The Ancient World
This story takes place after Brave, Frozen, and How to Train Your Dragon 2, including content from all seasons of Riders of Berk and Race to the Edge. I own nothing.
Prolouge: A Failed Plan Repeated
The Scottish always handled their own problems. Nothing was left to wait for another day, and the straight forward solution was nearly always the best one. It was with these three principles in mind that the Dingwall Clan drove out the invaders from their eastern front. Some people might say that migrant farmers trying to establish a new grain belt did not deserve the havoc of a full army, but none of those people were Scots. Unfortunately, the monarch whose flag those poor souls had flown WAS one of those soft-hearted fools; and when the Dingwall clan refused to make reprimands for their assault, the Queen of Arendelle took their playful death threats to heart.
At first the Dingwall Clan welcomed the challenge. Everyone agreed that peace was boring. But soon Arendelle's overwhelming military, a reflection of its vast wealth, began to sweep across their territory like a sea of steel. So the Dingwalls reached out the other clans, for the only thing a Scotsman hates more than a rival clan is anyone who isn't a Scotsman. United under King Fergus and the Clan of DunBroch, the MacIntosh and MacGuffin clans joined the fray. The finer armor and greater numbers of Arendelle were broken and trod upon under the combined might of the clans, led by the four chieftains goading their warriors to a frothing fury. Merida DunBroch had never felt more unstoppable in her life than she had in those few weeks as the Scots reclaimed Dingwall lands; and none of her fellow warmongers thought twice of the lass riding up in front on Angus, dropping an Arendelle invader with each arrow in her quiver until she was forced to draw blade. As they neared the unclaimed grey territory between the Scots and Arendelle, Merida had been nearly bouncing out of her saddle in anticipation of the final battle.
For as long as she lived, Merida never saw a woman as beautiful or cold as Queen Elsa of Arendelle.
The Scots had come prepared for a war, their armies restless and eager to finish the conflict at the business end of a claymore, and the Queen's demand for surrender went unheeded. The war was lost with a wave of the Queen's hand. In seconds the pride of the Scots withered in cocoons of ice. As the frozen prisons began to constrict, the chieftains reluctantly surrendered. The terms were harsh. It would take years for the clans to pay their debt. Tension was about as tight as everyone's temper when the dragon hunters suddenly stopped bringing in goods, radically depleting what few resources were left in Scotland for the Scots. The thin Scottish patience snapped completely when they heard that it was the Vikings, one of their fiercest rivals, that shut down their biggest trading partners. With fields failing to produce enough crops to meet the Arendelle tax and feed themselves, a bold plan was proposed, argued over, and eventually agreed upon.
When the four clans amassed their armies and sailed to Viking territory, Merida had fought tooth and nail to go. But for once, it was her father who would not let her ride out to war. Instead she was tasked with leading the skeleton crew of royal guards to protect the kingdom from any who might attack while their proper armies were away. At first Merida seethed and stormed, until the English invaded. It was Merida who had the bright idea of first having the sick people under the healer's care cough on gold coins which they scattered on the path before the English, and then evacuate everyone and everything except the beer from the nearest town. As the English drank to their hearts' content, Merida and the guards set the village aflame from all sides. Those who were sober enough to run away were cut down in a swarm of arrows. Merida became a hero of Scotland once more. Emboldened by her success, Merida spent the remaining days until the fleet came riding Angus out the edge of DunBroch territory, waiting for her father to come up the path laden with loot to ease their people's suffering.
As it often is for the young, reality was a harsh awakening.
When her father and army returned it was with burns in place of gold, and the soldiers staggered under limps and the weight of failure instead of treasure and food. When Merida ran to meet her father he stared at her with eyes dead to the world, defeated; it was an expression so fundamentally wrong on her father's face that for the first time in years Merida did not know what to do. Her father told Merida and her mother, in a voice raw with defeat, story of countless victories.
He told them how the first Viking tribe they found was a collection of adolescent women living with baby dragons in tree forts, how the Scots came in by surprise and routed the women in minutes, sending the survivors fleeing for their lives and spending the rest of the day looting the village and bombarding a colony of dragon nests on the island.
The next island they sailed to held a tribe of stealthy warriors dressed all in black, led by a fierce female named Mala. The battle was ferocious but swift as the overwhelming numbers of the Scottish army swept through the village. Though these Vikings were able to call upon wild dragons to cover their retreat, the Scots managed to cut down at least half their number as they, for whatever reason, barricade themselves on a foot path leading to a volcano until a great grey behemoth of a dragon slowly flapped away, with Mala and her warriors close behind.
