"You're up early." Gobber narrowed his eyes as he hobbled into the smithy. "It's not like you to be working before the Terrors sing." He leaned against a workbench. "Are you sick?"

Hiccup shook his head, grogginess holding fast. His brain was fuzzy and body, sluggish. His eyes itched with protest, urging him to go back to bed. The breaking dawn and the cool, misty morning were meant to be enjoyed indoors, fast asleep under a layer of warm furs, with Sharpshot curled up against him. Not even Toothless roused him so early; but Hiccup had a purpose in that shop that kept him from dropping his head onto his workbench and dozing off again.

"No. I just have a personal p-project," he yawned. "With all the saddle orders to finish up this week, I figured I needed to do this on my own time."

He rubbed his eyes, brows knitted together as he tried to make sense of the plans he had sketched the night before when he had been more lucid. After his rendezvous with Astrid in the archives, he had hurried home with a burning idea—a way to win; a way to have the upper hand in his eventual fight with Stefnir Svenson; a way to, well, not die. Or, so he hoped.

Charcoal had moved across blank parchment with conviction, cheered on the by flickering candle. Toothless had been by Hiccup's side, head on his lap as he sketched out his victory. Hiccup had been in his element, so clever, so confident so…

Idiotic, maybe.

In the dim morning light, he scanned over the plans with new doubt.

"Dragon Blade?" Gobber mused, peering over his shoulder, suddenly much too close.

Hiccup jumped, resisting the urge to throw his arms over his work. The older man had already seen it, and it was not like his mentor was not already used to his more bizarre schemes. Hiccup was no stranger to skepticism, with his penchant for creating remarkable inventions out of the most impractical of ideas.

Gobber scoffed. "What could you possibly need a sword for? Besides, we've got a whole shop full of 'em, if you felt the need to endanger life and remaining limb." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the weapon's display, an assortment of untouched swords and axes, in less demand in recent years than dragon-related wares.

"I need this sword, Gobber. I can't…I can't exactly explain why, right now," Hiccup drummed his fingers against his work station, "but it's important."

The older Viking waved dismissively, in a manner that Hiccup knew all too well.

"I can't see the use in a flaming sword when you've got a dragon, but as long as you get the rest of your work done, I can't complain what daft project you do in your free time. It's less than a week 'til the Selection." Gobber brandished a thick finger at his apprentice. "Don't let me catch you slacking!"

"Not slacking," Hiccup muttered. "More like sitting here, hopelessly lost." He glanced over his plans one more time, scratching his head. "Now, how am I going to apply the Monstrous Nightmare saliva?" He stood up and made his way for the iron ore.


Astrid laid her head on Hiccup's shoulder. They were in the cove under the blanket of night, and their dragons were sentinels, guarding their privacy. Crawling through Hiccup's window had never been wise, trying not to step too heavily or moan too loudly. Once had been daring enough, that first time. Seeking him out as often as she did now was just stupid. That night, outdoors, only the moon spied on them, luminous in the sky and sparkling over the pond water, neutral and silent.

They had been lucky over the past week, not yet caught, not yet arousing too much suspicion. Stefnir still strutted about with his arm around Astrid like he had won some great prize—like she was his trophy to wave over everyone else. He held her tighter if Hiccup was anywhere around. She hated the way Stefnir's undesirable traits grew more and more prominent as her relationship with Hiccup became more comfortable.

She fooled herself into believing that the outcome of the holmgang had already been decided and that she was free of her arranged marriage because it was easier. She did not want to dwell on what was a more likely reality to come: Stefnir defeating Hiccup, winning her officially and holding it against her the rest of their miserable, married lives. She could sleep dreaming that fool's dream, pretending Hiccup's victory was a sure thing, and that they were simply making good on his winnings early. Believing it would be so made everything between them permissible, and she could forget.

Sitting with her lover on the cool grass felt right, tracing parallel to his inseam with her fingertips. She could laugh with Hiccup, saying whatever stupid thing came to her mind that she might bite back in her Stefnir's presence for fear of his judgment. No quip or stumbled punchline fell too flat with Hiccup. She could not remember the last time she had joked around with her future husband, so carefree.

