A/N: Hey everyone, it's books-are-like-dragons from Tumblr (previously Perilheart on here). This has been sitting around in my Google Docs for… a long time. I'm not sure exactly how long, but definitely at least a year, maybe even more. I wanted to finish the whole fanfic before posting it so I could make sure everything was exactly the way I wanted it, but there's no harm in posting the first chapter (which doesn't have much to do with the rest of the story) now. Just know that I won't update until I've finished all eleven chapters (and I'm about halfway through Chapter 2), so another update may not come for quite a while.

Also, the first bit of this chapter was inspired by starlightwalking's HTTYD books fanfic, "The Naming Dame"!

CHAPTER 1
THE CHESSMEN

The chessmen sat face to face,
a board of black and white between.
They matched each other pace for pace,
white pawn so close to being king.

Pawn made first move, pushed forward two;
he stumbled and tripped, but didn't fall.
Alone on the board, he felt he had scored
a win against the ruler of all.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The visitor was unannounced, but not unexpected. It was the talk of Tomorrow — the entire Archipelago, in fact. Although it had happened only five days ago, the minstrels had already been dispatched to the far corners of the Archipelago, clutching scrolls with songs so newly written that the ink stained their fingers.

So, the news had certainly made it to the Naming Dame's hut: Grimbeard the Ghastly's wife, Chinhilda, had given birth to a third son.

She grasped gnarled fingers around the ancient wooden doorknob and gave it a tug. The hinges gave a protesting whine as the Naming Dame tugged it open to come face-to-face with the King of the Wilderwest himself, Grimbeard the Ghastly. She gave a respectful bow.

'I've been expecting you, King,' said she, and slowly hobbled over to the roaring fireplace. The Naming Dame was not old, but forty years living in a dim hut with only the fire as company had aged her twice as quickly. The fire had withered her skin and the smoke had cracked her voice until she had taken on the appearance of an old woman in both body and spirit.

'Give me the child.' She held out an impatient hand. It mattered not what she named the boy. He was third in line; he would never sit on the King's marble throne. Just another brainless brute of a warrior with overdeveloped muscles, destined to fight with a battle-axe and die young. So was the fate of all Grimbeard's children.

Or so she thought when the child was handed into her frail arms. He was a small scrap of a thing, with a thin wisp of blond hair and bright blue eyes. They stared into the dancing fire, following the movement of the flames. The boy did not cry. He did not even make a sound.

He could have been my successor, the Naming Dame caught herself thinking, if he was but female, and not the King's infant.

She sighed, a throaty crackling noise mimicking the sputtering of the fire, and tossed a couple of sticks into the blaze. She knew Grimbeard would want his son to be named something Especially Viking-y, like Fatlegs or Dragonheart. Fatlegs would be better, she thought to herself as she peered into the fire. Dragonheart might remind Grimbeard of his youth, and by Woden's wavering whiskers, she wouldn't want to do that. The Naming Dame pursed her lips as the sticks shifted in the fireplace. Now, this was unexpected. Very unexpected.

The Naming Dame had never lied before, but now she was tempted. Should the boy live to grow up, he would be a Warrior, a King, the greatest Hero who ever lived. Fame and fortune would be bestowed upon his name.

But he was also a Runt.

The Fate of a Runt was to be abandoned on a hillside or pushed out to sea. Then the Runt would either be saved or perish. The Naming Dame had been taught that it was Fate's business — therefore, she was not to meddle.

But this Runt could save them all.

The Naming Dame gave a heavy sigh and handed the baby back to Chinhilda. The fire never lied, and this boy could be a Hero, if given the chance, but he was also a Runt. Although she despised leaving him at the mercy of Fate and the gods, she was bound by oath to never tell a falsehood.

'By the mighty hammer and hairy beard of Thor,' she proclaimed, speaking the words that had carved a rut into her tongue for forty years, 'I name this child Hiccup Horrendous Haddock.'

The flames spat as if in annoyance. 'The Second,' the Naming Dame added quickly, and the fire settled back down, satisfied.

Grimbeard the Ghastly gasped and sputtered, not unlike the fire itself. 'But… that's an unlucky name!' he exclaimed. 'My son cannot have that name!'

'True,' said the Naming Dame, shrugging. 'Anyone with the name Hiccup has quite an unlucky Fate, the Fate of changing the course of destiny. But,' she said as the King opened his mouth to speak again, 'your son is a Runt. And Hiccup is the name given to Runts in the Hooligan Tribe.'

'This is the King's son!' roared Grimbeard. 'He cannot be a Runt!'

'With all due respect, Your Majesty, I'm afraid Fate does not particularly care if your child is the son of a King or a pauper,' replied the Naming Dame. 'She knows her business, and she has proclaimed the boy a Runt. As is tradition, you must abandon young Hiccup on a hillside or push him out to sea. The gods' will be done.'

