boy." Not "squire." Not "reparation." Just… Hiccup. He replayed the sound of it in his mind. It was the first time she had ever used his name as a statement of his identity, not just a label to get his attention. It was a validation, a promotion, an anointing. It was the single greatest compliment he had ever received in his entire life, and it had come from the one person whose opinion had, against all logic, come to matter most. For a moment, the victory at Kartholm, the brilliant gambit, the fall of a city—all of it paled in comparison to the simple, profound weight of his own name spoken with genuine respect.

When they returned to Berk, the reception was different. As Hiccup walked through the squires’ courtyard, he still got glares, but now they were mixed with something new. A grudging, fearful respect. Fishlegs ran up to him, ecstatic.

“Hiccup, that was brilliant! Everyone is talking about it! They’re calling it the Kartholm Gambit!”

Their celebration was cut short by Spitlout, who sauntered over, his face twisted in a sneer. “Don’t get a big head, pet . You just got lucky. You’re still just her little plaything.”

Hiccup thought of Astrid’s words. Fight clever. He didn’t draw his sword. He just smiled. Remembering what Eret said to him.

“You know, Spitlout,” he said, his voice calm and conversational. “I could have your head for saying those treasonous things. That is your Queen you are talking about. Just one word from me to my master, and I imagine your time as a squire would come to a very sudden, very permanent end.”

Spitlout’s smirk faltered. He looked shocked for a second, then recovered. “Ooh, going to cry to your mommy? I bet she makes you call her that.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh, wait. You’re an orphan, aren’t you? No mother at all. My mistake.”

Hiccup didn’t flinch. He put on his best impression of Astrid’s icy authority. “You do realize she has cut down entire armies single-handedly. I think it would be wise not to insult her any further.”

Spitlout’s face went pale. The threat, coming from the mouth of the boy who had just orchestrated the fall of an impregnable city, suddenly had teeth. “You’re no fun,” he grumbled, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m bored.” He turned and stalked away.

Hiccup felt a surge of triumph. It was a small victory, but it was his.

The feeling lasted for approximately ten seconds.

A heavy hand clamped down on the scruff of his neck, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. He came face to face with a sneering, brutish knight with a familiar Jorgenson jawline. Snotlout.

“I heard you were threatening my squire,” Snotlout snarled, his grip tightening. Behind him, Spitlout was snickering.

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “I was trying to keep your squire from losing his head,” he choked out. “But it appears he ran to his daddy instead. Hypocrite.”

Snotlout’s face contorted in rage. He dropped Hiccup and drove an armored fist into his gut. The air rushed out of Hiccup’s lungs in a pained whoosh, and he collapsed to the ground, gasping.

“That’s enough, Snotlout!” Fishlegs shouted, rushing forward.

Snotlout turned on him. “That’s Lord Snotlout to you, Fish-face!” He then turned back to the wheezing Hiccup on the ground. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled off his leather glove and threw it down in the mud in front of Hiccup’s face.

“I declare blood insult,” he announced in a pompous, booming voice for all the courtyard to hear. “For the dishonor you have shown my house and my squire, you will face me in a duel to first blood.”

Chapter 9: Blood Insult

Chapter Text

The leather glove lay in the mud between them, a stark declaration of violence. Hiccup was on the ground, the air still stolen from his lungs, the ghost of an armored fist imprinted on his gut. Lord Snotlout Jorgenson, a man built like a disgruntled battering ram, stood over him, radiating smug, brutish arrogance. A duel. A duel to first blood against a fully-fledged, famously aggressive Berkian knight. It wasn’t a duel; it was a scheduled execution.

Hiccup coughed, tasting mud. He knew, with an absolute certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he could not win this fight. He couldn’t even beat Snotlout’s sniveling squire, let alone the man himself. A direct, frontal assault was suicide. He would be a smear on the cobblestones before he could even properly lift his sword.

But a small, insistent voice echoed in his mind, cutting through the pain and humiliation. It was Astrid’s voice, cool and clear. If you can’t win with a frontal assault, you find another way. You use your head.

He had won a small victory against Spitlout by fighting clever. He’d just taken an impenetrable fortress without losing a single life by fighting clever. He was on a roll. He wasn’t about to let this oaf and his misplaced honor sour a day that had started with the Queen of Berk herself calling him amazing.

Slowly, painfully, Hiccup pushed himself up to his knees. He didn’t reach for his sword. He simply looked up at the pompous knight, his expression one of weary resignation.

“My Lord Snotlout,” he began, his voice strained but clear. “I do not have any family, therefore I have no one of my blood to defend my honor for this insult.” He took a breath, letting the formal words hang in the air. “However, as your station as a landed Lord and Knight of Berk far outranks my own as a mere squire, a duel between us would be… unbecoming. Therefore, by the laws of honor you hold so dear, you must face my own master, who will defend my honor in my stead.”

Snotlout stared down at him, his brutish face a mask of confusion. Hiccup wasn’t sure if the knight was trying to follow the complex social maneuvering or if his brain was simply taking an extra second to process all the big words. Spitlout, however, understood immediately. The snickering smirk fell from his face, replaced by a look of dawning horror.

“Very well!” Snotlout finally boomed, puffing out his chest. “A technicality, but an honorable one! Take me to your master, boy! I will defeat him in combat, and see you dishonored and removed as a squire for wasting my time!”

Fishlegs, who had been hovering nearby looking terrified, spoke up. “Uh, Snotlou—”

“What did I say, Fish-face!” Snotlout roared, turning on him. “It’s Lord Snotlout!”

Fishlegs just scrunched up his face, a look of profound resignation settling over him. “You know what? Never mind. You’ll figure it out on your own.”

Snotlout seemed satisfied with that. “Good. Now, take me to your master, boy.”

“Follow me, my lord ,” Hiccup said, pushing himself to his feet. The title dripped from his tongue with enough sarcasm to poison a well. He turned and began the long walk toward the main keep.

He led them up through the fortress, ascending the stone stairways toward the upper echelons where the high-ranking nobility resided. With every flight of stairs, Hiccup could practically feel Snotlout’s confidence beginning to crack. The knight’s swagger lessened, his eyes darting around nervously at the elite guards who stood watch, their gazes cold and unforgiving. But just as quickly, he would wash his fear away with a fresh wave of arrogance, puffing out his chest and striding forward once more. Hiccup wasn’t sure if the man was brave or just catastrophically stupid. Maybe both.

“Your master is all the way up here?” Snotlout muttered under his breath as they reached the final landing, his voice laced with a nervousness he clearly didn’t intend for Hiccup to hear.

As they entered the main hall of the keep, they nearly collided with a mountain of a man moving in the opposite direction. He had shoulders as wide as a doorway and a great, wild red beard that flowed down his chest. Hiccup recognized him instantly: the fearsome commander of the Royal Guard, one of the most respected—and feared—knights in all of Berk.

Snotlout froze, his face paling. “Lord Commander Stoick,” he said, his voice suddenly polite and respectful. It was a shocking transformation.

The massive man just grunted an acknowledgement. “Snotlout.” His gaze then fell on Hiccup. “Boy.” Without another word, he continued on his way.

“Man of few words?” Hiccup asked once the commander was out of earshot.

“You have no idea,” Snotlout breathed, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “That’s my uncle, actually. For a second, I thought he was your master and I’d have to face him . Scared me half to death.” He quickly realized he was supposed to be acting tough and sputtered, puffing out his chest again. “I mean… continue on, slave.”

“I’m not a slave…” Hiccup sighed.

“Just play along, okay?” Snotlout whispered frantically.

Hiccup rolled his eyes and led them farther down the hall, stopping before a set of heavy oak doors. Eret was standing guard outside. He gave Hiccup a subtle nod of acknowledgement and pointedly ignored the short, pompous knight, who seemed to take offense.

Hiccup knocked. A familiar voice, full of authority, called out from within. “Enter.”

He pushed the doors open and stepped inside. Snotlout followed, his bravado returning as he entered the room. It was Astrid’s office. It was a large, practical space, dominated by a massive desk made of dark, polished wood. One wall was covered in maps, another held a rack of gleaming, deadly-looking weapons. But there were also shelves filled with books and scrolls, and a single, delicate wildflower sat in a clay pot on the windowsill.

Astrid was standing behind her desk, not in armor, but in her “casual” clothes. It was just a pair of simple dark trousers and a plain white linen shirt, but on her, it was a revelation. The simple clothes did nothing to hide the powerful muscles of her arms and shoulders, and the open collar of the shirt revealed an impressive amount of cleavage that the Queen was rarely, if ever, seen displaying.

She nodded her head at Hiccup, then her gaze fell upon the knight. “Lord Snotlout.”

Snotlout bowed his head stiffly.

“What do you want, boy—Hiccup,” she corrected herself, her eyes flicking back to him.

“I am terribly sorry to interrupt you, Your Majesty,” Hiccup said, giving a small, formal bow. “But Lord Snotlout here has declared a blood insult against me. It appears that I have gravely insulted his squire and younger brother.”

Astrid just looked confused, her eyebrows knitting together. “And you’re here because…?”

“As you know, I am without family to defend my honor in a blood insult,” Hiccup explained patiently, as if speaking to a child. For the sake of the confused knight next to him. “Therefore, it falls to my charge, my master, to defend my honor against a Lord. For I, a mere squire, dare not raise my sword to such an honorable opponent.” The word ‘honorable’ was so heavily laced with sarcasm that it was a miracle it didn’t drip onto the floor. The sarcasm was not lost on the Queen, but it sailed completely over the head of the knight in question.

“I understand,” the Queen said, her icy gaze turning toward the knight. “Is this true, Lord Snotlout? You have declared blood insult on Hiccup?”

Snotlout, though clearly intimidated by the Queen’s stare, puffed out his chest. “That is true, Your Majesty! He has brought dishonor upon my house! I will cut down his master to reclaim my lost honor!”

Without another word, Astrid strode forward. She pushed her heavy chair to the side, reached down beside her desk, and drew her dark longsword. The shing of steel being drawn in the quiet room was deafening. She stalked around the side of the desk, a predator closing in on its prey, her eyes locked on Snotlout. She towered over the cowering knight, who, understandably, began to freak out.

“Y-Y-Your M-Majesty! What is the meaning of this?!” he squeaked, his face draining of all color.

She tilted her head to the side, her expression one of cold confusion. “You declared a blood insult. His master is to defend his honor. Therefore, I am defending his honor.”

Snotlout’s brain finally caught up. His eyes widened in abject terror. “ YOU’RE HIS MASTER?!” he shrieked.

Astrid seemed even more confused. “Yes? I thought this was common knowledge at this point.”

