Chapter Text
“Stop!”
Astrid’s harsh voice rings across the arena. By all accounts—years, necessity, hour—it should be empty. But instead, she is faced with a phantom.
“Don’t move another inch .” Astrid hisses, readjusting her grip on her crossbow.
Stones are still skittering from the force of her footsteps. She’d taken quite the sprint down here. Thanks to years of practice, her words betray no hint of the heaving of her lungs. Unfortunately, they don’t quite have the same effect as they do on the village’s children.
Before her is a shadow of a man. His shoulders raise to his chin, as he slowly turns on one heel to her—one hand raised as a universal sign to wait . Faced with him fully, he’s… nothing imposing, actually. Barely any taller than her, barely any broader than her, and from her estimate, completely unarmed.
It’s what he’s wearing that sets her on edge. It’s a struggle to make out his form, as his pitch black leathers bleed into the darkened stone walls. She’s never seen a suit quite like it before. All layered with straps and gizmos—telling a story she isn’t equipped to understand.
And that mask he wears… It leaves only holes for his eyes, which in the dark appear to be endless voids. She never trusts anyone who hides their face. Even the metal mask Gobber sometimes wears at the forge sets her on edge.
But it’s not that simple fact that sends every hair on her body standing so far on edge that they’re about to pull free. No, this is something primal. Right at the base of her skull sits this heavy tugging feeling, trying to yank her out and away from this place. It’s a feeling she remembers
It’s the feeling of being stalked by a dragon.
The shadows begin to compress and slither behind the masked man, solidifying like water into slush into ice. A tail appears first, curling from the man’s feet with a snap. Then wings, curving right above his head. And eyes, green and slitted, staring at her like it holds her life in its hands.
She does not fear dragons. Not anymore. Not even ones of moving shadow, and flicking tail, and raised claw, and snarling teeth. Not even ones of myth, and legend, and nightmare.
It clicks into place in one smooth motion.
“ You’re the so-called Dragon Master?” Astrid demands, incredulous.
That doesn’t quite sit right, seeing as the man of legend is, by varying accounts, no less than seven feet tall—closer to eight, really—wrapped in dragon skin, mask dripping with blood, as a sword of fire burns through anyone foolish enough to trap dragons in his waters. This guy at the end of her crossbow bolt? He is not him.
But she’s only ever heard of one beast like the one currently staring her down. Blacker than night itself, rumbling with lightning, faster than the eye can trace. The King of all Beasts some call it—the Night Fury.
And suddenly, Astrid is wavering. It occurs to her all at once. The moon has whittled itself away over the last weeks, leaving them in darkness. Clouds cover the stars, stealing what little light they might hold on to. It’s a night made for darkness, a night made for bandits made of shadow. This was all planned.
Overhead, the chains are still creaking and sparking from where they were blasted open. If Astrid weren’t so paranoid, no one would be here to stop this. She is all that stands in his way.
The Dragon Master targets dragon trappers, traders, hunters. It’s said he will blow entire glaciers apart to punish those he deem irredeemable. There is nothing he won’t do to free a dragon. Ships, strongholds, seas be damned.
Pray, they say, pray lest he ever find you. If he does, throw yourself at his feet and offer yourself as his disciple, ready to learn and be redeemed. Should he be in a merciful mood, perhaps you will be saved from the fate of so many—devoured inch by precious inch by his unholy pet.
Now he has come to Berk, where Astrid has a blue Nadder caged not five feet from him.
✧
Astrid wakes on the day of the final exam simmering. It should be her out there. Freshly sharpened axe in hand as she stares down the Monstrous Nightmare, before cleanly taking its head.
But no. It’s the chief’s scrawny brat instead.
She storms out into the woods for a while, alternating between throwing her axe into blameless trees, and resharpening its blade, hoping to cut even further. None of it changes her reality.
When she returns to the village, she finds that reality shattered anyhow.
Hiccup is missing.
The chief woke up, and his son wasn’t there. He wasn’t with Gobber either, nor any of their classmates—not even darling old Gothi had given him shelter. No one really minded at first. Hiccup was known for running off doing gods know what.
But then the time for the exam comes and passes. Then evening does the same. Then another, and another. And still, no sign of him.