She sat up, running her hand through his hair, which was missing a crucial piece of ornamentation.

"Handsome," she crooned, and Hiccup smiled as she twisted two braids into his hair.

Once a sad excuse to touch him, the small plaits had become enduring symbol of her affection. In public, they were a sort of claim to him, their true significance unbeknownst to anyone else. She never let him go too long without one, and though he rolled his eyes, he sat patient and still while she played with his hair.

"Thank you, Astrid," he said, gently tugging at the braids. "What would I do without you?"

She nudged him. "Not look half as stylish, for one thing."

"Oh, well, that's what matters."

He kissed her forehead and those dormant butterflies in her stomach exploded to life. She felt feminine, girlish; and it was alright as long as she still could grasp him by the tunic or the back of the head, pulling him in for a decisive lip lock in which she had all the control. Theirs was a relationship of give and take; a mutually beneficial dance between lovers. Hiccup surrendered to her as often as he advanced.

Things had been frantic those first few nights together: a bit of talk preceded the passionate entwining of their bodies in the dark, on more than one occasion. Time had been running out then, the inevitable wedding approaching that would drive a wedge between them they could not circumvent, save for the occasional desperate tryst when the nights grew too lonely and loving another's body grew too intolerable. That had driven Astrid into Hiccup's arms, his bed, with the fear their illicit affair would soon be expired.

But, they had a solution now, however improbable.

Hiccup's hand was on her waist, innocent and unmoving. Astrid crushed their lips together with less frequency in recent days, savoring the languid kissing instead. She did not know exactly how long they had been in the cove, just talking, being together; filling in the missing pieces before things escalated any further that night, as they were bound to.

Their dragons frolicked and it all seemed too comfortable, too relaxed. Astrid picked at her fingernails absentmindedly. There as a nagging fear in the corner of her mind too loud to ignore, even as she tried to muffle it with false, newfound hope.

"Hiccup…the Selection is tomorrow, and the wedding is a few days after that." She took his hand in hers, massaging over his knuckles, appreciating all the subtle details of his skin—contours and textures that made him tangible beyond the passing fantasies of adolescent desire. Details to hold onto. "You still haven't challenged Stefnir to the holmgang."

He sighed heavily and nodded, fingers curling around her hand with an acknowledging squeeze. "I intend to after the Selection. The kids and their families deserve the village's full attention tomorrow. I don't want to take away from that. It's about them, not about us, nor him."

"Hiccup…" she frowned, staring at the grass. "What are you doing about it, though? It's not enough to challenge Stef and hope for the best."

Hiccup leaned back on one hand, voice upbeat. "I have something I'm working on. I've been up early every morning. It's going to give me the advantage." His eyes had that gleam—the one that always heralded a stroke of brilliance, bordering on insanity.

"What is it?"

Hiccup pursed his lips, tilting his head one way then the other. "I think it's better if you don't know. Think of is as, um…plausible deniability!"

Astrid wrinkled her nose, yanking her hand from his. "Hiccup—"

He reached for her again, but she folded her arms, squaring her jaw. Her shoulders hunched, and his smile did little to reassure her.

"Don't worry, Astrid. I think I've got a real shot." He captured the end of her braid in his palm, stroking it with his fingers. She could not look at him though, and betray her doubt, but he dropped his hand anyway. He frowned. "You don't think so."

"It's not that I think you can't do it," she clarified, fiddling with his bangs until he jerked away. She dragged her hand over her face. "Your methods are…unconventional. But this is combat, Hiccup. Clashing swords that you can't just…think your way out of." She gripped his knee like a vice, leaning in until their eyes met. "You're actually going to have to cross blades with him, and Stef…he's brutal."

"I intend to challenge him to a fight. I'm not going to talk him into surrender, or use Toothless, or anything beyond what is acceptable by the terms of the holmgang. If I'm going to save you from him, then it has to be fair. It can't be anything that breaks the rules or can later be contested; or we'll end up right where we started. One weapon. One shield. That is what's allowed, and that's what I'm going to use." He paused for a beat, then his hand covered hers, warm and comforting. "With, y'know…my particular flair."

