A changewing flew over Thor's Wrath around dusk. As on Berk songs were sung of the heroics of their former chief, the man flying over him home island felt accomplished. Across the pines, over the rolling hills, beyond the cliffs and the little stream plummeting over the edge of the island, away over endless miles of ocean, the sun turned red-golden as she set. The sky turned into a beautiful colourful palette of colours. The western sky grew a light navy, turning lighter overhead, to a pistachio, on to a yellowish-orange haze in the distance. Flames of light erupted from the eastern horizon, touching the pink hazes in the small clouds overhead.

The rider beheld the magnificence displayed to him, but felt no real joy. He tried to determine whether he thought it was beautiful, but he could not decide. Although, for a second, just as the sun had sunk in the grey beyond and the time of shadows engulfed slowly engulfed the island from the beaches up until only the top of the uppermost trees were alight, the seemingly green tongs of flame brought him a confident feeling. A feeling of success, of victory, of satisfaction. A memory stirred of his past, but he'd never let that get in the way. He refused to remember. And yet in that one moment as only the tips of the trees were lit, a memory stirred. An old memory. Again he felt lonely. He felt cast away, and belittled. Quickly the memory faded from his mind. His revenge had been complete. Twelve dead chiefs, and the last one imprisoned. All he regretted was that Stoick never knew it was him. Finally he had what it took. And he had grabbed it by the horns. He was master. Master of all, men, women and dragon alike. All would soon bow to him. Not long now before he would reveal himself.

Just one thorn in his eye remained. The prosperity of Berk was to end. He was going to put an end to it. The inexperienced new chief had made a name for himself these past few years, making peace after long lasting feuds. But he doubted whether this young Haddock knew the dark tales of the past. A past that would come to haunt him. Revenge is patient, and after much preparation, all the more sweet the victory would become.

The rider moved towards the upper edge of the forest, so his changewing could blend in with its surroundings. He looked around across the ocean. In the distance he saw a small ship. It was at least an hour's sailing, but he could guess whom it'd be. Their de jure chief was to come back. That title he might carry for some time in the future. That depended on how long he still remained of any use to him. After all, this Snotlout was so easily manipulated. He flew down towards the docks, and told the guard them that Chief Jorgenson was to arrive within the hour, and to prepare for his arrival.

All knew who had the real power on this island by now. In secret he had infiltrated the Dragon Hunters almost six years ago. Over time he moved up the ranks and had been a chief advisor to Ryker Grimborn for over a year. He thought he could help these people destroy Berk. But everything was messed up when Viggo and Ryker had a falling-out. He had to start over, but this time with an easier prey. Well, "prey" still implies that the hunted still have freedom to roam; "cattle" might be more appropriate. Snotlout did everything he told him. Love was such a powerful weakness. He glided towards the meeting hall and gathered some soldiers.

Time passed and after a little over an hour Snotlout stepped inside the meeting hall to get some food, before tucking in.

"Harald!" he said enthusiastically. "How is the village. No troubles I presume?"

"Nothing whatsoever, sir." Harald answered.

Snotlout took some bread and ate it hungrily. He had hoped to be here a few hours earlier, but the weather was foul.

"Just wondering, sir. Where is Hookfang?"

"That lazy ton of bones, went of taking a night flight. He'll be back in a few hours I guess. How's your training going?"

"Fine." He snapped with his fingers, and suddenly Shadowwing's figure was silhouetted against a nearby pillar.

"Great!" Snotlout said. Now Snotlout turned a little more depressed, "and how are Fishlegs and Heather?"

Harald signalled with his fingers for the guards to approach. As they did so, he answered:

"They are … uhm… alive. I'll show you."

"Good! But I think I'll take a nap. We'll see tomorrow morning, won't we."

"I'll have to insist." Harald said with a slightly menacing tone.

"I really don't think so, Harald. I'm tired, and I am going to sleep, whether you insist or not." Snotlout continued eating.

"You will come with me, Snotlout Jorgenson. Whether you like it or not."

Snotlout looked up from his plate. He was getting annoyed at this conversation.

"Did I not make myself clear? I will go to my bed, and take a nap. You cannot address me like this Harald, and if you were anyone else I'd have you flogged. I'm still your chief here, and you will listen."

"But you see Snotlout, that is where you are wrong. You are officially relieved as acting chief." Snotlout startled at that. Harald turned to the guards. "Take him downstairs."

The guards grabbed Snotlout from where he sat, and under loud protestations he was "escorted" out of the meeting hall, and into the dungeons. There he was placed inside a cell, near the ones that held Heather and Fishlegs.