“I-I-I didn’t know he was your SQUIRE!” Snotlout sputtered, stumbling backward. “I thought he was just your… your…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Hiccup flicked his head to the side, his voice dangerously soft. “Her what, Lord Snotlout? Finish the sentence. Her plaything? Her boy-toy? Her pet?”

Snotlout just nodded dumbly, his eyes fixed on the longsword in Astrid’s hand. He saw the Queen’s expression darken into a thunderous fury, and she took another step toward him.

“I DECLARE NO BLOOD INSULT!” he screamed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I TAKE IT BACK! I WAS MISTAKEN! A MISUNDERSTANDING!” He then turned and fled the office as if the hounds of Hel were at his heels.

Astrid watched him go, then let out a low chuckle and sheathed her sword. She turned and cast Hiccup a curious glance. “I am assuming that was about your previous fight. The one where you got those bruises.”

Hiccup sighed. “Yes, Your Majesty. I fought with his squire, Spitlout. He beat me the first time, but after Kartholm, I… used my words. He didn’t like that and went running to his older brother.”

Astrid scoffed. “Pathetic.”

“It really is,” Hiccup agreed. “But I’m no better. I did the exact same thing, coming to run to you.”

“Knights fight knights, squires fight squires,” she corrected him. “There is no dishonor in what you did. Although…” Her expression grew serious. “Snotlout’s words concern me. What were they about? The rumors?”

Hiccup blushed. He had really hoped to avoid this conversation. “Oh, well… that is just some gossip among the squires, Your Majesty.”

“If I have learned anything from this past week, Hiccup, it is that rumors can hold serious power. What are they?”

He debated for a moment, but the thought of hiding something from this woman—from his Queen—was more terrifying than the truth. “The rumor,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “is that I am your personal pet… and plaything.”

Astrid stared at him, her brow furrowed. From the genuinely confused look on her face, Hiccup got the distinct impression that she didn’t fully understand the implication. He cleared his throat, his face burning.

“Imagine,” he began, trying to explain it delicately, “a powerful warrior king conquers a nation. He demands only two things in reparation: a vast sum of gold, and a small, insignificant peasant boy. What… what purpose could he possibly have for the peasant boy?”

Astrid’s brow furrowed deeper in thought. “Well, he’s probably taking the boy for… for inappropriate purposes,” she reasoned aloud. “He would likely bed him, and force him into—” Her eyes widened in horror as the meaning crashed down upon her. “Oh.”

“Yeah…” Hiccup mumbled, staring at his boots.

Astrid slapped her palm against her forehead. “Gods, I can be so stupid,” she groaned. “Is this what you’ve had to deal with this whole time?”

Hiccup just nodded.

“Is this what caused the fight with Spitlout?”

He nodded again.

Her voice dropped, full of a dawning, dangerous understanding. “You were fighting a battle you knew you would lose… for my honor?”

Hiccup winced at her tone but gave a final, small nod. “Squires fight squires.” He repeated her words.

Astrid clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white. A low growl rumbled in her chest. She looked over at Hiccup, at his small frame and the defiant set of his jaw, and her fury seemed to calm slightly, replaced by something else, something unreadable. She motioned to the chair on the other side of her desk.

“Have a seat.”

He hesitated, then did as he was told, feeling even smaller now that he was sitting across from her. She went around her desk and sat down, stretching her arms above her head. The movement gave Hiccup a full view of the powerful muscles in her arms and the stunning curves of her figure, barely contained by the simple linen shirt. He quickly looked away, his face on fire.

“So,” she began, her voice softer now, more personal. “You don’t have any family back in Welton?”

Hiccup was surprised by the question. “No, Your Majesty. It was just me and my mother. She passed away when I was very young. After that, I was in the charge of the local blacksmith. All she left me was this small pendant… and her memory.”

Astrid nodded slowly. “And this blacksmith… is that who you trained under? I’ve noticed you have a remarkable ability in the forge. I have deferred only to you for repairing my armor since that first day.”

“Yes, Gobber,” Hiccup said, a fond smile touching his lips. “He taught me everything I know. Honestly, it would be in Berk’s best interest to recruit him. He’s a master smith.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, making a mental note. “How did you end up as a stable boy?”

Hiccup let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I… snuck into the stables one day to visit the horses. Apparently, I did such a good job that when one of the guards came in, he just assumed I was the stable boy. I never corrected him, and… no one ever found out.”

Astrid laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made Hiccup’s stomach do a nervous flip. “That sounds exactly like something you would do.” Her face turned slightly red. “So, uh… what do you do for fun?”

Hiccup blinked. The question was so normal, so unexpected, that it threw him completely off balance. “For… fun? Your Majesty, I rarely have time for fun. But… I guess I like to draw?”

“You draw?”

He nodded and hesitantly pulled his worn sketchbook from his tunic, handing it across the desk. She took it carefully. She flipped through the pages. It was a visual diary of his life. Detailed charcoal drawings of the forge in Welton, of Gobber’s laughing face, of Toothless. And then, the subject changed. Page after page was filled with sketches of her. Astrid training. Astrid on Stormfly. Astrid staring at the stars. Just… Astrid.

She cleared her throat, a faint blush on her cheeks, and handed the book back to him. She looked him up and down, a strange, calculating look in her eyes.

“Something has been bothering me,” she said.

“What is it, Your Majesty?”

She squinted. “How old are you?”

Hiccup was confused. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought you were a child when we first met,” she said, not trying to be rude, just stating what she saw as fact. “Maybe ten years old. You were just a kid. But lately, you seem more mature. I thought maybe you were closer to sixteen or seventeen now.” She paused. “It must be the extra food.”

Hiccup just stared at her. “ Ten? ” he mumbled under his breath. He sighed. “I’m twenty-three, Your Majesty.”

Her eyes widened comically. “Twenty-three!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Twenty-three? As in, two, then three?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Twent—”

YES , Your Majesty.”

Astrid leaned back in her chair, running a hand over her face, her ears and neck clearly red with embarrassment. “Gods. I thought you were a child this whole time. I kept calling you ‘boy.’”

“I am aware, Your Majesty,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.

“We’re the same age…” she whispered, the realization hitting her with the force of a physical blow.

Now it was Hiccup’s turn to be surprised. The same age? Seriously? But she was so… and he was so… math wasn’t mathing.

He cleared his throat, deciding to grant her a mercy. “Now that you are aware, Your Majesty, perhaps we can just… move on.”

“Yes,” she agreed quickly, clearly ready to change the subject. “Right. There is a feast tonight, in celebration of our victory at Kartholm. Your attendance is required.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Hiccup said.

The hours between the conversation in her office and the feast were a blur for Hiccup. His mind was still reeling. The same age. The thought re-contextualized every interaction they’d ever had. Every time she’d called him ‘boy,’ every time she’d effortlessly overpowered him, every time he’d felt small and insignificant in her presence… it wasn’t an adult admonishing a child. It was a contemporary. An equal, at least in years. The thought was both liberating and profoundly terrifying.

The Great Hall, which had been so imposing and formal, was now transformed. The long tables were laden with food and drink, the air was filled with the boisterous laughter of warriors, and a group of minstrels played a lively tune in the corner. It was loud, chaotic, and brimming with life.

Hiccup stood awkwardly near Astrid’s place at the high table, feeling like a ghost at the celebration. He had helped her prepare, ensuring her ceremonial armor was perfectly polished. Now, he was just supposed to… be there.

After a while, Astrid stood, holding a great drinking horn high in the air. A hush fell over the hall.

“Warriors of Berk!” she began, her voice ringing with authority. But then, her tone softened. She turned and looked directly at Hiccup. “Before we celebrate our victory, I must right a wrong. When I took Hiccup from Welton, I saw only an asset. A tool. I ripped him from his home and his life without a single thought or care for the man himself. For this, I was wrong. I apologize.”

She gave him a short, sharp bow of her head. It was a queen’s apology, a monumental gesture. The entire hall gasped as one. Then, following their queen’s lead, every warrior, from the mightiest lord to the lowest soldier, turned to Hiccup and bowed their heads.

Hiccup panicked. A hundred of the world’s deadliest warriors were bowing to him . “No, it’s—it’s okay!” he stammered, waving his hands frantically. “Really! My prospects are much higher as the Queen’s squire than they ever were as a Welton stable boy! No apology necessary!”

Astrid smiled, a genuine, relieved smile that made his heart skip a beat. “Then let us toast!” she declared. She raised her horn. “To the warriors of Berk, whose strength knows no equal!”

“TO THE WARRIORS OF BERK!” the hall roared back.

She downed the entire horn of ale in one long drink and slammed it back on the table, grabbing another. Hiccup, who had been handed a much smaller mug, barely managed a single, sputtering gulp.

She raised the new horn. “And to the man whose ingenuity gave us our victory! To the architect of the Kartholm Gambit, who took an impenetrable fortress with zero casualties! To my squire, Hiccup!”

The cheer was a little more hesitant this time, confused, but Berkians never needed a good excuse to drink. “TO HICCUP!” they roared. Again, she drained the horn. Again, Hiccup barely made a dent in his mug.

She grabbed a third horn. “TO BERK’S GREATEST CONQUEST! TO VICTORY!”

“TO VICTORY!” The hall was a deafening wall of sound. She downed the third horn. Hiccup was struggling, the strong ale already making his head spin.

She reached for a fourth horn, and before she could issue another toast, Hiccup, fueled by a mixture of ale and sheer audacity, cut her off. He raised his own mug high.

“TO OUR POWERFUL AND FEARLESS DRAGON OF BERK, WHO TOOK THE KEEP IN HALF AN HOUR! TO THE QUEEN!”

A profound silence fell over the hall. Not a single person moved. Hiccup’s heart plummeted. He’d overstepped. He’d made a terrible mistake.

A beat later, the silence was shattered by the loudest, most passionate roar of the night.

“TO THE QUEEN!”

The hall erupted into a frenzy of cheering, chanting, and drunken dancing. Astrid turned to Hiccup, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face.

“The nobles of Welton were fools,” she said, her voice a low purr that sent shivers down his spine. “Who knew that the most damaging reparation I could have taken from them was their stable boy? They didn’t put you to good use at all.”

Her smile widened, her eyes glinting wickedly in the torchlight.

“I am going to change that.”

The words hung in the air, a perfect, terrifying combination of a promise and a threat. It made his stomach do a complicated flip-flop for two distinct reasons: butterflies and fear. It was an odd, but not entirely unpleasant, combination.