Still hungry for treasure, the Scots pursued the fleeing Vikings to a tribe they knew well and hated more: the Berserkers. The Scots began to sense an unsettling pattern as the notorious Dagur the Deranged swooped upon them from the back of a dragon, his war cry echoed in the screams of an island of berserkers. Once again the Scots prevailed, but here the victory was slow and costly, with each downed berserker taking four Scots with him. In the last hour of the battle before the Berserkers abandoned their island, Lord MacGuffin was crippled by a raven-haired berserker lass with a double-bladed ax. Though the island's many riches were stripped bare, righteous anger and lust for further victory propelled the four clans deeper into enemy territory, into the bowls of hell itself.
Though the fourth island in their campaign was a barren, jagged rock spiraling out of the sea, the Scots could not ignore an injury, and the decision to mount an offensive against Outcast Island was sealed the minute their fleet was ambushed by an Outcast bombardment. Here, the price of victory was inglorious to the point of depression. The Scots outnumbered the Outcasts more than twenty to one but paid for each inch of volcanic stone with pints of blood. In a grueling campaign more than twice the length of the berserker battle, the Scots advanced through canyon ambushes, spike pits, bridges that erupted in flame when they were halfway across, and the Outcasts themselves, a breed of warrior every bit as strong as the Scots and twice as fierce. At sunset, the Outcast leader Alvin the Treacherous dueled the four clan chieftains while his tribe fled. It was here that King Fergus DunBroch lost his hand; and Alvin, swearing further vengeance, leapt into the sea, his armor caked with Scottish blood. Disheartened and without loot to show for their slaughtered comrades, the Scots vowed to pursue the Outcasts and avenge their wounded king.
At this point in the story King Fergus held his head in his hands and sighed, staring down at his lap for so long Merida thought he had forgotten she and her mother were there.
So many of the previous Viking clans had been eradicated during the great dragon wars that only one stronghold remained: Berk, domain of Stoic the Vast. The Scots sailed the last leg of the journey in silence, sensing something great brewed on the horizon. The Berkians were waiting with catapults and ballista primed, longships launched, barricades manned, and bolts nocked on crossbows. But they did not advance. Instead, a cry went forth, a long screech of wild power, and a black shape shot forth from the heavens to hover above the Scottish fleet. A dragon black as midnight barred their path, and a man sat atop his back. Less than half the size of most Vikings, he cut a demonic figure of black and red leather, his face covered by a mask and his sword alight with hellfire.
Thus Merida learned of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, son of the late Stoic the Vast, and how his demand that the Scots depart in the name of peace was met with derision and an arrow.
The moment Lord MacIntosh's arrow deflected off Hiccup's shield the ships shook with a thousand war cries. The noon sun was covered as a horde of dragons filled the sky and rent the clouds with flame. Some Scots tried to fight. Others fell to their knees and prayed, convinced the end of the world was upon them. Some jumped into the sea. It did not matter though, for as one the dragons breathed forth a brilliant torrent that swept up from the back of the fleet, incinerating four fifths of the fleet. Among the swarm of beasts rode several Vikings, each guiding their own army of dragons to direct the attack. Pinned between dragon and Viking, King Fergus and the chieftains made a desperate rush for Hiccup. Lords Dingwall and MacGuffin fell gravely wounded to the dragon's explosive fire, and Hiccup managed to disarm Lord MacIntosh. But as the young Viking tried to reason with the lessor chiefs, King Fergus struck a blow that would have surely slain this commander of demons had his claymore not been blocked by a golden-haired Valkyrie.
The war ended with three strikes from her ax: one to block King Fergus's attack, one to disarm him, and one to split his ribcage open. When her father removed his shirt and cloak to show his family the wound, Merida knew no other Scotsman could have survived such a blow. Even her triplet brothers had been subdued at the sight of the great red weal, shrinking into their mother's lap. Later, the Scots learned she was named Astrid – divine beauty in the heathens' tongue – but it didn't matter much. With the chieftains down, the war was lost. Forced to agree to a surrender treaty, the Vikings allowed them to depart to their homeland.
When her father announced that in one week's time the Vikings would arrive to negotiate how much tribute the Scots owed them, Merida understood her father's hopelessness. The four clans had lost.