Scandanavian nights were cold. Colder still when you were on the water, with sea spray settling on your skin and no landforms to block the breeze. Hiccup shivered. The manacles on his wrists felt like ice. He stomped his feet, trying to shake off the growing numbness. Luckily he could move around a bit-they'd chained him around the masthead, where he'd be impossible for a flying dragon to miss. The position forced him to stay standing, but he didn't want to sit anyway; he had to stay moving if he didn't want to freeze.

He heard the sailors muttering from their hiding places on deck. They were antsy, waiting for the promised dragon to show up. Hiccup glanced at the rocky ridge where he'd left Toothless. There was no sign of the Night Fury at all. Could he have swam away? Been washed out to sea by a large wave, or eaten by a sea monster? Hiccup's throat hitched with worry. He'd left Toothless alone and unable to fly from danger. If his buddy was hurt because of his carelessness...he'd never forgive himself.

He had other reasons to worry too. He felt selfish thinking of himself right now, but his mind kept straying to the unpleasant future ahead of him. If Toothless didn't show up tonight, would Alvin just kill him? Would he try to make Hiccup catch and tame another dragon? What if Toothless did eventually return and Hiccup had already been carted off? How would the dragon know what had happened? Would he...would he think Hiccup had abandoned him?

That last prospect somehow felt worse than any other. Hiccup would rather die a thousand times than let down his best friend like that.

The teen leaned against the masthead, resting on it as best he could. He was so tired. Of everything. The raids, the slaughter, the lust for blood and power. The secrets, the scheming, the lies. He just- he just wanted to live without needing to kill anyone. Why was that so hard? A murder-free life should not be this difficult to get. The gods must just really love screwing him over. A sigh escaped Hiccup's lips. He closed his eyes and tried to block out thought with the sound of lapping waves against the ship.

That sound was the only warning. Amid the splashing of the water, there was suddenly a growing whine, like a fire flaring up. Hiccup recognized it instantly-and if anyone else on the ship knew its meaning, they had no time to react before the strike. A white-hot bolt of plasma smacked the figurehead. Splinters exploded into the air and the blast of heat knocked Hiccup on his back. His chains clattered to the deck with him, glowing where the fire had severed the links. The ship bucked and dipped as a dark shape clawed its way onto the prow. Toothless flared his wings, spraying water across the deck, and let out an skull-splitting screech. He could only imagine how it looked to the sailors-a dragon-shaped void with eyes aglow, horking up a fireball behind its razor teeth. Toothless spat a fiery shot at the mast. It lit up like dry kindling, the wood groaning as it collapsed.

Hiccup leapt to his feet, vaulting onto the dragon's back. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" He snapped the tailfin into place. Toothless leapt from the ship's deck and took flight, quickly leaving the burning ship behind. Hiccup glanced back. From here, the flaming mast looked like a funeral pyre. Hopefully it didn't become one-Alvin was a monster, but Hiccup didn't wish death on anybody. He thought he saw the Viking's bulky silhouette facing them as the ship shrunk out of view. Hiccup let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He flattened himself on Toothless' neck, hugging his friend tightly. Toothless gave a concerned chirrup.

"I'm fine, bud. You came just in time." He glanced at his wrists. The manacles were still attached. He'd have to get them off when they got back to the forge. His hands were shaking, he realized. All of him was shaking.

Hiccup bit his lip, holding back a sob. "I'm fine….I'm fine… I'm fine…" He repeated it over and over, clinging to Toothless like a scared child. If he said it enough, maybe he'd believe it.

His hands did not stop shaking the whole way home.

Stoick the Vast was not happy. The chief of the Hairy Hooligan tribe had never been a ray of sunshine; optimism was not the Viking way. But now-now a constant stormcloud hung over the man, gloomy and dark and ready to snap lightning at anyone who got too close.

Hiccup's absence had not changed Berk, not in any significant way. The final exam had proceeded, with Astrid winning the honor of killing the dragon. The people still farmed, still fished, still fought as they had before. The dragon raids were as bad as ever. What did the beasts care about a single Viking gone?

Nothing had changed in Berk. Nothing but Stoick himself.

He hauled on the fishing net, scowling at the hemp strands as if they'd personally wronged him. The other fishermen were silent alongside him. Normally their work would be accompanied by chummy banter, but Stoick's storm cloud dampened any desire for jokes. Stoick knew he needed to get ahold of himself. A chief should be approachable, not drive people away. But the storm inside him would not be quelled.

His own son, caught fraternizing with a dragon.

You don't know that for sure, part of him insisted, but the objection was weak. Only Astrid had actually seen Hiccup with the beast, and it's possible she was mistaken. But the evidence piled up in her favor-there were definitely signs of a dragon having lived in the cove where she saw Hiccup. It also explained Hiccup's prowess in combat training; he'd learned the dragons' weaknesses by palling around with one. Stoick ground his teeth. He needed to stop thinking about Hiccup; every time he did, his anger only grew.

"Chief Stoick!"

Good, a distraction. Stoick twisted around. Trader Johann was plodding down the docks towards him. His brow was furrowed. Something must be wrong.

"I need ta speak wit' ya a moment," Johann said quietly. "It's about Hiccup. Is he 'ere?"

The entire dock froze at the mention of Hiccup. Stoick's fists clenched, knuckles turning white. "Hiccup is...gone," he forced through clenched teeth. "Say what ye have to say."

The furrow in Johann's brow deepened. He pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to Stoick. The chief's heart nearly stopped. He snatched the paper, half-convinced it was a poor joke. It bore a portrait of Hiccup-mediocre, but recognizable. The name beneath the portrait was wrong, but Stoick cared more about the accusation it leveled.

"Wanted for theft?" Stoick gaped. "Where did this come from?!"

"Auðrland," Johann spoke grimly. "A chief's been passin' these around fer the last week or so, sayin' he stole a prize stallion."

Stoick's practical side kicked in. He checked the listed bounty again. "Thirty eyrirs of silver fer a horse thief? That's madness." That amount could buy a thoroughbred, and a full set of tack besides.

Johann nodded in agreement. "Seemed fishy to me. Hiccup ain't the thievin' type anyhow."

"What chief set the bounty?"

"Alvin the Treacherous."

The paper crumpled in Stoick's hand. The eavesdropping fishermen couldn't hold back a gasp. Alvin the Treacherous-a name the Hooligans only spoke to curse it. He was an exile from Berk, decades back. Now he led the Outcast tribe on a faraway island. Hooligans had only two enemies: dragons and Outcasts. Stoick's blood burned. Why was Alvin looking for his son?

"Ye said it's from Auðrland?" Stoick growled.

"Aye. Some o' the merchants said Hiccup's been tradin' smithin' work there for the last month or so. I ne'er saw 'im, but-"

"Prepare a ship!" Stoick barked to the loitering Vikings. They scrambled to obey. Stoick gave Johann a hurried thanks as he stomped up the dock to find Gobber. They were going to the trading hub-and one way or another, he was getting some answers.

I did some brief research on Norse economics. An eyrir is about 27 grams. 30 eyrirs is just over 1.75 pounds, which is indeed a lot of silver, and enough to buy both a horse and tack in most markets. The more you know!
The Berk tribe is officially known as the Hooligans, at least in the books.