Chapter 10: The Shadow and The Shield

Chapter Text

The morning after the duel that wasn't, a summons went out. All knights and squires currently on duty were to assemble in the main training yard. No reason was given, but the order, delivered by the Royal Guard, carried an unspoken weight. A nervous energy buzzed through the crowd as they gathered, the squires whispering amongst themselves, the knights standing in stoic silence.

Lord Snotlout and his squire, Spitlout, were called to the center of the yard. They swaggered forward, trying to project an air of arrogant confidence, but Hiccup, watching from the sidelines near Fishlegs, could see the nervous twitch in Spitlout’s eye and the way Snotlout’s hand kept straying to the hilt of his sword.

Then, she arrived.

Astrid strode into the yard, not in her formal attire, but in her practical training leathers, a heavy wooden practice sword in her hand. She was terrifyingly calm. Her gaze swept over the assembled warriors, and a profound silence fell over the yard.

“It has come to my attention,” she began, her voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the space, “that rumors have been spread concerning my honor, and the honor of my personal squire.”

Her icy gaze landed on the Jorgensons, pinning them in place. “It has also come to my attention that a blood insult was declared against a squire by a landed Lord—a gross abuse of station. An insult that was only withdrawn out of pure cowardice when a real challenge was presented.”

Snotlout’s face went pale. Spitlout looked like he was about to be sick.

“Lord Snotlout,” Astrid continued, her voice dangerously soft. “You and your squire seem to believe that my squire is weak. That he requires my protection to fight his battles.” A slow, predatory smirk touched her lips. “You are correct. He is under my protection. And since you are so eager for a duel…”

She leveled the tip of her practice sword at them. “You can have one. With me. Both of you. We’ll call it a ‘training exercise,’ to assess your combat readiness.”

What followed was not a fight. It was a lesson in pain, delivered by a master. Snotlout, blinded by rage, charged first with a bellowing war cry. Astrid didn't sidestep. She met his charge head-on, planting her feet and raising her practice shield. The resulting crack of wood on wood echoed through the yard as Snotlout bounced off her shield like a child hitting a stone wall. Before he could even recover his balance, she drove the shield's edge hard into his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs in a pained whoosh and sending him stumbling backward.

Spitlout, seeing his brother falter, tried a sneaky attack from the side, swinging his sword wildly at her head. Astrid moved her head a few inches to the left, letting the blade whistle past her ear. Her free hand shot out, grabbing Spitlout's wrist in a vise-like grip. She twisted. The sword clattered to the ground. Before he could even cry out, she delivered a sharp, open-handed slap to his face with her gauntleted hand. The sound was like a whip crack, and Spitlout crumpled to the ground, clutching his stinging cheek.

Snotlout, having regained his breath, charged again, his form sloppy with fury. This time, Astrid simply parried his clumsy swing, used his own momentum to spin him around, and drove the heavy pommel of her practice sword squarely into the small of his back. He cried out and collapsed, landing in the mud next to his whimpering squire.

The entire "exercise" took less than thirty seconds. She hadn't even broken a sweat. Barely even has to use her sword. The training yard was utterly silent as she stood over the two groaning figures, the tip of her wooden sword resting gently on Snotlout’s throat.

She looked down at them, her expression one of pure contempt. “Your sword skills are as pathetic as your honor.”

She withdrew her sword and addressed the silent, stunned crowd. “For spreading malicious rumors like gossiping washerwomen, you will be assigned to laundry duty for one month. For questioning the honor of a man under my direct protection, you will also be assigned to mucking out the royal stables.”

Just as the Jorgensons were about to nod in miserable acceptance, a quiet voice cut through the silence.

“Your Majesty.”

All heads turned. Hiccup stepped forward from the crowd, his expression polite but firm. He offered the Queen a respectful bow.

“I must object to the second part of that punishment,” he said clearly. “I don’t want these fools anywhere near my stables. Stormfly doesn’t like strangers, and frankly, their incompetence might distress the other animals.”

A few of the squires gasped at his audacity. Snotlout’s face turned a shade of purple. Astrid, however, just looked at Hiccup, and a slow, deeply amused smirk spread across her face.

“Agreed,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “They are not worthy of the company of horses.” She turned her glare back to the Jorgensons, who now looked truly terrified. “Latrine duty, then. For two months.”

She raised her voice, ensuring every single person in the yard heard her final judgment. “Let this be a lesson. An insult to my squire is an insult to me . And I do not suffer insults.”

She turned, gave Hiccup a subtle, almost imperceptible nod of approval, and strode out of the training yard, leaving the Jorgensons utterly humiliated and the rest of Berk with a very clear understanding of the new order of things.

The war room, once a place of decisive action, had become Astrid’s personal purgatory. For weeks, she had been fighting a war against a phantom. She paced the length of the room like a caged lioness, her heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. The great round table, usually a tool for conquest, was now a monument to her frustration. Miniature wooden ships were scattered across the sea lanes, some overturned. Tiny flags representing trade caravans were pushed back from Berk’s borders.

She moved a piece representing a Berkian patrol vessel. “No, that’s not right,” she muttered, her voice a low growl. She swept it off the board. She moved another piece, a flag for a grain shipment. “That’s not right either.” Her frustration mounted, a physical pressure building in her chest. She was a warrior of action, a creature of glorious, bloody, straightforward combat. This… this was like trying to punch smoke.

“AARRRGGHH!”

With a roar of pure, unadulterated rage, she drew her longsword and slammed it point-down into the center of the table. The enchanted Berkian steel pierced the thick, ancient oak with a sickening crunch, the blade burying itself several inches deep. The table, which had survived a century of brawls and spilled ale, now had a sword sticking out of it like a grim flag of surrender.

Hiccup, who had been standing silently in the corner, approached her cautiously.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice calm and even. “I wonder what the table ever did to earn such treatment.”

She whipped her head around to glare at him, her eyes blazing with fury. The glare, which would have sent most men running for their lives, was met with a small, gentle smile from her squire. The sheer unexpectedness of it seemed to drain the fight from her. She let out a long, shuddering sigh and collapsed into her chair with a huff, her anger deflating into weary defeat.

“I don’t understand what’s happening, Hiccup,” she confessed, running a hand through her blonde hair. “My ships are being sunk by pirates that are never there when my patrols arrive. My people in the outer villages are packing up and leaving their homesteads. Traders, who once flocked to our shores, now avoid Berk like it carries the plague. Yet, there has not been a single declaration of war, not a single banner raised against us. I have no enemy to fight.”

“I think I understand the reason, Your Majesty,” Hiccup said quietly.

She looked at him then, and the ice in her glare had melted. Her eyes were wide, almost pleading. It was a look of desperation he had never seen on her face before. “Please,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Enlighten me.”

He sighed, his expression grim. “Unfortunately, it is not a foe that can be defeated with an axe.”

“Our enemy is a ghost?” she asked, a hint of her old fire returning.

Hiccup laughed, a short, sad sound. “No, Your Majesty. Not a ghost. It appears we are receiving the same type of treatment that we gave to Kartholm.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Rumors have spread.”

Astrid looked genuinely surprised. “Rumors? Why haven’t I heard anything of this?”

“It is rarely in the people’s best interest to share dangerous rumors with their leaders,” he explained patiently. “Especially when the rumors are about them.”

“What are they saying, Hiccup?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.

“They are saying,” he began, his voice steady, “that the leader of Berk is a vicious, bloodthirsty warmonger.”

She stared at him, confused. “I don’t deny any of those allegations.”

“A warmonger,” he continued, “who sacrifices her own people for personal glory. A queen who lets her soldiers attack fortified battlements so that she may climb the walls on their corpses and claim all the honor for herself. Just as she did at Kartholm.”

“That’s a load of hogwash!” she exploded, slamming her fist on the armrest of her chair.

“It is, Your Majesty. But the people believe it. To the common person, it is far more unbelievable that we took an impenetrable fortress with zero losses than it is to believe you stormed the castle by standing on the bodies of your own dead men. It feeds a narrative of a callous, power-hungry tyrant.”

“And the ships?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Also sacrifices,” he confirmed. “A clever ploy to defeat the Kartholm armada. They are painting the picture that our victory was an elaborate cover-up. Propaganda that we created to embellish the ruling party. And worst of all, Your Majesty… the people believe it.”

She stared at him, the full weight of this new kind of war finally crashing down upon her. She could fight an army. She could fight a monster. But how did you fight a story? “Then what do we do?”

“We must conduct counter-intelligence to counter the rumors,” he said simply.

Astrid looked at him, completely at a loss. She, who possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of how to gut a man in the blink of an eye, who could command a battlefield with a single shout, had no idea how to command the hearts and minds of her own people. It was a battlefield she had never trained for. Perhaps it was because she had grown up a warrior, a leader, while he…

“Morale of the people is just as important as the morale of the army,” he explained gently. “We must constantly assure our people that you are giving your everything for Berk. Not the other way around.”

Astrid looked pensive for a long moment, her mind grappling with these foreign concepts. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she admitted, her voice laced with a vulnerability he had never heard before. “How do you know all of this?”

“I grew up as a stablehand and a blacksmith’s boy,” he said with a small shrug. “Every day was a new rumor in the castle. They made the Duke of Welton out to be a pathetic, self-serving leader long before you ever arrived. It was all true, of course, and I doubt anyone was shocked when you defeated them so handily. His city’s morale was broken before his army ever was.”

A new resolve settled in Astrid’s eyes. The confusion was replaced by the familiar look of a commander who had just been given a new, viable weapon. She stood to her full, imposing height.

“Squire Hiccup.”

He bowed his head. “Your Majesty?”

“I am now appointing you as my official Spymaster,” she declared, her voice ringing with authority. “I want you to be in charge of every whisper in this kingdom. I want you to sway them. I want you to ensure that my people do not believe these falsehoods.”

Hiccup nodded, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. “Certainly, Your Majesty. But my first, and most effective, strategy will not be cheap.”

She matched his smile with a predatory one of her own. “Luckily for us,” she said, “I just acquired thirty thousand pieces of gold from a spineless Duke.”

Astrid was surprised, to say the least. She had felt the shift in the air. The way her people looked at her was different. The whispers from the squires had been the first sign, but now she felt it from the common folk, a subtle undercurrent of distrust. To combat this, she had imagined Hiccup would suggest spreading counter-rumors, or perhaps another clever minstrel campaign.

What she had not expected was to be sitting on Stormfly’s back, one hundred and forty feet from one of her best knights, a heavy tournament lance clutched in her hand.

Hiccup stood beside her, a grin on his face as he handed her the heavy shield. “Just like we practiced, Your Majesty. Aim for his shield, not for him. It’s about points, not kills.”

