Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or settings herein; they're property of Disney Pixar, Dreamworks, and/or Cressida Cowell.
This is also on my Tumblr, so if you like it, I wouldn't mind a reblog. Thanks!
There were not enough blankets in Berk. How did anyone live like this, let alone a whole village? Hiccup barely put on a cloak before he went outside, and by the time morning came and the fire had died down she was shivering before she got out of bed. Maybe she shouldn't have insisted on coming—they had tried to warn her, after all, her dad and her mum and even Chief Stoick. "It would be better to wait," the latter had said, or written, "for late spring, when the weather will be more favorable."
She'd laughed out loud upon reading that. She was a Scot, for goodness sake; she knew what a hard winter was like. "How bad could it be?" she'd asked, and then resumed packing.
Autumn in Berk was lovely, almost as beautiful as it was in DunBroch. As the boat docked in the harbor the trees up the slope beyond the village were already gold and rust, hung over with haze; the air was just as brisk and clean as it was at home, though it smelt different, of seawater and forest and rich metallic earthiness. She'd loved it from the first, the wildness of the place, the irreverence of the people, the freedom she felt, even knowing she was there to further her lessons. Diplomacy and defensive strategies could wait until after she'd thoroughly explored the island.
The Hairy Hooligans soon added another, more thrilling topic of study to that list: dragons. ("Surprise!" Dad had said when a brace of them swooped overhead, with rough voices calling greetings. "Surprise?" she'd echoed, clutching her dagger. "We didn't want you to fash yourself. If we'd told you at home, you'd have got it in your head to see them as soon as you could. Would've driven us all mad," he'd said fondly.) Her first ride, behind the chief's son and the island's master dragon trainer, seated on the black creature called Toothless, had been more exhilarating than any climb up the Crone's Tooth. Hiccup, the lad, was more than willing to answer her breathless questions once they'd landed, and once he'd seen her appetite for excitement had taken her on increasingly pulse-pounding flights. She rode a few of the other dragons as well, but none of them were as fast or as nimble as Toothless and his lad. She didn't mind the chance to put her arms around a young man, either. Her mum would have died of shame to see her with her arms laced around his waist, or her hands resting lightly on his hips or his shoulders, but it was never inappropriate. Privately she considered all of it—the subtle strength of his muscles under her fingertips, the rumbling of his laugh against her chest, the sweat-and-embers scent of him in her nostrils—another part of her education, one she would never have got at home, though on more than one occasion it raised more questions than it answered.
And then, almost as soon as she'd got there, snow began to fall. The first time she'd woken shivering and peeked out the window, wrapped snugly in a blanket, to see light flakes falling outside, she'd giggled at the sight of it. Her hosts were amused by her delight, and she joined the traditional toast to the first snowfall with gusto. After that it got colder and colder, and her appreciation for the chilly beauty of the place turned to dismal nostalgia for summer, for barefoot days and the sun on her face. She put on every warm thing she'd brought, and then every warm thing offered to her, though the days, when she could keep warm by moving, weren't really the problem; the problem was the nights, when the temperature dropped and she was confined to a room where her blood congealed in her veins.
The forge fast became her favorite place in town. Though Stoick the Vast reminded her of her dad, it was his best friend she'd taken to more naturally. The man said what he was thinking and was always ready with some quick-witted comment. If he minded her being there while he worked, he didn't say anything, and she was glad of the ever-present warmth that bloomed in the building, allowing her to strip off layer after layer of outerwear. Some days Gobber was the only one who saw what dress she'd put on that morning.
While Gobber sorted through bits of iron the size of her finger and Hiccup fetched in armfuls of firewood she slumped on a stool, resting her head on her hand and fighting to contain a yawn. "You look terrible," the smith said conversationally. It was so matter-of-fact that she couldn't take offense even if she wanted to.
"I haven't been sleeping well." Which taboo had she just violated: A princess should not reveal intimate details to acquaintances or A princess should never imply that her hosts' hospitality was lacking? Surely her mum must have realized that sending her to a Viking tribe would do nothing for her social niceties. "Have you got anything that'll help?"
"You'll want the healer for that."
"Not a draught. Something to raise the temperature so I don't waste half the night shivering."
"As I recall, Stoick made it a point to warn you about the cold before you came." He spared her a pitiless glance and muttered something that he didn't mean about the great burden of being kind to spoiled princesses.
"Come on, Gobber," she whined as Hiccup passed, carrying his third load of logs. "There has to be something around here to warm up my bed."
His reply was drowned out by a resounding crash as the firewood dropped onto a pile of old shields. Gobber merely sighed, and a red-faced Hiccup apologized and bent to retrieve the wood. That was odd, she thought, watching him; he was normally so sure of himself, or at least sure in his movement. In the air he and Toothless were grace itself, so this clumsiness seemed out of character.
When she returned her attention to Gobber, he wore a speculative expression. "Hmm."
She narrowed her eyes. "'Hmm' what?"
"Ah, nothin'. There are several ways to sleep more warmly," he went on, businesslike. "More blankets—"
"I'm using practically every blanket in the house."
"—move closer to the hearth—"
"Are you volunteering to come move my massive bed, then?"
"—get roaring drunk beforehand—"
"A princess does not overindulge."
"—use a warming pan—"
"Give me one."
"—or don't sleep alone."
"What?" She sat up quickly and her eyes shot to Hiccup, who happened to be looking at her at that very moment, his expression unreadable. For the first time in ages she felt uncomfortably hot. "I'm not—I can't—just what are you suggesting?" she demanded.
"Dragons are warm," Gobber said with perfect nonchalance. "Get one o' them in with you and your problems will be gone. 'Cept maybe a singed nightie. Why, what did you think I meant?" One look at her flushed face told him the answer to that, and he smirked beneath his mustache.
She stood imperiously. "You must excuse me. I have things to do." Then she gathered up her vests and cloaks and swept out of the forge into the cold, only to duck around the corner and rush to throw the clothes on, murmuring curses against the weather.
That evening, as she knelt in front of the hearth, pushing more logs in, there was a knock at her door. She stood and brushed her hands off before she answered. On the other side stood Hiccup, one hand raised as if to knock again and the other behind his back.
"Hi," he said, hand lowering slowly.
"Hello." She smiled, curious about what brought him there. Not that his presence was unexpected—it was his house, after all, and the room she was occupying was his, given up for her use—or even unwelcome. She took a step back. "Would you like to come in?"
He shook his head. "I brought you something. I heard you talking about how cold you get at night, and I thought…this might help." From behind his back he brought out a small, pale yellow dragon, of the kind she thought was called a Terrible Terror. It blinked at her, flicking out a long tongue to lick its eyeball; the action was equal parts disgusting and endearing. It reminded her of her brothers, and almost without thinking she reached out to take the creature. After regarding her for a moment it sidled into her arms, its little claws pricking at her sleeves.
"Does it have a name?" she asked, bending over it and scratching the top of its head with a finger. It crooned softly and moved its head until she scratched just behind its jaw. Already she felt warmer with its little belly expanding and contracting against her forearms; between the color and the heat the dragon was like her own personal sun.
"Not yet. If you like her, and she likes you, you can do the honors."
She raised her head to look up at him. "She? It's a girl?"
"Of course," he said easily, though his low voice and his eyes on hers told a different story. "Can't let you have a strange boy in your bed." Then he half smiled, his cheeks pink, and left her cradling the Terror.
Berk felt much warmer after that.