She sighed. "Okay, but what does that even mean?"

He shrugged and she growled, but the way he brushed his fingertips along her arm tempted her forgiveness. In her foresight, she had brought a woolen blanket to their pre-arranged meeting, and she felt they should put it to use. More pretending, more assumptions things would end in their favor. But delusions could be pleasant for a time.


Vibrant banners waved in the steady breeze, adorned with images of dragons no longer slain, but ridden by Vikings. There was not an inch of the village untouched by the enticing aroma of food. The scent of slow-roasted meats and pies wafted from simmering cauldrons and food stands. The air was thick and fragrant with fresh produce and delectable concoctions, undercut by the bitter, heady scent of copious amounts of ale. Berk hummed with excited chatter and dragons' roars. Children hurried about, practically underfoot, paying no heed to the neatness of their attire as they wrestled and played.

The Selection was a formal occasion, like Snoggletog or Winter Nights, though much newer by comparison. Traditions had to start somewhere, and dragons had become an integral part of their tribe. Stoick's decided to create a significant celebration with dragons as its focus. Any excuse to throw a festival, get drunk, and be merry, went over well the rest of the village, boosting morale. There had been no contest to a dragon-themed festival.

For two years, the Selection had been a highly anticipated event: a rite of passage for children turning ten. That had been the arbitrary age agreed upon by Hiccup, his father, and the council, for owning a dragon. They had all agreed it was impractical for younger children to select and ride dragons on a whim—something that required skill and some measure of maturity—though the Thorston Twins were the exception to the rule. Only two years in practice, the Selection had been easily and widely accepted as a defining moment in any young Hooligan's life, as if it had always been so. To be old enough to own and care for one's own dragon was monumental, marking a transition into a more responsible age. The event also served the dual purpose of keeping an accurate census—which families owned which dragons. The Selection was treated with as much reverence as their unruly village could muster.

Hiccup wrapped a fox-fur cloak around his shoulders, pinning it in place with a silver broach. He had designed the ornament himself, sporting the Strike Class emblem he had adopted as his own personal sigil. His dark charcoal-colored tunic was trimmed with silver silk samite, embroidered with knotwork at the neck, sleeves, and hem. His belt was thick and snug around his waist, tooled with stylized dragons woven into more intricate patterns on leather that fed into an ornate buckle—all a pretentious display of his wealth and status that was somehow excusable under the guise of formality. On his wrists were identical bracers of woven and studded leather. He looked every bit the son of a Viking chief; and he sighed, picking up Sharpshot and setting the dragon on his shoulder, resigned to playing his part of chief-in-training for the day.

The Terrible Terror scurried about on his upper back, wrapping his tail around him for added balance. How fortunate Sharpshot was, unconcerned with meticulous bathing and grooming at first light, or dressing himself up in display of his power—assuming he had any. Hiccup did not know if the Berk dragons had their own social hierarchy in the absence of the Red Death.

"Come on, bud," he said, stroking along Toothless's jaw to rouse the dragon from where he had been basking in the sunlight.

The Night Fury cocked his large to the side, studying Hiccup's appearance with uncertain eyes.

"Yeah, it's as uncomfortable as it looks." Hiccup did an odd sort of shimmy as he readjusted the belt around his midriff. "Let's go."

Everyone was filing toward the old arena, re-purposed as a hub for dragon racing and outdoor merriment. The densely packed throngs of Vikings and dragons was not nearly as pungent it normally was, thanks to the standard etiquette of bathing before important events. The twins did not seem all that thrilled, scratching themselves where their clean clothes chafed. They wore no furs, but instead were covered in an abundance of decent leather garb, still looking quite nice, and positively sullen about it. They nodded as Hiccup walked by, then spit into their hands and scrubbed smudges from each other's helmets.

Up ahead, Stoick the Vast stood, proud and well-armored, by his chiseled throne overlooking the old kill ring where dragons used to bleed. That day, only happiness would abound as wide-eyed children finally had dragons to call their own; one step closer to being considered a fully actualized Hooligan.