She grumbled but took the shield. With the wave of a flag, Stormfly charged. The great warhorse thundered down the lane, a blue-gray hurricane of muscle and speed. Astrid aimed the lance, and with a sickening crunch of splintering wood, she sent one of her finest knights flying from his horse to land with a grunt in the soft dirt.

The crowd roared.

Normally, the Royal Tournament of Berk was a formal affair, open only to the nobility. But Hiccup had insisted. Not only were the jousts and competitions open to the common people to watch, but they were encouraged to attend. Food stalls and ale tents had been set up. Bards played lively music. It was a festival. And where these events would normally cost the treasury a fortune, Hiccup’s clever management of vendors and entry fees meant they were actually making a profit.

She unseated every opponent, bowing graciously to each and tapping lances in a sign of good faith. At Hiccup’s insistence, she refrained from entering the sword-fighting and archery competitions. “Let your champions have their day, Your Majesty,” he’d advised. “A compassionate leader knows when to share the glory.” She did as he asked, instead granting honors and large sacks of gold to every winner, her praise loud and genuine for all to hear.

By the time the sun set, the air had shifted again. The whispers were gone, replaced by the sounds of celebration. Her people had seen her not as a distant tyrant, but as a champion among champions, a leader who celebrated her people’s strengths. Her treasury was richer, and the morale of the kingdom had soared. She didn’t fully understand the intricate social mechanics of it, but she understood one thing: it had worked.

Later that evening, Hiccup was in her office, balancing his charcoal pencil on his nose as he reviewed the tournament’s ledgers.

“That went much better than I expected, Your Majesty,” he said, not looking up.

She nodded dumbly, still trying to process the day. “I don’t really understand what happened.”

Hiccup smiled. “I was never allowed to attend a tournament before,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Never?”

He shook his head. “Commoners weren’t allowed. It was for nobility only. I only ever met pompous lords when they came to the forge to demand work for free.”

“How did… this… help?” she asked, gesturing vaguely toward the window, where the sounds of the festival still echoed.

“Simple,” he explained. “Your people felt included. They saw firsthand that your knights and lords don’t just fear you; they respect you, they adore you. They compete with you as peers. We squashed the rumor of you being a callous tyrant in a single afternoon. We didn’t tell them it was a lie; we showed them.”

“So, it’s over?”

He shook his head, his expression turning serious. “No, Your Majesty. This is only the beginning. This was just a bandage. The wound is still there. In fact, another rumor was already spreading when the tournament started.” He reached into his tunic and produced a small, folded piece of cloth. “I took this from one of the spies my new network managed to catch. Do you recognize this banner?”

He unfurled it. Astrid took one look at the sigil—a coiled serpent eating its own tail—and a low growl rumbled in her chest. “Alvin the Treacherous.”

“Wow. ‘The Treacherous,’ really?”

“Slimy little bastard,” she spat.

“Ooo-kay,” Hiccup said, taking a step back. “Well, he’s the one behind the rumors. And he’s good. A professional at psychological warfare.” He stood and moved over to a chessboard that sat in the corner, studying the position of the pieces. “Interesting.”

Astrid just stared at him, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. These feelings were new to her. She had felt tired before, and angry, and frustrated. But never in her life had she felt so completely and utterly… useless. She could always solve a problem by hitting it. Axe first, questions later. But this enemy, this Alvin, he couldn’t be hit. And this boy, this squire, he was navigating this shadow war with an ease that she could only envy.

Hiccup noticed her expression. “What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”

“I have never felt so useless in my life,” she admitted, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I’m just sitting here, unable to do anything, unable to even understand these maneuvers. What use am I?”

In an instant, Hiccup dropped to one knee before her, the sudden movement startling her.

“My Queen,” he said, his voice ringing with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. “For the first time in my life, I feel useful. Allow me to be your shadow. Allow me to fulfill the one purpose my life has prepared me for: to observe. You are the shield that protects Berk from its enemies on the front lines and from the walls. Let me be the dagger that protects it from the inside, and from within.”

“Stand up, Hiccup,” she commanded, her voice thick with emotion. He stood. “I am… a control freak, if you haven’t noticed.” A small, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. “When we first met, I saw unforged steel in you. A raw material with potential.” She looked him up and down, her gaze intense. “But now… now I see a masterfully crafted weapon. A blade sharper than any in my armory.”

She took a deep breath. “I am giving you free rein. Full authority. I want you to do whatever you deem necessary to accomplish this task. I will trust you to quell this threat.”

He bowed his head, a gesture of profound respect and acceptance. “At your command, Your Majesty.”

She nodded, a fierce pride swelling in her chest. “I know you won’t disappoint.”

Chapter 11: The Queen's Shadow

Chapter Text

(Astrid’s Perspective)

The straw-filled dummy stood no chance. Astrid’s sword cleaved it from shoulder to hip in a single, elegant, and brutally efficient arc. She spun, her blade a blur, and decapitated a second dummy before burying her sword deep into the chest of a third. The training yard was a graveyard of violated scarecrows, yet the familiar, satisfying burn in her muscles did little to quell the restlessness in her soul.

She stood panting in the center of the yard, sweat plastering her linen training shirt to her skin, her blonde braid heavy and damp against her back. She looked around the empty space, at the weapon racks and the beaten-earth floor, and was struck by a feeling she hadn’t truly experienced in over a decade.

Loneliness.

It was a foreign, unwelcome sensation. The yard felt too quiet. For weeks, this space had been filled with the clumsy clatter of a too-large shield, the grunts of an over-exerted squire, and a stream of surprisingly insightful questions. Hiccup’s constant presence had been an odd, but she was forced to admit, welcome one. He always had something interesting to say, some strange observation that made her see the world from a different, sharper angle. Now that he was off doing… whatever it was a Spymaster did, she missed his presence something fierce. Almost as fierce as her sudden, ravenous hunger.

“ERET!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

The handsome knight appeared in the doorway almost instantly, his posture a perfect picture of military readiness. “You called, Your Majesty?”

“I have a question,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her gauntlet. “It’s about my squire. Hiccup.”

A small, knowing chuckle escaped Eret’s lips. “I know the one.”

Astrid found herself hesitating, a rare occurrence. She was navigating new, unfamiliar emotional territory, and she felt as clumsy as Hiccup with a sword. She decided to approach it like a tactical problem. “I believe he was in a predicament when he first arrived at Berk.”

“You mean when we acquired him from Welton as a reparation?” Eret clarified, his tone carefully neutral.

She sighed, annoyed at the phrasing. “Yes. That. He got into an altercation with one of the other squires. Spitlout Jorgenson.”

Eret nodded, his expression grim. “Unfortunately, I am also familiar with that particular little worm.”

“Spitlout was making some comments,” Astrid continued, trying to sound detached. “I am unsure what to make of them, and I do not know if I need to elevate the punishment beyond a simple ‘exercise’. I just want to make sure Hiccup is being treated well by the other squires…” She trailed off as she noticed Eret was staring at her, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. “What?”

Eret seemed to be choosing his words with extreme care. “You are… worried, Your Majesty? For the squire’s social standing?”

Astrid bristled. “He is under my charge. I must look out for him. That is my duty as his knight.”

Eret’s lips twitched. “You are the Queen, not a knight.”

“I hold myself to the same standard of honor!” she huffed. “I am a warrior queen.”

“I know, Your Majesty,” Eret said, his voice placating. “But it is not common for you to concern yourself with a squire’s squabbles.”

Astrid found herself confused as to why she cared so much herself. “I am not sure,” she admitted, the honesty feeling strange on her tongue. “But it appears that whatever Spitlout said truly upset Hiccup. Enough to cause him to challenge the boy to a duel.”

“Which he lost,” Eret added.

“Decisively,” she confirmed. “What was the comment that Spitlout made? The one that started the fight?”

“I believe it was something about you being three times his size, Your Majesty.”

Astrid stared blankly at him. “Which… is true?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then why would he fight over a statement of fact?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“For the implication, Your Majesty,” Eret said carefully. “And the rumor that implication feeds.”

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “More of these damn rumors. Which one, exactly?”

Eret looked profoundly uncomfortable. “The rumor, Your Majesty… is that you are using Hiccup for your own… personal pleasure.”

She stared at him, her mind processing the words. “I noticed during training that he does make the sessions more interesting. He brings a new dynamic. But I wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘pleasure.’”

“No, Your Majesty,” Eret said, his face flushing slightly. “Uh… sexual pleasure.”

“Oh.” The word hung in the air. She thought for a moment, her mind replaying the scene in the courtyard, Hiccup’s furious expression, his out burst in her office, the metaphor of the conquering king. “ OH. ” Her hand instinctively went to the hilt of her sword, her knuckles turning white. “He would dare say that about his Queen?”

“It appears so, Your Majesty,” Eret said. “But your squire, he defended your honor. However pathetically.”

Her fury was quelled slightly by the memory of Hiccup’s words. Something worth fighting for. He had fought for her. He had lost, but he had fought. “That is all, Eret. Thank you.”

He bowed and left her alone with her thoughts. Her curiosity, now piqued beyond all measure, morphed into a singular mission. She needed to find out what her new Spymaster was up to.

To find Hiccup, she decided, she would need to enter ‘stealth mode.’ This turned out to be quite difficult for a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Valkyrie queen who was arguably the most famous person on the entire island. She tried to move through the main courtyards of Berk unseen, ducking behind carts and trying to blend in with the shadows of buildings. It was a complete failure. Every person she passed stopped, stared, and immediately bowed or offered a respectful greeting, completely blowing her cover.

Frustrated, she eventually located him in the last place she expected: back in the squires’ quarters. He was sitting on a bench with Fishlegs, deep in conversation. She ducked behind a large, leafy bush to observe, feeling utterly ridiculous. A random squire wandered by, noticed her hiding in the foliage, and opened his mouth to shout in alarm. She moved with lightning speed, clamping a hand over his mouth and pulling him into the bush with her. A mumbled apology and a gentle tap to the head later, the squire was unconscious, and her hiding spot was secure. For now.

She couldn’t quite make out what Hiccup and Fishlegs were saying, but she could hear the conversations of the other squires around them. Her blood began to boil as she saw Spitlout swaggering nearby.

“Look at him,” Spitlout sneered to his friends. “Whispering with the fish-brain. Probably plotting what color ribbons to put in the Queen’s hair.”

One of the other squires looked nervous. “Stop that, Spitlout! Haven’t you heard? They say he isn’t just a squire. They say he can cut a man’s limbs off with words alone, without ever drawing his sword.”

“He took down all of Kartholm from the shadows!” another added, his eyes wide.

