Chapter Text
"We have lost the battle yet again to those scums!" Drago's raspy voice echoed through the emptiness of his throne room, despite not yelling. His once lively home having become a clear sign of his constant trouble. He paced on the darkened floors, recolored from white as they were coated with dirt and grime.
The lighting of the room had added no help, while it had been lit with torches that barely hung on the walls, the shadows left in the corners where the dim light could not reach only added more emptiness. Even the sunlight was struggling to fill the room in its rays as it barely cascaded through the glass that earned a layer of thick dust.
The building used to be spotless, sparkling with rich materials, rich fabrics, and spotless white marble. It had been harder to keep the island in a good state due to his resources that were beginning to dissipate quickly. Drago stood in the main entrance of the castle, a long but wide rectangular room decorated with dusted statues properly spaced from one another, all leading to a platform filled with dead plants and a massive throne.
"If we continue to suffer from these losses, I will no longer have the control I desire!" Drago hissed. "Stoick grows bolder," he said quietly. "He believes my silence is weakness."
Behind him stood a smaller figure, hands folded neatly within his sleeves. He did not tremble. He did not fidget. His expression was smooth — attentive.
"I would not mistake you for weak, sire," the man replied gently as he watched the towering, massive figure stalk through the gloomy confines of the battered castle. The thick, matted dreads that cascaded down his broad shoulders and the heavy fur cape that draped over his muscular frame only served to amplify his fierce, primal aura.
"My armies thin. My name carries less fear than it once did. Each time I move to expand, Berk stands in my path." His jaw tightened. "He has made sport of me." He moved back and forth, pacing in front of his massive throne. His fingers dragged along the carved armrest instead, splinters catching against scarred skin.
The scars across his hands were older than most of his soldiers. Each one marked a battle Stoick had survived. Stoick, the leader of the Barbaric tribe that had been locked in a constant, brutal struggle against the island of Berk. Drago's weathered face was twisted in a scowl, his brow furrowed with intense, simmering rage.
He had tried time and time again to conquer other islands, to expand his power and influence, to take the resources he could, but Berk and its leader had always stood in his way, thwarting his ambitions at every turn. Drago's reputation as a fearsome warlord had been ruined by his repeated failures against Stoick, and now he was more determined than ever to crush this thorn in his side, to finally earn the respect and acclaim he craved by vanquishing the one island he had been unable to subjugate.
Stoick had been strong from the beginning. His island, even before he ruled, had formidable defenses and a vast network of allies. They continued to grow with peace treaties and offerings, creating an unbreakable kingdom. It was a symbol of defiance that Drago had been hellbent on shattering. He had continuously attacked Stoick and his allies, hoping to weaken the man who continuously fought back when Drago tried to conquer lands; however, it seemed that Stoick only grew stronger.
The conflict had taken a heavy toll; Drago's once living island now resembled a massive death of his past success. Still, Drago's resolve only hardened, his desire for vengeance and dominance fueling his every step as he plotted his next move against the enemy island.
"They are doing this on purpose, sir. Purposely creating allies to defeat your upcoming reign, we must stop them."
"You fool!" Drago snapped, eyes burning into the soul of the man, "You think I do not know such a fact!" Drago spat, leaning down toward the smaller man, his breath grazing the mysterious man's face, causing him to flinch. "Stoick's only goal is to stop me." Drago hissed as he looked toward a decaying table, a map pinned by a blade, its sharp point piercing Berk. "It cannot go on any longer, my army is dwindling, the slaves are becoming sparse, and my island is becoming a grave for my feared reputation."
The smaller man swallowed, "I can be of aid to their downfall. I have created an idea that will put you in the race to success. We must attack Berk, threaten Stoick, and keep him from making another move, and take down his resources. While he recovers from such a loss, we gather our sources, so when we attack next, we shall be more powerful."
"And how do you suppose we do that? He will not rest; he has nothing I can use for him to follow my orders." Drago hissed, moving to his throne, and sitting in the wilted wood that seemed to cave as its sturdiness had lessened. He supported his aching head with one of his hands, rubbing his temple.
"He prepares carefully," he said. "Alliances. Trade routes. Celebrations meant to display his prosperity."
"Celebrations," Drago echoed, almost amused.
"Yes," the man continued. "A birthday approaches." That earned him Drago's full attention. "For his son." Silence thickened the air.
"Stoick has a son," he repeated.
"A frail child, at birth," the man said. "Many believed he would not survive. Yet he did. The boy is guarded carefully. Few outside Berk know of him."
Drago's eyes narrowed.
"A hidden heir," he said softly. "How unlike Stoick."
"He protects what he fears losing."
Drago had moved from his slouching position, leaning forward to stare deeply into the soul of the man who stood before him. "Continue."
"The celebration will take place at week's end," Johann continued. "Music. Food. Guards distracted by comfort. It would be... unfortunate... if something precious were taken."
"You suggest I kill the boy." The man's eyes lifted, cool and calculating.
"No." A beat of silence. "If you kill him, Stoick becomes a beast with nothing to lose. But if you take what he loves — if you make him choose between war and his family — he will hesitate."
Drago stopped in front of him.
"And the wife? The one that was destined to be mine?"
"She is rarely without escort," he said. "But even stone walls have openings." Understanding dawned in Drago's expression — not rage, not frenzy. Something far colder.
"This boy, he would offer leverage." For the first time in months, Drago laughed — not loudly, not wildly. Just once.
A quiet, satisfied sound. Drago's mind raced as he pondered the implications of what the man had just revealed to him. Stoick had always been portrayed as a man without any true weaknesses that could be exploited. But now, learning of the existence of Stoick's wife struggling to conceive, and more intriguingly, his surviving son - a son who had been kept hidden from the world, it had sparked a new sinister idea.
If Stoick held this child so dear, then perhaps striking at this vulnerable link in the chief's armor could prove to be his key to victory. The prospect of attacking what Stoick had worked so hard to protect, of robbing the man of his most precious treasure, filled Drago with a twisted sense of glee. Perhaps with the attack on his family, Stoick wouldn't be so focused on stopping Drago while he rebuilt what Stoick took, but on the family that Stoick soon wouldn't have.
Rising from his seat, Drago grinned wickedly at the man who had brought him the information, "Begin to make final preparations for the army, we shall launch our assault under the cover of darkness." The man nodded, moving from the depths of the crumbling castle and toward the docks.
With Stoick's family now in his sights, Drago felt a surge of confidence, after all this time, a weakness he had been searching for, the chink in Stoick's seemingly impenetrable armor that would allow Drago to finally claim victory.
And he would take it.