Hiccup climbed on Toothless, Sharpshot sinking his claws in deeper to the fur that cushioned him. People scattered to give the Night Fury room without a hitch in their conversations.

Hiccup flew up to join the chief, whose excess of fine armor and sumptuous fabrics made him look prepared to do battle with Thor himself. If possible, the man was more intimidating than usual, even with the ornate beads woven into his substantial beard. Hiccup was certain his regal father could give the god of thunder a good, long fight. Then, they'd probably sit down for a drink and chortle over it, swapping war stories.

Yes. That seemed completely plausible.

"Dad," Hiccup greeted, dismounting Toothless. Sharpshot scurried down his chest until he cradled the Terror in his arms.

"Ah, Hiccup!" the chief exclaimed, patting him hard on the back and Hiccup's knees almost buckled. "You look you could be chief."

Hiccup laughed dryly, forcing a well-practice, appeasing smile. "Thanks, dad. I guess that's kind of the point." He looked down at the crowd of children, gathered in the arena and jittery with excitement. They gazed around at the swelling crowd, waving to loved ones and friends. Hiccup envied them, wondering what it might have been like if he had gotten to choose Toothless, his father looking on with approval. None of the secrets. None of the lies.

"You and me, creating traditions fer this village that will endure for generations." Stoick beamed at him.

"Mmn, yeah. Tradition. I'm…I'm all about it," Hiccup muttered.

Stoick chortled again, clapping Hiccup's back. Then the chief strode forward with his arms outstretched. His voice was booming, demanding attention in a way Hiccup doubted he ever could. The chatter died down, and Hiccup placed Sharpshot back up on his shoulders, standing beside his father like a good and proper heir. He was flanked by Toothless while his father still had no dragon counterpart. Still, in the presence of his tribesmen with all of their dragons, the chief was in high spirits, feeding off the energy of a happy village. Stoick gave a nice speech about youth, responsibility, and the companionship of dragons. His word were powerful, as most all of his speeches were, but Hiccup was busy scanning the crowd to listen too closely to what his father said.

To the right of the chief stood the Jorgensons. Snotlout and Spitelout wore heavy black cloaks of fur-lined wool held in place by decorative cloak chains. Their bracers and armbands were flamboyant compared to their normal dress; and it would have been laughable how identical they looked, had his uncle not cast him a scrutinizing glare. Further down the line were other members of his father's council, including the Hoffersons. Specifically, Astrid; the only face Hiccup cared about.

She was beautiful in all-white furs, gilded threads, and simple beading. Her hair was braided over one shoulder, neat and elegant, with tiny plaits feeding into a larger one. How he wanted to touch it, unwind it, and feel it slip between his fingers. But there was a frown on her face marring the otherwise stunning vision she was. She had impeccable posture in a long azure shift, overlain with a neutral apron-skirt, fastened above each breast with a broach. A simple belt rested at her hips, cinched tight on her narrow frame and hanging loose past the buckle. Hiccup had never seen her dressed so affluently, but he suspected it was a perk of being promised to a wealthy merchant family. Indeed, Stefnir stood beside her in garb so flashy it had to be intentional.

Hiccup watched them, fists clenched. Astrid kept staring straight ahead, hands clasped in front of her has Stefnir held her close with a hand on her waist.

The rest of their tribesmen cheered as Gobber opened one of the old stalls that had once served as Hookfang's prison. Instead of a flaming Nightmare, however, young dragons ambled out into the light. There were three of each of Berk's resident species: Nadders, Nightmares, Gronckles, and Zipplebacks. Twelve in all to choose from, for the handful of kids fidgeting with anticipation. The young dragons, just nearing their adolescence, had been handpicked by Fishlegs, who had nearly hyperventilated when Hiccup had passed him the honor that year.

Gobber corralled the dragons into as neat a group as he could, appearing to be the only soul in the village who did not take the formality of the event seriously—then again, his tunic looked like it had been washed, free of stains, and perhaps that was as much as anyone could hope for.

Stoick uttered a prayer aloud, asking the Allfather and the goddess of youth, Ithunn, to guide the children and shine wisdom upon them as they selected their dragons.