On the third day, Stoick begins to show his worry. It can no longer be chalked up to a case of cold feet, nor Hiccup’s wandering attention.
A search party is sent out. Their best hunters track the footprints from the back of the Chief’s hut out to the forest, and into a cove. Then, they vanish.
Intermingled are the claw prints of a dragon.
It’s quite obvious what happened. Poor little Hiccup met the same fate as his mother—carried away as some dragon’s catch of the day. But unlike Valka, Stoick insists that Hiccup is still out there, that somehow he survived and will return to them. No one dared wake him from the daydream.
Quite silently, the village mourns.
✧
Somewhere along the way, Astrid came to… replace Hiccup. She quickly took her place as top of the class once more. Only she was not allowed the dignity of a final exam—Stoick put the event on hold until Hiccup’s eventual ‘return.’ The Monstrous Nightmare he was meant to kill remains in its cage.
Years pass, and the chief starts looking to Astrid for advice. Then he begins delegating tasks. It’s quietly understood that she is the new heir to the chiefdom of Berk.
At some point, Astrid forgot about Hiccup entirely.
✧
Astrid never gets her chance to kill a dragon.
She’s still treated as a child without the final exam, and all the village refuses her when she takes up arms during the raids. Just like always, she’s relegated to firefighting duty. She loathes it.
Before she gets up the courage to voice her protests to the Chief, the storm comes.
They don’t feel it on Berk. They’re simply spectators, watching the pitch black clouds roil over Helheim’s Gate—and the supposed dragon nest. That in itself is nothing notable. What sends the fisherman returning to shore shaking is the lightning.
When the Chief’s retinue head out on their own boat, Astrid slipping onboard during the chaos, they’re left speechless. The black clouds do indeed flicker with light. It’s impossible, but Astrid will swear she could feel the force of the blasts even from that distance. And in the clouds…
It’s unlike their worst myths, even the ones they cannot tell the children lest they frighten them half to death. Shadowed in the clouds is a beast the size of a mountain, wings the span of Berk itself. Its fire shines an ominous orange, and the wind bears the scalding heat of it.
Men puke over the side. Those left with their dinners intact pray to the gods for mercy. Others swear the end times are here, that this dragon will come for them and swallow the village whole. Astrid stands at the back of the boat, and she cries.
But then, with a moan that causes breaks in the waves, the monstrous dragon falls from the sky in a ball of fire. The force of it colliding with the ground causes Astrid’s teeth to chatter. Without question, they just watched a creature from Hel itself die.
There is no cheer upon the boat. Only a still fear as they row back to shore. No one speaks of what they saw upon their return. Stoick grumbles to the curious spectators that the fishermen have lost what little was left of their minds.
That night, Astrid can’t sleep.
She will wonder for years in fear of what sort of beast could bring that monster down.
✧
After the storm, the dragons just… vanish.
There are no more raids. Their livestock are safe. The houses are allowed to grow old and rotten. No more boats need be burned.
The vermin don’t disappear entirely. No, they’re still seen off the coasts, dredging fish up from the depths. Children are warned not to go wandering into the woods, lest they find one napping. Snotlout gets pooped on by one once. Somehow, Astrid laughs.
But there’s no more death, no more fighting, no more struggle for control. They learn to… cohabitate. For the first time in any of their lives, there’s peace.
✧
Not long after, they wake to a hole blasted in the chains of the arena, the cages left open and empty.
Everyone is too relieved to be rid of the dragons to care.
✧
With the war come to a sudden, shocking standstill, Berk is allowed to heal. And then it finds its strength. Then it begins to grow.
Longboats that were once designated for demise within Helheim’s Gate are now sent to distant shores, trading surplus weapons that were once vital. They come back with meats, and cheeses, and fabric, and paper, and dye. They return with leather, and decorated blades, and wooden toys. But most of all, they come bearing stories.
Astrid doesn’t remember the first time she heard of him. Nor the second. Nor the third. Nor the latest. But somehow, the tale of the Dragon Master found its way into the folklore of the village.
Traders from far will warn of a man clad in dragon skin, face covered, moving like a walking shadow. With him, a shadow of his own. If he or his beast smell a single drop of dragon blood on you or your weapon, they will burn you right where you stand. And if you catch him on a bad day, he’ll take the whole village down with you.