“I heard,” a third whispered conspiratorially, “that his friend Fishlegs comes from a long line of dragon slayers, and he’s teaching Hiccup their ancient secrets.”

“And they say he isn’t just the Queen’s Squire,” the first squire finished in an awed tone. “He’s the living embodiment of her shadow!”

Spitlout just scoffed. “Puh-lease. Like that idiot could do any of that.”

“He did defeat your big brother in that blood insult duel,” the squire pointed out.

“There was no duel!” Spitlout insisted, his face turning red.

“We all saw Lord Snotlout declare it, dude,” the squire retorted. “And he came back looking like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Not to mention, you and your brother both got your asses handed to you by the queen.” Another squire added.

Astrid could only smile from her hiding spot. A wide, genuine, and deeply amused smile. The little devil. He had decided to fight the rumors with rumors of his own, crafting a mythology for himself. He deserved this. He deserved their respect, however it was earned. Her smile faded slightly as a strange, warm feeling spread through her chest. What exactly was she thinking, so fondly, about Hiccup? It was… weird. Her thoughts were interrupted by another squire spotting her. With a silent curse, she turned and fled before her cover was truly blown.

Later that day, in the war room, the atmosphere was different. Hiccup was no longer standing in the shadows behind her. He was seated at the great round table, in the chair to her right, a stack of notes in front of him. The move had earned more than a few glares from the older lords, but Astrid ignored them.

“Alvin’s forces are camped here, in the Black Forest,” she said, pointing to a location on the map. “My plan is simple. We charge in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness, and wipe them out swiftly. Alvin always has a contingency plan, so we will need to be back before dawn to ensure we are not cut off from the main raiding party.”

“Too risky, Your Majesty,” a general named Grimbold argued immediately. He was a sour-faced man who had been on her council for years. “The camp is too far from Berk. It leaves the fortress vulnerable to a counter-attack while our best warriors are away.”

The other members of the council murmured their agreement.

Astrid turned to Hiccup. “What say you, Spymaster?”

Hiccup leaned forward. “Lord Grimbold is right, the risk of a direct assault is too great. But we can mitigate it.” He began to move pieces on the map with confident precision. “Alvin’s camp is supplied by a single route from the coast. We send a small party here, to create a rockslide, cutting off their logistics. At the same time, we send a false report, from a ‘captured’ spy, that our fleet is sailing south to attack his main port. He will be forced to pull defenders from the surrounding area to protect it. His army in the forest will be isolated, hungry, and expecting an attack from the wrong direction. That will give you the window you need to ride to the camp, eliminate the weakened force, and return before he even realizes he’s been tricked.”

It was a brilliant, multi-layered plan. But Grimbold just sneered.

“I will not take strategic suggestions from the Queen’s pet,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “It is an insult that she made a foreign citizen her Spymaster. That is the quickest way to earn a dagger in the back!”

The insult was twofold—against Hiccup, and against her own judgment. A red mist of fury descended over Astrid’s vision. She nearly shattered the stone mug in her hand. She opened her mouth to verbally flay the man alive, but a small hand held up in her peripheral vision stopped her.

Hiccup. He was silencing her . The sheer audacity of it was so shocking it momentarily quelled her rage. His eyes met hers, and they held a simple, clear message: I’ve got this.

“That’s a funny thing to say, Lord Grimbold,” Hiccup said, his voice lazy and bored as he swirled the water in his cup. “Considering you seem to know so much about taking bribes from foreign leaders.” He sat up, his eyes suddenly sharp as a razor. “I thought you looked familiar. You came to my master’s forge in Welton a few years ago, demanding a new sword for free for the tournament. But that’s funny… northerners weren’t allowed to compete in Welton’s tournaments. Which means you aren’t a northerner. You aren’t even Berkian.”

Grimbold shot to his feet, his face purple with rage. “This is an outrage!”

“The only outrage,” Hiccup continued calmly, “is that it took me this long to figure out who was feeding our battle plans to Alvin.”

“You are the rat!” Grimbold shrieked, pointing an accusatory, trembling finger at Hiccup. He turned to Astrid. “Your Majesty, will you take the word of this… this boy over mine? I have served dutifully in your court for fifteen years!”

Hiccup looked over at Astrid, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. Fear? Concern? He was genuinely worried she wouldn’t take his side. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sputtering general. Fifteen years. She racked her brain. What had Grimbold actually done in those fifteen years? What great victories had he led? What wise counsel had he given?

Nothing. Not a single instance popped up in her mind. He was just… there. A fixture. A spy, hiding in plain sight. And who had recommended him for the council all those years ago?

Her eyes snapped open. She drew her sword, the sound echoing in the stunned silence. But she didn’t point it at Grimbold. She pointed it at another general sitting across the table, a man named Thorgar, who immediately went pale as a ghost.

Hiccup looked confused, then his eyes widened in understanding. “A second rat,” he whispered.

“It appears we have two,” Astrid said, her voice like ice. “Stoick. Arrest them.”

The massive Lord Commander and Eret, who had been standing guard at the door, moved in. The two generals screamed and protested as they were dragged from the room.

“Send them to the block,” Astrid commanded. “We will take their heads this evening.”

When they were gone, Hiccup was smiling at her. “A second rat. I never expected that.”

She sighed, sinking back into her chair. “I can’t believe I was naive enough to let it get this far.” She looked at him, a genuine gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you, Hiccup.”

He bowed his head. “Anything for my Queen.”

(Hiccup’s Perspective)

The hours after the arrests were a blur of activity. Astrid, now trusting no one on her old council, had put Hiccup in charge of vetting every single officer and lord in her service. It was a monumental task. He spent the entire next day in the royal library, a vast, dusty archive of Berk’s history, poring over old military personnel rosters. He was looking for anomalies, for names that didn’t fit, for anyone else who might have been planted by Alvin.

He scanned page after page of names, his eyes growing tired from deciphering the old, cramped script. He was looking for any connection to Welton, or to other rival clans. As he flipped to a roster from twenty years prior, a small, hand-drawn symbol in the margins caught his eye.

It was a spiralized dragon, coiled in on itself.

His heart stopped. His hand trembled as he reached into his tunic and pulled out the small, smooth stone pendant his mother had given him. It was the only thing he had left of her, of his past. Carved into its surface was the exact same symbol.

His eyes shot back to the roster, to the name written next to the symbol.

Stoick the Vast. Lord Commander of the Royal Guard.

The book slipped from his numb fingers and fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Stoick. The mountain of a man. The Queen’s most trusted warrior. Snotlout’s uncle.

His father.

Chapter 12: The Lord Commander's Son

Chapter Text

The book lay on the floor, its pages splayed open like a fallen bird. Hiccup stared at the name on the roster, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Stoick the Vast. The name echoed in his mind, a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of his world. He took a few deep, ragged breaths, trying to cool the fire that had ignited in his chest. He clutched the smooth stone pendant in his hand, its familiar weight a flimsy anchor in a suddenly turbulent sea.

He had to know.

He found the Lord Commander overseeing the changing of the guard in the main courtyard. Stoick stood like a monolith of red-bearded authority, his presence alone enough to ensure perfect discipline. Hiccup approached him, his steps hesitant, his palms sweating.

“Lord Commander,” he said, his voice coming out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Lord Commander Stoick.”

Stoick gave him a quick, dismissive glance, his expression as gruff as ever. “Boy.”

Hiccup held out his trembling hand, the small stone pendant resting on his palm. “Do you… do you know this symbol, Sir?”

Stoick’s gaze fell upon the pendant. He looked at it briefly, his expression unchanging. Then, with a speed that defied his massive size, his hand shot out. It was not a violent motion, but it was impossibly fast. His large, calloused fingers, surprisingly gentle, snatched the pendant from Hiccup’s palm. He held it up to his eye, his face suddenly a mask of intense, focused interrogation.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“My mother gave it to me,” Hiccup answered, his own voice barely a whisper.

Stoick’s eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto his. “Her name?”

“Valka.”

The great Lord Commander froze. The world seemed to stop. He looked from the pendant in his hand to the small, skinny boy standing before him, and a storm of confusion, disbelief, and dawning, impossible hope raged in his eyes.

“Hiccup?” Stoick breathed, the name a question, a prayer. “THAT Hiccup?”

Hiccup could only nod, his throat too tight for words.

For a moment, Stoick just stared. Then, with a roar that was equal parts grief and joy, he closed the distance between them and practically murdered Hiccup with a hug. He was lifted off his feet, his ribs creaking under the pressure of two massive arms that could probably wrestle a bear into submission. The world spun, a dizzying blur of red beard and the smell of leather and steel. He couldn’t breathe. He was pretty sure this was how he was going to die, crushed in the embrace of a man he had just discovered was his father.

Just as darkness began to creep into the edges of his vision, Stoick put him down. The moment his feet touched the ground, the questions began, a frantic, desperate torrent.

“How? Where have you been? Valka… what happened to her? How did you get here? Why didn't you say anything? Are you alright? By the gods, you’re alive!”

Hiccup, gasping for air and rubbing his bruised ribs, did his best to answer the deluge. “She… she died, Si–father. A plague, years ago, back in Welton. I survived. The blacksmith, Gobber, he took me in.” He took another shaky breath. “I’m here because I was a reparation. Queen Astrid demanded me from the Duke of Welton. I’m her squire now. And her Spymaster. I found your name in the personnel files in the library, next to the symbol.”

The name ‘Gobber’ seemed to register with Stoick, and a flicker of fond memory crossed his face. “Gobber the Belch,” he rumbled. “Of course he’d take you in. Stubborn old goat.” He looked at Hiccup again, truly looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. The fierce Lord Commander vanished, replaced by a father who had just found the son he had mourned for twenty years. “Come with me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

He led Hiccup not to the war room or the Great Hall, but to the Royal Guard’s private training yard. He strode over to a weapon rack, selected a small, perfectly balanced hand axe, and pressed it into Hiccup’s hand.

“I… I don’t understand,” Hiccup said, confused.

“I always wanted to do this,” Stoick said, his voice rough. “With my son. Teach him how to fight. How to be a Berkian warrior.” He clapped a heavy hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d get the chance.”

Hiccup looked at the axe, then at the massive, expectant man before him. He took a deep breath, gripped the axe in his left hand, and threw it with all his might.

It wobbled through the air for about six feet before unceremoniously thudding into the dirt.

A beat of silence. Then Hiccup let out a nervous, self-deprecating laugh. To his surprise, Stoick laughed too, a great, booming sound of pure, unadulterated joy. It wasn’t a laugh of mockery, but of sheer happiness.

It was at that moment that Astrid arrived, drawn by the uncharacteristic sound of her Lord Commander’s laughter. “What’s all this, then?” she asked, her voice full of curiosity.