And that was the end of that. The King and his wife left the Naming Dame's hut, Chinhilda's feet noticeably dragging behind her.

Grimbeard the Ghastly was a man of the Law.

He was nothing if not a stern King, for only a stern King could rule the unruly tribes of the Wilderwest. There was simply no room in his heart for doubt, or sorrow, or regret. He reserved a small place in his heart for his love for Chinhilda, and filled the rest with war tactics, Insults, and the sea-salt of the Inner Isles.

The moment the Naming Dame had proclaimed the boy a Runt, he was certainly surprised, but because he was such a very stern King, Grimbeard knew exactly what he must do.

'I'll settle the funeral arrangements, Chinhilda my dear,' said Grimbeard as soon as they arrived on the steps of the castle. 'You should get some rest, you look tired.'

Chinhilda said nothing, her downcast eyes only for the baby in her arms.

'Is something the matter, my lobster-pot?'

'Is something the matter?' Chinhilda repeated, and she raised her head, eyes flashing with fire. 'Funeral arrangements? Grimbeard, this is our son. You cannot simply abandon him just because some crackpot old lady said so!'

'But the boy is a Runt—' began Grimbeard, but Chinhilda wasn't finished.

'It is a death sentence, to leave Hiccup alone in the world in the middle of winter! The gods' will, my left toe. It is a death sentence. You may as well dig a grave and lay Hiccup inside. I will not allow you to do this.

'And if you do,' Chinhilda finished with a ring, 'if you take Hiccup away from me and leave him at the mercy of the wolves and wild dragons, I will no longer call myself your wife. It is my right, Your Majesty the King.'

And with that, she turned and walked inside.

Grimbeard stayed behind, his mouth hanging open. There was no word in Norse that could accurately describe his astonishment — in fact, the only word that could was in Dragonese and that word was BOGGLE-SMASHED.

Chinhilda, leave him? What utter nonsense! She may have screamed at him, cursed him, held her axe to his throat, but never in fifteen years had Chinhilda threatened to leave him. He had to admit it frightened him, the fury of his wife's rage.

He stood there a long time, on the steps of his castle. Thinking.

Then he gave a great, low sigh, hung his head, and entered the palace.

He instructed the nearest slave to wake him around midnight, quietly and without fuss, and to make sure that Chinhilda was sleeping.

Chinhilda was a great Warrior.

She was a Very Great Warrior, in fact, the most skilled axe-fighter in the Archipelago, but she had one fatal fault that had lost her many a battle. Chinhilda loved too easily and too much.

The King had not been her first love, and would not be her last. No, her first love had been a dragon, an adorable, stupid Puggle she had rescued many years ago from the Uglithug Amber-Mines, who had been wild-born and wild-raised. Then one day the Puggle, following the scent of food, had gotten itself caught under the talons of a Rottdragon and, well, you can guess the rest. She had cried for days.

She knew this was a fault that would get her killed one day through underhanded treachery if not on the battlefield. But Chinhilda made no effort to change herself, for she could not bear to think of a life without the the thrill-ride, the fall onto rain-soaked ground, the giving of your entire heart and expecting nothing in return. I suppose you could say she had fallen in love with love itself.

And although she loved her husband, she loved her son Hiccup more. Perhaps it was because she knew that she must give him up in the end. And wasn't that what being a Viking — no, being human — was all about? Loving, and fighting for your Love even if you knew your Love was lost?

Chinhilda knew that Grimbeard would follow the Law, no matter what. After all, he was a Hooligan, and a King. She loved him, and she pitied him, and she despised herself for that. What King could do anything to deserve her pity? What kind of King would put his Laws before his own son?

She spent a long time pacing back and forth, spinning her battle-axe from hand to hand. Thinking.

Finally she came to a decision. Chinhilda caught her axe in her firm right hand and set it down. She pulled a very old trunk from a hidden place, and blew a good two inches of dust off the top. She opened it and inhaled the stale air like a blessing; the trunk was full of gold, and weapons, and armour caked in dust. This was her morning-gift, given to her by Grimbeard many years ago. She had not used it in fifteen years.

She left her lobster-claw necklace balanced on top of Grimbeard's helmet-peg, so he would know that she had gone. For Chinhilda was leaving Tomorrow, maybe leaving the Archipelago entirely, and she was taking her son with her.

But Thor's thunder was raging outside, sending down jagged bolts of lightning and sheets of pouring rain. She would leave in the morning,Chinhilda decided. After all, Hiccup would still be there next to her, sleeping in his cradle, when she awoke.

Thugheart was an Heir.