There were more dragons than there were children, and inevitably some dragons would be ushered back to the stables without riders. After a time, they returned to the wilderness beholden to no one, with nothing in the village to tether them. But new bonds were formed between the little Vikings and the dragons they selected, genuine, deep, and beautiful. When the Selection was first suggested, Hiccup had been a strong supporter of it for that very reason. He knew what it was like to make a real connection with a dragon, and he thought a festival showcasing that bond was genius on his father's part. He wanted every young Hooligan to one day have that same opportunity.

Even Reyr Svenson.

The kid was an innocent, and so Hiccup did not harbor any ill will toward him; but he did roll his eyes when Reyr chose a Monstrous Nightmare. Everyone in the Svenson clan owned one, and dragon preference seemed to run in families. The breed spoke clearly of their values and the attributes they cherished. Hiccup clapped along with everyone else, shaking his head as the rest of the Svenson clan whopped and hollered loudly.

And then, it was over. Six children has chosen their dragon companions. The actual ceremony had lasted the span of half an hour, maybe, with all the pomp and circumstance included. The process of choosing the new dragons was always short, but that did not mean the festivities were to end. If anything, it was a very pleasant excuse for the necessity of the following revels. The race came next, and Hiccup saw Fishlegs and the Twins muscling their way into the arena. Snotlout had disappeared from his father's side as well, and Hiccup's heart began to hammer with gathering adrenaline. He and his friends were to do what they did best: kick ass at riding dragons.

The spectators thinned in the interim as the racers readied themselves, undoubtedly to line up for tankards of ale and cider to enjoy during the race.

Hiccup plucked Sharpshot from his shoulders and set him on the ground, and the Terrible Terror immediately became interested in a nearby pack of his scaly peers, hurrying off.

"Ready Toothless?" Hiccup asked, patting the Night Fury's thick neck.

The dragon warbled and nudged him as if to say, 'I've only been waiting all damned day!'


Astrid squeezed between bodies, careful not to tread on the hem of a nice dress, or jostle loose anyone's cloak pin. Stormfly obediently stayed put, reserving her premium seat.

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry!" she repeated inching closer to the arena where her betrothed and her lover prepped for the race in too close a proximity. They had their backs turned to one another, and though it was midsummer, it an unnaturally cool air blew between them.

"Astrid!" Stefnir chimed, pausing from adjusting Harbinger's saddle.

His smile was expectant, and she strode over to him with a sidelong glance at Hiccup, but he was busy with Toothless. She tore her eyes away from him for only a moment, to flash Stefnir a dutiful smile as he swept her into his arms. She cocked her head at the last second, and his lips brushed her cheek.

"Good luck," she told him, but there was no sincerity behind it.

"I won't need it," he replied, and Astrid suppressed the urge to laugh. His hands were on her waist, eyes traveling over her with an uncomfortable intensity. She looked up at her dragon, peering down through the chains with a soft croon. "Gods, you are beautiful."

Stefnir was too loud, and Astrid noticed Hiccup tense, much to her intended's smug satisfaction.

"Yes, well, I appreciate all the gifts, but I'm glad this outfit isn't a regular thing. It's really uncomfortable." She shifted the heavy fur stole on her shoulders.

"That's a shame. It suits you."

Astrid scoffed, examining the long, cumbersome dress. "No, it doesn't. I'd much rather have my tunic and my leggings and my—"

"You'll get used to it," he interrupted, caressing the side of her face. He just grinned. "There's more of this finery to come, once we're married."

Astrid recoiled, face scrunched. "It's not me."

"It will be."

He leaned in to kiss her again and she wiggled free from his grasp, blurting out the only escape she could think of. "I need to talk to Hiccup."

Stefnir scowled, glancing up at the other young man. He reached out and sized Astrid's wrist, tight and unyielding. "Why?" he demanded.