Both men immediately straightened up, bowing their heads respectfully. “Your Majesty.”

“Stoick,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so… happy. And you’re training Hiccup? What’s the occasion?”

Stoick’s face split into a grin so wide it threatened to tear his beard in two. He put a massive, proud arm around Hiccup’s shoulders. “Your Majesty,” he announced, his voice booming with pride, “allow me to introduce you to my son. Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.”

Now it was Astrid’s turn to be shocked. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes went wide. Then, her entire demeanor shifted. The dangerous, ruthless warrior queen vanished, replaced by someone Hiccup had never seen before. She got jumpy, a giddy, excited energy radiating off her. She bounced on the balls of her feet, a huge, brilliant smile lighting up her entire face.

“No! Really? Stoick, that’s… that’s wonderful! Amazing!” She looked between the two of them, the mountain of a man and the skinny boy, and just beamed, genuinely thrilled that two of the people she respected most in the world had found each other.

The conversation quickly shifted back to Hiccup’s rather pathetic attempt at throwing the axe.

“It’s alright, son,” Stoick said, surprisingly supportive. “It just takes practice.”

“He’s right,” Astrid agreed, still grinning. “Not everyone is a natural warrior. It’s not a big deal.”

But to Hiccup, it was a big deal. He looked at the two of them standing there—his father, a literal giant of a man, one of the greatest warriors on Berk, and his Queen, a Valkyrie who could give his father a run for his money in an arm-wrestling match. And then there was him. The runt. The fishbone. The clever boy who couldn’t throw an axe more than six feet. The joy of finding his father was now mingled with a fresh, potent wave of inadequacy. He was happy, yes, but he also felt impossibly small. He decided, then and there, that he would work harder than ever to prove he was worthy of the name Haddock.

Astrid was staring at him, her head tilted, a strange, soft look in her eyes that he couldn’t quite decipher. Stoick, however, picked up on it instantly. He was a father for all of five minutes, but his paternal instincts were already firing on all cylinders.

When the Queen finally excused herself, still beaming, Stoick turned to Hiccup, his expression shifting from proud father to interrogating uncle.

“So,” he began, a sly twinkle in his eye. “The Queen, eh?”

“What about her, father?” Hiccup asked, confused.

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy,” Stoick said, poking him in the chest. “I saw the way she looks at you. And the way you look at her. What’s the story there?”

“There is no story!” Hiccup insisted, his face flushing. “She’s my Queen! And my master! I’m her squire!”

“Aye, and I’m just a humble guardsman,” Stoick chuckled. “Come on, out with it. All the juicy gossip. Does she still call you ‘boy’?”

“Sometimes,” Hiccup admitted. “Less, now.”

“And the two of you spend a lot of time together? Alone?”

“In her office! For strategy meetings!”

Stoick just grinned, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Gobber. “Well, you have my blessing. She’s a fine woman. Strong. A bit terrifying. She’ll make a fine future daughter-in-law.” He clapped Hiccup on the back again, nearly sending him to his knees. “My son, marrying the Queen! I suppose I’ll have to start calling you ‘Your Majesty,’ too!”

A week later, the mood was far from jovial. They were in the main war tent at a forward command post, deep in the Black Forest. Stoick was stoic, his arms crossed as he stared at the map. Astrid was restless, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, her hand twitching toward the hilt of her sword. She wanted to be out there, hitting something.

Hiccup, however, was still. He sat at the table, his eyes scanning the war map over and over again. Something wasn’t right. Alvin’s troop movements, the placement of his pickets, the supply lines… it was too obvious. Too simple. It was a trap.

“There,” he said suddenly, his finger jabbing a point on the map. “He’s trying to draw us in. He wants us to attack his main camp here, but he’s left his supply depot here almost completely unguarded. It’s bait.”

He quickly laid out a new plan. A feint toward the main camp to draw out their main force, while a smaller, faster raiding party led by Astrid and Stoick circled around and hit the depot, destroying their supplies and crippling their entire operation in the region.

It was executed flawlessly. Astrid and Stoick delivered the blow, a swift, brutal hammer strike that shattered Alvin’s logistics network. When they returned to the command tent with news of their success, Hiccup was ecstatic. He let out a wild, maniacal laugh of pure triumph.

Stoick looked at his son, at the brilliant, dangerous mind that had just outsmarted their oldest enemy, and his chest swelled with pride. “Good job, son!” he boomed, his voice echoing through the tent. “That’s my boy!”

Hiccup, still smiling, moved a white knight on the chessboard he’d been studying. It put the black king in check. “One last move,” he whispered under his breath, his eyes gleaming.

Astrid watched him, her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter. She was smiling from ear to ear, high on the thrill of battle and giddy from the brilliance of his plan. Without even thinking, she strode over to him, her voice ringing out for all in the tent to hear, loud and clear and full of a shocking, instinctual pride.

“That’s why you’re mine!” The declaration, loud and possessive, hung in the suddenly silent tent, shocking everyone, most of all Astrid herself.

Chapter 13: Checkmate

Chapter Text

The words echoed in the war tent, more impactful than any clap of thunder. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the crackle of the torches. Every knight and commander in the tent froze, their eyes wide, darting between their utterly flustered Queen and her mortified squire.

Hiccup felt a heat rush to his face so intense he was certain his hair was about to catch fire. He had been claimed. Not as a reparation, not as a squire, but as a possession, in front of his father and the entire military leadership of Berk. He desperately wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

The silence was finally broken by a low, rumbling sound that started deep in the chest of the Lord Commander. Stoick the Vast looked from his son, who was the color of a ripe tomato, to his Queen, who was looking just as shocked at her own outburst. The rumble grew into a hearty chuckle, then erupted into a great, booming laugh that shook the very canvas of the tent.

“Well, son,” he finally roared, clapping a heavy hand on Hiccup’s shoulder and nearly sending him to his knees. “Seems you’ve made an impression!”

Eret’s professional mask slipped for just a second, a flicker of profound amusement in his eyes before he schooled his features back into a neutral expression. The other knights quickly followed his lead, suddenly finding the maps on the table intensely fascinating.

It was Astrid who finally broke the spell. The realization of what she had said crashed down upon her. She, the Queen, had just staked a claim on her squire like he was a prize won in a tournament. A faint blush crept up her neck, a rare and startling sight. She cleared her throat, her posture immediately straightening as she fell back on her authority like a shield.

“That will be all,” she commanded, her voice a little too loud, a little too sharp. “Everyone is dismissed. We will finalize the assault plans in the morning.” She didn't look at anyone, her gaze fixed on a random point on the far wall. “Hiccup, you stay.”

The knights and commanders practically tripped over themselves in their haste to exit the tent, eager to escape the palpable awkwardness. Soon, they were alone. The silence that fell now was different. It was heavy, charged, and thrummed with unspoken words.

Astrid finally turned to face him, her own face still faintly red. She opened her mouth, then closed it. The great Dragon of Berk, conqueror of kingdoms, was at a loss for words.

It was Hiccup who, summoning every ounce of his courage, decided to grant her a mercy. He cleared his throat and pointed to the map on the table.

“So,” he began, his voice still a bit shaky. “About that final move…”

She cleared her throat, “Right!” Her features and posture immediately returned to the cold, calculating general.

The war tent felt electric. Not with the grim tension of the past few weeks, but with a giddy, almost feral energy that radiated from a single source: Queen Astrid. She was practically vibrating with excitement. The shadow war with Alvin had been a slow, frustrating poison, a battle she couldn’t punch. But now, they had a target. A capital city to assault. An army to crush. She finally had something to hit.

She paced the tent, not with restlessness, but with the coiled energy of a predator about to be unleashed. A wide, genuine smile was plastered on her face, and she kept letting out small, excited laughs. It was a side of her Hiccup had never seen, and it was both terrifying and utterly captivating.

They were alone, leaning over the great war map, finalizing the details of his last, audacious plan. This was no subtle infiltration or psychological trick. This was pure, classic warfare.

“It’s a simple Hammer and Anvil,” Hiccup explained, tracing the lines on the map. “Your main force, the Anvil, will feign a retreat after an initial skirmish. You’ll draw Alvin’s main garrison out of his fortress, Outcast, past the range of their archers.”

“I know the maneuver,” Astrid said, her eyes gleaming. She leaned over the map, her proximity making Hiccup’s breath catch in his throat. “And once they’re pinned, engaged with our shield wall…”

“Exactly,” Hiccup continued, trying to focus. “Once they’re pinned, our cavalry, the Hammer, which we’ll have hidden in this forest, will charge their rear flank. They’ll be caught between two forces, surrounded and decimated.”

“We should have the cavalry use throwing axes on the initial charge,” Astrid added, her mind already on the battlefield. “It will break their rear line’s morale before the horses even hit them.”

“Good,” Hiccup agreed, making a note. “That will cause maximum chaos.”

They worked like that for an hour, a seamless partnership. His grand strategy, her tactical ferocity. His mind, her might. They were two halves of a single, terrifyingly effective weapon.

When the plan was solidified, a strange, almost bashful look crossed Astrid’s face. It was so out of character that it stopped Hiccup mid-sentence.

“Hiccup,” she began, her voice suddenly softer, less the Queen and more… just Astrid. “After this is all over, I was wondering if maybe you would—”

Just then, a soldier entered the tent. “Your Majesty! The troops are in position. We are ready for the assault on your command.”

The change in Astrid was instantaneous and gave Hiccup whiplash. The giddy, almost flirty woman vanished. In her place stood the Dragon of Berk. Her posture straightened, her expression hardened into a mask of cold authority, and her voice became steel.

“Excellent,” she said to the soldier, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tell the commanders to prepare for the signal.” She turned and strode out of the tent without another glance at Hiccup, her focus entirely on the battle to come. He was left standing there, a strange sense of loss mingling with his awe.

Hiccup sat atop a high, grassy hill overlooking the valley that led to the fortress of Outcast. He had a spyglass pressed to his eye, giving him a clear, if distant, view of the unfolding battle. He watched as Astrid, a shining beacon of dark steel at the head of her army, led the initial charge. He heard the faint echo of her battle cry, a sound that could make a mountain tremble, followed by a rousing speech that, even from this distance, made the hairs on his arms stand up.

The plan began perfectly. The feigned retreat was flawless. The Berkian forces fell back in a disciplined, believable route, and just as Hiccup predicted, the arrogant garrison of Outcast sallied forth, eager to chase down the "fleeing" Northmen.

But then, something went wrong.