The version the Chief and his council hear, directly from their own trusted traders, is that of a… dragon vigilante. Somehow, someone has tamed a beast. Now, he rides it about the Archipelago hunting those in the dragon business and leaves them physically scarred and whimpering. Despite the tall tales, he is very, very real.
Stories come to them frequently. How the Dragon Master freed a flock of Terrible Terrors from being barbecued, or burned a hunter’s cart of dragon skins, or helped a poor fisherman free his boat from the ice. It’s harmless enough. Except that the children have a new hero, and now yell protestations whenever the adults guffaw about dragons on the coastline.
Astrid doesn’t think much of it. The stories are good entertainment during dinners in the Great Hall. It’s not something to worry about, they’re just a tiny island village. Besides, they’ve learned to leave the dragons well enough alone. There’s no reason for the ghost of the north to bother them.
✧
It takes a while for Stoick to really, truly accept it.
They found no blood, he would argue. There were no clothing scraps, he would insist. If Hiccup were truly gone, there would be some sign, wouldn’t there? It was a plea.
But over the years, slowly, Stoick comes to it. His son is dead and gone. Taken in the same way that his dear wife was. The heir he had just begun to grow proud of would never get to join him in battle. Would he even make it to Valhalla?
There is no moment that Astrid realizes he’s accepted it. Nor is there one where she realizes how angry he is. It starts when he doesn’t shout at the fishermen telling tales of tormenting Gronckles sleeping on the beach. From there, he doesn’t lecture about keeping the peace when hunters return with Nadder spikes and a smile, boasting about chasing one off. He stands and watches with the rest of them as the twins dangle a Terrible Terror over an ice bath, chuckling as it squeals.
Astrid has to wonder if this is truly acceptance.
✧
The tallest of the mountain scraping tall tales of the Dragon Master comes to them with the first shipment of spring. Their favorite storyteller, Johann, spins the story that the Dragon Master took down Drago Bludvist himself. Even Stoick gives a good disbelieving laugh to that.
But then, another trader comes bearing the story. And another. And another, and soon every trader of the season is telling them the same thing. Each one is more serious than the last. As if the knowledge is really, truly setting in for them too. The last of them are reduced to whispering the news on the dock, wide-eyed to the skies like the Dragon Master himself will come strike them down for spreading tell.
By the time the waters begin to freeze over again, the Chief is in quite a sour mood indeed.
✧
Once the worst of the freeze has let up, something has changed in Stoick. There’s… anger in him that Astrid hasn’t seen since she was a girl. He calls for her, for Gobber, for the best trackers and trappers in the tribe.
There’s a Deadly Nadder that sometimes enjoys perching at the peak of Gothi’s spire. It’s putting their most important elder at risk, Stoick insists. They cannot allow the dragons to take anything else from them, and it’s truly only a matter of time. They must strike first.
By this point, the other adults are licking their chops, bloodlust in their eyes. Even despite her reservations, Astrid finds herself caught up in it too. The Chief has that effect on people. He makes them believe in something.
They head out into the woods. It’s not hard to find the tracks. Dragon’s aren’t known for being covert in their comings and goings. Besides, by Astrid’s count there’s only a few Nadderheads that have taken up permanent residence on the island. No matter where the trail leads, they’re likely to find their quarry.
Not that Astrid thinks it will particularly matter. At this point, any dragon will do, she thinks. They could tie two Terrible Terrors together by the tail and Stoick would throw a feast for them.
It’s easy enough to find the dragon—they don’t go out of their way to hide their presences anymore. Astrid knows it’s the correct one based on how Stoick described its coloring. She knows it more personally from the scar she left on its beak during arena training.
To a newcomer, it may seem surprisingly easy to trap dragons. That’s because, frankly, it is. They’re big, hungry, instinct driven creatures. With enough knowledge—which the senior warriors of their tribe certainly have—the scaly thing is wrapped up in just under an hour.
As they begin dragging it back to the village, Astrid finds herself trailing behind. She worries over all the things that the Chief might be planning to do with the poor beast. Moreover, what kind of things the village might be willing to do to it.
She’ll just have to keep an eye on things…