Her eyes went ice cold, lip curling, and Stefnir puffed up. It might have startled and intimidated her, had she any measure of respect left for him. She could not maintain eye contact. A confession was waiting on her tongue while her head spun another lie. Her lips could claim one truth, but she was certain her eyes spoke another. There was a pull, an inescapable tether between her and Hiccup, and it grew shorter the deeper she fell for him. She felt his presence behind her like the radiant heat of a dragon's flame. Stefnir indignation barely registered with her, and that false sense of security flared up again. It was a brazen and presumptuous affront to her betrothed when she backed away with a nonchalant shrug of her fur-covered shoulders.

"Wedding details," she answered, and he took a step toward her, "about the ceremonial sword he's forging for us."

"I'm handling that," he declared. He brandished a finger in Hiccup's direction. "There's no reason for you to talk to him about it."

From the corner of her eye, Astrid saw her lover drop his arms by his side. He turned toward them, though she could not read his expression in her periphery.

"You need to focus on the race for now," she asserted. "I'll worry about the sword and you…you just keep thinking up that winning strategy." She turned her back on him just as he was about to protest. "I'll be up there, cheering you on!"

A haphazard wave was all the less than enthusiastic support she could muster. She did not have to glance back to feel his gaze boring into her. His leer kept her on a proverbial short leash.

She ambled toward Hiccup, not too slow and not too desperate.

"Smooth," Hiccup murmured.

He turned back to Toothless and Astrid sidled up to him. The smirk on her face mirrored his. She wondered how much Stefnir could read in their body language from behind.

"I had to get away. He's had a death-grip on me all morning." Astrid whispered, patting Toothless when he nudged her affectionately. She felt the back of her prickle, as if Stefnir's scrutiny was the breeze bringing goosebumps to her skin.

Hiccup had the foresight not to glance her over as he replied, "Because you look incredible."

Astrid's face split into a broad grin. Stefnir had told her the same thing, but it was insulting coming from him, and possessive. Even though she felt ridiculous and costumed, a simple compliment from Hiccup had unusual sway over her self-image.

"No more than you do, Hiccup."

And he was gorgeous, really; never a word she thought would ever apply to him. He was regularly handsome, of course, in his lanky, unique, oddball way. But that fur cloak on him, the silk trim, and the dark gray clothes; it all worked together. The fine, detailed leather did not hurt, either. He looked every bit the chief Astrid believed he would become; and it would be utterly dishonest for her to deny it was a turn on. He smiled, bright and obvious, and that gap between his front teeth just added to it all, ridiculously endearing.

"Oh, but you're the prettiest," he teased.

They laughed, tugging at each other's luxurious, but uncharacteristic attire.

"Having a nice chat?" Stefnir's voice was low and close, making the two of them jump.

Hiccup rebounded first, standing taller and clenching his fists. "We were."

Stefnir rounded on him, chest swelling again but Hiccup did not balk. The older man was less than a wild dragon, and Hiccup had an almost unshakable resolve when convinced he was in the right. It did not matter he and Astrid were having an affair. To Hiccup, it was a justifiable affair. In his mind, he and Stefnir were already set to fight, though nothing had been declared—but Hiccup wanted it done, and Thor damn anyone who tried to talk him down from a ledge he so ardently wished to jump from.

"What, ah, details have the two of you worked out?" Stefnir asked him.

Hiccup easily lied, "Astrid was just suggesting I should wrap the hilt of your matrimonial sword in fine leather. I,uh…I happen to agree with her."

"Do you now?" Stefnir took a step forward.

Hiccup stood his ground, like he did with dragons, with Alvin, and with Dagur. He was his sharpest and the most cunning in such moments; his witty tongue barbed with sarcasm and thinly-veiled insults.

He said, "Yes. I support her ideas. She comes up with plenty good ones. But…I'm sure you would know all about that since you're so close and everything.".

"And what would you know about it? Or her ideas? Or anything?" Stefnir growled.

"A fair amount. I care about Astrid—about my…friends."

"Oh? I suppose that's why you've been so distant over the past couple years?"

Hiccup clenched his jaw, muscle twitching. "I had my reasons."

"Well, your friendship is a bit worn."

Hiccup actually stepped forward—a half-step, to be exact, but still an advance. "Really? Did she tell you that herself or did you just decide that for her, like you do for everything else?"