Through his spyglass, Hiccup saw a single Berkian knight, a man named Mildew whom Hiccup had always found untrustworthy, break off from the main anvil force. Instead of retreating with the others, he was riding hard along the edge of the valley, toward the forest where their cavalry was hidden.

What is he doing? Hiccup wondered, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. Why is he breaking rank? Even more disturbing, the enemy wasn’t chasing him. They were letting him go.

“Mildew, what are you doing?” Hiccup whispered under his breath. He followed the knight with his spyglass, his heart pounding. He saw Mildew reach the edge of the forest and disappear within. A moment later, the sounds of battle erupted from inside the woods. Not the charge of their cavalry, but the sounds of an ambush.

Hiccup dropped the spyglass, his face draining of all color. “No…”

There was an enemy army already in the forest, waiting for them. The Hammer was being destroyed before it could even strike. He looked back at Astrid’s army. They were slowing their retreat, preparing to turn and form the shield wall, to become the Anvil. They were walking right into a pincer.

As if on cue, another enemy cavalry unit, larger than their own, appeared from the trees on the opposite side of the valley, perfectly positioned to execute their own Hammer and Anvil maneuver on the Berkians.

Hiccup swore, a string of curses he’d learned from Gobber. He brought two fingers to his mouth and let out a piercingly sharp whistle. Toothless, who had been grazing nearby, was at his side in an instant. Hiccup vaulted onto his back and urged him forward, charging at a reckless, breakneck speed down the hill toward the front lines.

He pushed Toothless harder than he ever had before, the wind screaming past his ears. He had to warn her.

He neared the fray, the sounds of steel on steel now a deafening roar. Astrid’s army was just beginning to turn, their shields locking into place.

“YOUR MAJESTY!” he screamed, his voice raw. No response. “MY QUEEN!” Nothing.

He took a deep breath and bellowed with every ounce of air in his lungs, “ASTRID!”

This time, she heard him. She turned in her saddle, her expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance at seeing him on the battlefield.

“IT’S A TRAP!” he yelled, pointing frantically toward the forests. “RETREAT! FALL BACK!”

“BERKIANS NEVER RETREAT!” she roared back, her pride overriding her trust in him. She turned away, raised her sword, and prepared to lead the charge into the enemy’s waiting arms.

Hiccup’s heart sank. There was no time. He couldn’t save the army. But maybe… maybe he could still win the war. He took one last look at Astrid charging into a battle she couldn’t win, then yanked on Toothless’s reins, turning him away from the fight and charging straight for the fortress of Outcast itself. He remembered the maps, the patrol routes, the small, forgotten sally port at the rear of the castle, only mildly guarded. It was his only chance.

He reached the small rear gate, pulling Toothless to a skidding halt. Two guards, their helmets slightly askew and their expressions bored, stepped forward to block his path.

“Stop! Who goes there?” one of them called out.

Hiccup, thinking fast, slid from Toothless’s back and adopted the posture of a terrified peasant. “Help me!” he cried, his voice high and panicked. “There’s an enemy army attacking the castle! I have to get inside!”

The guards glanced at each other, looking uncertain. “How do we know you’re not an enemy spy?” the other one asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Hiccup laughed, a hysterical, fearful sound. “Look at me!” he said, gesturing to his own skinny frame. “Do I look like a Berkian knight to you?”

The guards seemed to consider this. It was a fair point. “Alright, one last question,” the first guard said, puffing out his chest. This was clearly their trump card. “Who is the leader of Outcast?”

Hiccup blinked, confused by the simplicity of the question. “Uh… King Alvin?”

The guards looked at each other and nodded, satisfied. “Alright, you can go in. But leave the horse.”

Hiccup gave Toothless a reassuring pat and slipped through the gate. The moment he was inside, he went to work. He tore at his tunic, ripping the sleeves and dirtying the front. He limped, favoring one leg, and kept his head down, making himself look like just another piece of the castle’s scenery. No one gave him a second glance.

He found his way to the kitchens, his mind racing. He remembered the map of the castle he’d found on one of the spies they’d captured in Berk, a gift from Eret. He saw a lavish tray of food being prepared, clearly destined for the king.

“Is that for the King?” he asked a bustling chef, his voice weak and subservient. “Is it ready?”

The chef glanced at him for only a second, saw a dirty servant boy, and nodded. “Yes. Now take it up. He’s been demanding it for an hour.”

Hiccup grabbed the heavy silver tray, hung his head low, and began the long, limping journey up toward the King’s main chamber. He found a small, shadowed alcove in the hallway and ducked inside, checking to make sure no guards were watching. He reached into a hidden pocket in his boot and pulled out his Plan D. It was a small, dark vial filled with a liquid he had carefully distilled himself: the Essence of Nightshade, made from the flowers that grew in Astrid’s private garden. He had no idea why his Queen cultivated poisonous plants, but it had always struck him as very on-brand.

He uncorked the vial and added a few drops to the soup, stirring it with the tip of his dagger. He discarded the rest of the vial into a nearby vase of flowers, watching with grim satisfaction as they almost instantly began to wither and die. He continued his journey and was allowed into Alvin’s main chamber without issue.

King Alvin the Treacherous was a man who looked like a weasel trying to impersonate a king. He was thin and wiry, with a pointed nose and small, clever eyes that darted around the room. A large black beard that ran down to his chest. He was hunched over a desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment.

Hiccup limped over, placed the tray on the desk with a small, subservient bow, and then stayed put.

“What are you waiting for? Get out,” Alvin snapped without looking up.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Hiccup mumbled. “I was instructed to wait until you were finished, to remove the tray.” He then busied himself with pointlessly cleaning a nearby table, trying to blend in.

“Whatever,” Alvin said, clearly distracted. “Fine. You’ll get to watch the show.” He began to scarf down the food, shoveling it into his mouth. He was halfway through the soup when a guard entered.

“Your Majesty,” the guard announced. “We have guests in the main courtyard.”

A sick, triumphant smile spread across Alvin’s face. “Excellent.” He laughed to himself, a high, wheezing sound. “You were a tough opponent, Queen Astrid, but clearly not smart enough to outclass Alvin the Treacherous!” He threw open the doors to his balcony and stepped out into the sunlight.

(Astrid’s Perspective)

She was being dragged, disarmed and defeated, into the main courtyard of Outcast. Her army, or what was left of it, was being herded in with her. She was furious. Furious at Alvin for his cowardly trap, but mostly furious at herself for not listening to Hiccup. She had let her pride, her warrior’s heart, lead them into disaster. She should have fought to the death, died a warrior’s death, rather than be captured and executed like a common criminal. The citizens of Outcast jeered at them, throwing rotten vegetables and insults.

The doors to the great balcony overlooking the courtyard opened, and a taunting voice echoed through the square.

“Well, well,” King Alvin called out. “Fancy seeing you here, Queen Astrid.”

“Alvin, you pathetic worm!” Astrid roared back, straining against her captors. “Fight me on the battlefield like a real man!”

“Why would I do that when you so graciously brought yourself to me?” he laughed. “I now have both you and Berk in the palm of my hands! I must admit, you were a much more formidable opponent than I imagined. You always struck me as the… meathead type. I never knew you were so advanced in psychological warfare.”

“You are a fool to think that Berk falls just because you have its Queen,” she spat. “You made the largest error of all.”

“And what might that be?” he asked, amused.

“Thinking I was the one you were at war with.”

“Wha—”

Alvin was cut off as he suddenly stumbled forward, his hand flying to his mouth as he vomited violently over the edge of the balcony railing. A split second later, a dagger appeared at his throat, held in a small, steady hand.

Astrid chuckled. She would recognize that messy auburn hair anywhere.

Hiccup’s voice, now amplified by the courtyard’s acoustics, rang out, clear and cold. “Put down your arms, or I will slit your King’s throat!”

The guards below yelled and clamored, unsure of what to do.

“I’ve also poisoned him,” Hiccup’s voice added calmly. “If you want the antidote, you need me alive. That includes everyone from Berk, too.” As if to prove his point, Alvin wretched again.

“Who… who are you?” Alvin choked out.

“I’m your enemy,” Hiccup said. “It was my mistake thinking we had already captured all of our traitors. Looks like Mildew also has been working for you this entire time. You revealed your traitor without any accomplices. Elementary Maces and Talons”

“I have your Queen!” Alvin gasped.

“And I have you,” Hiccup replied. “Checkmate, Alvin. Are you going to martyr yourself for your cause?” His voice then grew louder, more boisterous, taking on a theatrical, commanding tone that shocked Astrid. “You fell right into my trap! I knew there was a rat, but I didn’t know who. So I just gave him a juicy piece of cheese and let him lead me right to his hole! You thought you were trapping my army, but you’ve just been invaded by Berk and were none the wiser! I give the signal, and your entire castle falls! Surrender now, or we raze your city! Your legacy!”

Alvin just struggled, speechless.

Hiccup then yelled at the top of his lungs, a cry full of passion and fury. “FOR BERK! FOR THE QUEEN!”

And from the courtyard below, her captured, defeated army roared it back as one. “FOR BERK! FOR THE QUEEN!” Their cries echoed through the valley, creating the illusion of a much larger force, sending waves of panic through the citizens and guards of Outcast.

It was the final straw. Alvin surrendered.

Per Hiccup’s shouted commands, Astrid and her warriors were immediately released. She didn’t wait. She charged into the keep, taking the stairs four at a time, her sword drawn. She burst onto the balcony to see Hiccup holding a knife to a whimpering Alvin, looking utterly in command.

“Mildew was the spy,” were the first words out of his mouth.

Astrid turned to Eret, who was right behind her, and nodded. Eret ran off to find the traitor. The other Berkians arrested a complaining Alvin, who was still demanding the antidote he would never receive.

Astrid stared at Hiccup, her mind reeling. “That plan…” she breathed. “It was incredible. But… maybe next time, let me in on it? I thought… I thought we were all going to die.” She understood that he had left her in the dark so her reactions would be realistic, but it had nearly cost them everything. “When did you plant soldiers in the castle?”

Hiccup just laughed. A tired, relieved sound.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, confused.

“I was bluffing,” he said. “The whole thing. Alvin was never poisoned; he just has a weak stomach. There were no warriors in the castle. It was just me. I knew Alvin was smart, that he plans for every countermeasure, even ones that don’t exist. So I exploited that. It was the only thing I could think of to save you.”

Astrid bristled. Her sword, which she had sheathed, was back in her hand in an instant. She stalked toward him, glaring, towering over him. “You dare bluff with your Queen’s life on the line?”

Hiccup met her gaze, not backing down an inch. “Berkians never retreat,” he said quietly. “I had to do something.”