He was the son of Grimbeard the Ghastly, brought up in the great castle of Tomorrow where dragon and human slaves waited on him hand and foot. And as such, even at only nine years old Thugheart knew his own importance.

The night after his parents had brought his youngest brother to the Naming Dame, Thugheart was tossing and turning in bed. The rolling thunder outside was drowned out by his brother Chucklehead's guffaws, so loud they could be heard from Thugheart's bedroom down the hall. Chucklehead occasionally laughed in his sleep; in the morning he would say that his dream was very funny, but never told anyone what it was about. His mother often said he had a head filled with good cheer. Grimbeard more frequently said that his son had a head full of air.

After several hours unable to sleep, Thugheart decided to take a walk. He swung his legs out of bed and put on a pair of deerskin slippers, quietly grumbling about the fact that no servants were awake to put his slippers on for him. He tiptoed down the ornate hallway, which was decorated with the portraits of his ancestors, all former Kings of the Wilderwest. The oldest painting hung above the grand staircase and was of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the First King. Its face was painted over, and when he was younger Thugheart used to spend many hours sitting before the portrait of the old King, imagining what his face looked like in life.

When Thugheart reached the staircase, he looked left, then right, then carefully swung his legs over the rail. After checking once more that no one was watching, he pushed off and sailed down the smooth spiral staircase. Those stairs were polished so thoroughly that by the time he reached the bottom, Thugheart's trousers remained clean as new. He leapt off the rail and held his arms open wide like the conductor of an orchestra.

One day, thought Thugheart, this will all be mine.

'Thugheart?'

His eyes popped wide open in surprise. He hurriedly put his hands in his pockets. 'Father! Why are you awake?'

'I should ask the same of you, son,' replied Grimbeard, a twinkle in his old eye. Thugheart sincerely hoped he hadn't seen him sliding down the stair rail.

'I couldn't sleep, Father,' said Thugheart truthfully. 'The storm outside keeps me awake. And Chucklehead's chuckles…'

As if on cue, the gleeful laugh of Grimbeard's second son echoed from upstairs.

'What's that you're holding?' asked Thugheart. For indeed, his father held a small bundle of blankets in his arms.

'You should get back to bed,' said Grimbeard, stepping around Thugheart's question.

'But what are you holding?' Thugheart repeated, more than a bit annoyed. When he asked a question, he deserved to be answered!

'You're too young to understand—" Grimbeard began, but Thugheart stood on his tiptoes and snatched the bundle from his father's hairy arms.

'It's a baby!' he said in wonder. 'It's my brother! Where are you taking him?'

"Er… well,' said Grimbeard, 'he's not going to live with us anymore, Thugheart.'

'What do you mean, he's not going to live with us?'

'You see, son, this boy Hiccup is a Runt. What's the saying in the Hooligan Tribe?'

'Only the strong can belong,' Thugheart recited proudly.

'Exactly. And Hiccup is not strong. He's a weakling. So for the good of the Tribe, we must send him away.'

'Where are we sending him?'

'He's going to the gods.'

Thugheart frowned. 'Doesn't that mean he has to die?'

'Well, yes,' admitted Grimbeard.

'I'm going to go to the gods too,' Thugheart proclaimed, 'but not 'til I'm big. I'll win all the battles in Valhalla.'

And odd look came over Grimbeard's face that Thugheart couldn't decipher. But then Grimbeard bent down on one knee and looked his son straight in the eye.

'Do you want to know a secret, Thugheart?'

Thugheart nodded.

'Your brother Hiccup isn't going to Valhalla. He's not a King or a Hero, and never will be. He's nothing but a mistake. But you will be King one day, so you'd better not leave for Valhalla before your time is up. Or who else will be there to take your place — Chucklehead?' Grimbeard laughed. 'You'll be a great King of the Wilderwest one day, son.'

He took the baby from Thugheart's arms and left.

After his father was gone, Thugheart tried out the words. 'I'll be a great King of the Wilderwest one day.'

And then, 'Only the strong can belong.'

He stood there a long time, feeling the taste of these new Kingly proclamations on his tongue. Thinking.

Alone in the dark castle, Thugheart understood for the first time what that ancient saying really meant.

Hiccup lay in the dark for a long time, staring at the stars.

He did not know yet why he was alone on this hillside, or why his father had walked away whistling, or why no one would come to take him back home.

But he lay in perfect silence for hours, the starlight above drowning out the darkness all around him.

Until Hiccup heard a rustle, and saw a pair of glowing yellow eyes in the underbrush.

A/N: As you've probably guessed by now, this fanfic is telling the story of Hiccup the Second. A metaphorical chess game is also going on… but that'll be explained later. I hope you enjoyed, and please review!