Both of them were in terrible shape. Fishleg's back had healed a bit, and no longer showed open wounds. They had gotten treatment so no infection would take hold. Heather got a few rags from the guards after a few days so she no longer had to endure her punishment naked. Fishleg's arms were still broken, but on the mend. No treatment was arranged for that, other than a splint attached to both his lower arms.

Snotlout's jailing was an odd turn of events. Fishlegs and Heather had been wide awake when he was literally thrown into an adjacent cell. They wondered at this. Had Snotlout not been in complete control this whole time? Or was there something else that played a part? No information whatsoever did they get from Snotlout. He remained silent and crawled away in shame. Shame of what he had done and ordered to be done to Heather. Shame for his behaviour. Love was something a Jorgenson never succumbed to. Yet he had. Shame for being used by Harald. All this time he had been a mere puppet. He could barely live with himself. He made no contact whatsoever with Fishlegs and Heather. He could not bear to see them, or their predicament.

Fishlegs and Heather had been furious with Snotlout. But now they saw him thrown in on behalf of someone Snotlout trusted completely. They tried talking to him, demanding an explanation, demanding an apology. Not a word seemed to reach him. The guards no longer cared if they spoke or not.

The next morning was one for answers. Snotlout started talking to Fishlegs, saying he hadn't meant what he did to them. And that he certainly was not responsible for the treatment they had gotten in the cells. Fishlegs did not believe him. Snotlout still did not acknowledge Heather's presence. That hurt too much. He wanted to apologize, but how to do that? How to apologize for violating a person's most basic rights. How to apologize for entering into a woman's most sacred area without permission. How to apologize for being too weak to resist his lust?

He told them he had been to Berk and that Stoick had passed. Fishlegs fell to the ground in tears upon hearing this. He had always hoped Gobber would be back in time with a cure to save the day. Snotlout decided to tell Fishlegs everything he knew. When it came to trust, that was a starter. He told him he had lied to Astrid and Hiccup about him being absent from Stoick's funeral. He told them he suspected they did not believe him.

"I don't think they believed me. Hiccup did send me back, but with little trust. I am sure he will come somewhere soon to check on you guys. That will set everything right."

"And who is in charge now?" Fishlegs asked.

"Harald is," said Snotlout. "He's been counselling me since I came here. And obviously I was fooled. He's been after the Chief's post ever since Viggo and Ryker died, I guess. And he is merciless, I can tell you."

"Really?" said Fishlegs sarcastically. He showed him the wounds on his back and face so they'd be clearly visible. "No need to tell me that. Some treatment for trying to open a door."

"I am really sorry about that, Fishlegs," Snotlout started.

"O save it, will you. You're not sorry. You wanted me. Just admit it. You wanted me so badly, and you were too weak to resist. You're nothing but a weakling, Snotlout. You could not even take me on your own. You had Harald to help you. You could not even rape me properly!" Heather yelled at him.

Snotlout dripped off to the other side of his cell.

"And now you think you're so sad because you're in here with us. Don't you?" Heather continued. "I've told you before, I had given you one chance to apologize. You screwed that up, and I can assure you, if ever I get my axe in my hands again, the first thing I'll do is use it on your overgrown head."

Snotlout remained quiet for the remainder of the day. He did not eat, and refused any further contact with the guards, Heather or Fishlegs.

In the great hall, Harald was preparing for the arrival of another ship. Around midnight he got the news that its lights were sighted. He went down towards the docks to wait for it. As the ship approached the docks, the torches on the docks were lit. Harald and his escort of ten soldiers awaited the ship at one of the piers. Two guards took the ropes from the ship and tightened it to the wooden bollards. A gangway was led down. In the shimmer of the torchlight Harald discerned two bent figures, escorted by eight sailors. One was an old-looking man with a full beard. He was bend forward as if laden with age, but walked with a pace that one might look to find in a skilled warrior. Behind him was a woman with half long hair. Her hair had a red brownish tint and reached no further than just her shoulders.

Both walked with their hand bound behind their backs and were pushed to walk across the gangway towards Harald and his men.

"Oswald!" Harald said, with a hint of enjoyment in his voice, "how nice of you to join me. And you brought Valka Haddock with you I see. Good. O, come on. What's with the gloomy faces? Is this any way to greet an old acquaintance?"

Oswald stood still, a few yards before the nearest feet he beheld in the weak light. He looked up, and his face turned sour.

His voice sounded as bad as a low menacing but powerless sound escaped his larynx.

"Drago," he growled.