She glared at him for a long, tense moment. Then, she punched him square in the shoulder, knocking him backward onto his butt.

“Ow! What was that for?!” he yelped, rubbing the spot.

“That,” she huffed, her anger deflating, “was for bluffing with my life on the line, Hiccup!” She let out a long sigh and offered him a hand to help him up. Her voice was much softer now. “But thank you… for saving my life.”

He accepted her hand, and she pulled him to his feet. They stood there for a moment, the adrenaline fading, the reality of what had just happened settling in.

“You know,” Hiccup said, his voice quiet and serious, breaking the silence. “For the longest time… I resented you.”

The words hung in the air between them, a stark and unexpected confession that made Astrid’s heart stop.

Chapter 14: The Dragon and The Shadow

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The words hung in the air on the high balcony of Outcast, stark and shocking, cutting through the fading adrenaline of their victory. “For the longest time… I resented you.”

Astrid’s heart, which had been soaring with triumph and relief, stopped dead in her chest. She stared at him, her hand still holding his, completely thrown. Of all the things she had expected him to say in that moment, that was not one of them.

“You… what?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Hiccup pulled his hand gently from hers and turned to look out over the conquered city, his expression unreadable. “I resented you,” he repeated, his voice quiet but firm, filled with a strange, cathartic honesty. “You have to understand, from my perspective, you appeared in my life like a storm. An intruder. You were beautiful and strong and everything a man could possibly want in a woman, but you were so far beyond my station it was laughable. You were terrifying. Powerful. You just… showed up.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You didn’t ask my name until after you’d beaten me half to death with a sword. You didn’t ask about my life, my home, my friends. You just… took me. You ripped me away from everything I knew, threw me on a ship, and called me ‘boy.’ It was painful. Being your squire was a constant, grinding humiliation. Getting destroyed by you in the training yard every single day, being physically unable to perform even the simplest duties like lifting your armor, and enduring the constant ridicule from the other squires for being your pet… I hated it. I hated how small you made me feel.”

Astrid flinched as if he had struck her. Every word was a perfectly aimed blow, a truth she couldn’t deny. She opened her mouth to defend herself, to apologize again, but he held up a hand, stopping her.

“But,” he continued, his tone shifting, “it was a much better position than I’d had before. My prospects, as I believe I mentioned, were much higher. For the first time in my life, I felt… wanted. Not by the people, not by the squires, but by you. The leader of Berk. You saw something in me, even if I couldn’t see it myself. And I started to see you. Not just the warrior, but the Queen.”

He turned to face her then, his green eyes intense. “I saw how your people admire you, how they look to you not just with fear, but with a fierce, protective loyalty. I saw your fighting spirit, your unbendable strength, but I also saw your vulnerability. I saw Astrid.”

“All I knew before was the legend,” he said, his voice softening. “The story of the Dragon of Berk, a ferocious warrior who was more myth than man. But I realized that the Dragon of Berk wasn’t good at everything. In fact, there was one thing you were absolutely terrible at.”

A small, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. “Just one?”

“Social situations,” he said, a gentle tease in his voice. “You didn’t understand the complexities of courtly life, of rumors, of morale. You were a warrior, raised in a world where the only thing that mattered was the strength of your sword arm. You didn’t realize the impact you had on my life because you had never been taught to consider such things. You didn’t understand the weight of your words, or the impression you made on people. You just followed your heart, your instincts. And so far, they had never led you astray.”

He took a step closer. “My resentment… it faded completely the day you apologized to me in the Great Hall. The day you sat me down in your office and actually tried to get to know me. The resentment was replaced by admiration. I saw you like the rest of Berk saw you: as a leader worthy of following to the ends of the earth.”

“But my relationship with you was different,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the stone floor. “Every morning, we would spar. Every day, you would work with me, pushing me, trying your best to help me grow, even when I knew I was a lost cause. You supported me in everything. Even when I could only throw an axe a few feet, even when I got beaten up by other squires for defending your honor, even when I couldn’t lift your pauldron without a stool. You protected me. You gave me everything you had, and for the first time in my life, someone in a position of power never once looked down on me. You let me be myself. You let me grow into my own person, using the skills I had, not the ones you wished I had.”

He looked up at her again, and she saw a raw, terrifying vulnerability in his eyes. “By then, it was too late,” he whispered. “I realized too late that I didn’t just admire you anymore. I had a deep, abiding… love for you.”

The word hung in the air between them, more powerful than any battle cry, more shocking than any declaration of war. Astrid’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart, which she had always thought of as a steady, reliable soldier, was now a traitorous thing, hammering against her ribs like it wanted to break free.

“The only thing I want,” he finished, his voice thick with an emotion that tore at her soul, “is not even for you to love me back. All I want, all I have ever wanted since the day you called me by my name, is for you to look at me like a man. A twenty-three-year-old man. Not a stable boy. Not a pet. Not a project. But Hiccup.”

She stared at him, speechless. For the first time in her life, the great Dragon of Berk, the conqueror of kingdoms, the warrior who had faced down armies, had absolutely no idea what to say. So, she did the only thing she knew how to do. She acted.

“I stopped seeing a ‘boy’ a long time ago, Hiccup,” she said, her voice rough with an emotion she couldn’t name. She admitted, “I was a fool. I whisked you away because you were useful, because you were interesting, and I completely forgot that you were a person. I was so focused on the asset that I failed to see the man.”

She took a step closer, her world narrowing until he was the only thing in it. “It wasn’t until you became my Spymaster, until our daily training sessions stopped, that I realized how much I had come to rely on them. On you. I would go to the training yard, and it would just be… empty. Quiet. I had always been alone, but for the first time in my life, I felt lonely.”

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I asked myself why. I’ve never been good at understanding emotions. They’re not logical like a battle plan. But this… this was crystal clear. Every time I was with you, I acted differently. I was a different person. More open. I shared parts of myself with you that I didn’t even know existed. It snuck up on me, Hiccup. But when we marched on this place, all I could think about was getting the battle over with as quickly as possible so I could return home… and talk to you.”

She was standing right in front of him now, the warrior queen and the stable boy, the height difference between them a vast, wonderful chasm. All she wanted to do was grab him, pull him close, and…

She did.

Her hands came up to cup his face, her large, calloused warrior’s hands gentle against his skin. She leaned down, closing the distance, and her lips met his. It was not a soft, hesitant kiss. It was a kiss of conquest, a kiss of claiming, a kiss that poured every ounce of her unspoken, unrealized feelings into a single, overwhelming action. It was a kiss that said, You are mine.

When she finally pulled back, they were both breathless.

“Before I knew it,” she whispered, her forehead resting against his, “I couldn’t imagine Berk without you. I couldn’t imagine me without you. And I realized that I love you, too, you infuriating, brilliant, impossible man.”

She took a deep breath. “I saved Berk with my strength, but you saved me when my own strength failed. I thought I was strong enough to protect this kingdom alone, but now I know I can’t. And I can’t think of anyone else I would rather do it with.”

She pulled back, a strange, wicked glint in her eye. Her voice suddenly shifted, becoming the hard-as-nails, authoritative tone of the Queen. “Which is why I have to fire you.”

Hiccup blinked, the romantic haze shattering. “You’re… you’re firing me?”

“Effective immediately,” she said, her face a mask of stone. “You are no longer my Spymaster. You are no longer my squire.”

He just stared at her, utterly bewildered. Then, the stone mask cracked, and she let out a low, rumbling chuckle.

“Instead,” she said, her voice softening again, her thumb tracing his jawline, “I want you to be my husband. My King Consort. To rule alongside me. As my equal.”

Hiccup was stunned into silence. King? Him? It was impossible. He shook his head. “I accept,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “But I decline to be your equal.”

Now it was her turn to be confused.

“You are the Queen,” he said with an unwavering certainty. “You are the leader. I will never be your equal in strength or in presence. But I will be your partner. I will support you in every way I can. I will be whatever you need me to be.”

Astrid smiled, a slow, beautiful thing. “I accept your counter-offer.” She leaned in and kissed him again, this time more softly. “The Dragon of Berk,” she murmured against his lips, “and the Shadow of Berk.”

“The Sword and the Mind,” he whispered back.


A comfortable, breathless silence settled between them. The adrenaline of the battle and the emotional earthquake of their confessions slowly faded, leaving behind something new. Something quiet and steady. For the first time, they were not the Queen and her squire, the master and her prize. They were just Astrid and Hiccup, standing on a balcony overlooking a city they had conquered together.

She didn't let go of his hand. Her thumb gently stroked the back of his, a small, grounding gesture in the midst of the monumental shift in their world. He found himself leaning slightly against her, not for support, but just to be near the reassuring warmth and strength of her. He looked up at her, at the woman who had turned his life upside down and then rebuilt it into something more than he could have ever imagined, and he saw not a dragon or a queen, but his future.

“So,” he said, a small, teasing smile playing on his lips. “Does this mean I finally get to call you Astrid?”

She laughed, a genuine, joyous sound that echoed in the quiet evening air. “Don’t push your luck, Your Majesty.” She squeezed his hand, her eyes sparkling with a light he had never seen before. “Come on. Let’s go home. We have an announcement to make.”

When they returned to Berk, Astrid wasted no time. She called an assembly in the Great Hall, the entire court present. She stood before the throne, Hiccup at her side, and made the announcement.

“I am to be married!” she declared, her voice ringing with a joy that stunned the court into silence. “To this man. My partner, my Spymaster, and the savior of our army. Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third will be your King Consort!”

An uproar started, led, predictably, by the Jorgensons. “You can’t marry a foreigner!” Lord Snotlout bellowed. “A commoner! A…”

He trailed off as Astrid turned the full, unbridled force of her glare upon him. It was not the glare of a knight or a general. It was the glare of the Dragon of Berk, a look that promised a swift and painful demise. Snotlout and his brother immediately shut their mouths and sat down. No one else dared to protest.

 

The End?

Notes:

Sooooo, that's technically the end. I was posting the story and realized that I reached the end of the document completely expecting another chapter! To wrap up the story in a cute narrative bow, this was the best place to end this short story.

But that don't sit well with me! I will write another chapter or two. Episodic epilogues that will tell what happens to Hiccup and Astrid afterwards.

Nonetheless for all of you whom have stayed thus far. I appreciate you reading this story and also very much appreciate all of your comments! If you have a moment, please send me a comment of what you thought of the main story.

I have more stories on my profile if you are interested and enjoyed my writing, I will post a different story that will replace my upload schedule for the Dragon and the Shadow (Tomorrow!) in addition to the epilogues. In those stories I will explore other fun tropes and concepts.

Nonetheless, take care of yourself and thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading all the way through! -JMF