Stefnir opened his mouth, baring his teeth with a gathering derision—but a horn cut him off. One long, loud blaring note to signal the start of the race, beckoning spectators back to the arena. Gobber limped into the ring, carrying one large basket under his good arm, marked with a red rim, and kicking the other along the ground for the opposing, green team.

"Racers! Mount your dragons!" he instructed, setting the baskets in the center of the ring. "Astrid, you should get going now."

She nodded, lingering a moment longer while Hiccup and Stefnir stared each other down with palpable contempt. They stripped off their fur cloaks and turned back to their dragons. Hiccup folded his fur and set it neatly on the ground, as did Stefnir and Snotlout.

"Astrid," Hiccup mumbled under his breath, grasping her hand. She felt something cold and metallic squashed between their palms. He nodded then let go of her , climbing on Toothless.

Her fingers curled over the object in her hand, mapping the Strike Class emblem by feel alone. She smiled, clasping her other hand over it before sauntering back to her future husband.

"Good luck, Stef," she said in what she hoped was a convincing simper. "I'll be cheering for you."

He scowled down at her from where he sat, poised atop Harbinger. "Will you?"

Astrid kept walking, squeezing Hiccup's broach tighter.


"Oh, come on! That isn't legal!" Spitelout shouted, gesturing at a member of the green team, whose Deadly Nadder had nearly unseated Snotlout with a low-hanging claw.

Lap after lap had seen the same aggression. Dragon racing was not a soft and well-mannered sport, but there had been far more contact that was necessary, or typical. Meatlug had been shoulder-checked by Harbinger, sending her spiraling into a nearby house. She had recovered, but the roof had not. At one point, they had to freeze the match so Hiccup could intervene in a midair fight between Barf and Belch and the other team's Nadder. But perhaps the greatest ugliness was festering beneath the surface of a well-played game.

Toothless dove and swerve, both to snatch sheep for points and to avoid the tawny Nightmare, tailing him relentlessly. The Night Fury pulled off a spectacular grab, skimming the grass, only to climb into a sudden block by Harbinger. Stefnir grinned down at Hiccup, smug.

"Tuff!" Hiccup shouted and Toothless rolled free of the Nightmare. The sheep was airborne, bleating as it was thrown to the twins.

"The wool is ours!" Tuffnut cried dramatically.

Legs locked around Barf's neck, Ruffnut swung from her saddle and caught the sheep, hanging inverted. "The wool is ours!" she repeated.

Another opposing Nightmare was on them immediately, but the Zippleback was too close to the basket. He glided into the arena and Ruffnut sank the sheep in their goal with minimal effort. Gobber marked another point on the wall.

The team captains continued into the next lap, and Toothless shrieked in annoyance at Harbinger's uncomfortably close flying. Astrid could not make out their riders' faces, only the furious beating of their dragons' wings. Astrid glanced down the line. Stoick was sitting on his throne, squirming anxiously with a heavy, intense brow. Beside him, Spitelout was pacing, cheeks puffing with ire. All around her, Hoffersons and Svensons clapped for Stefnir and the green team. She was a silent supporter of the red team, deep in hostile territory.

"Come on, Hiccup," she whispered to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wanted to be in it; she would have Stefnir off him in a heartbeat—but she was too precious; too lovely and soon to be wed; too valuable to participate in a contact sport just before her wedding.

The spectators ducked, hands over their heads, as Toothless and Harbringer flew by, low and fast. They were streaks in the midday sky, powerful and vicious. Astrid clutched her belt where she had tucked the Strike Class broach for safe keeping. The wind off the dragons blew her hair and clothes about. As she and the other onlookers straightened up, she heard the chief bellow, "Get 'em, son!"

Stoick's encouragement was drowned in tumultuous cheers, people rooting for one team or the other. A horn blew, the black sheep was in play; and Astrid's excitement bubbled up to an unbearable volume.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and cried out, "Finish this, babe!" And there was only one person who really knew to whom she called—the one person it was meant for, and the one person who mattered.

The crowd roared as Fishlegs emerged from between two buildings, cradling the black sheep in his thick arms. His eyes were wide and anxious. He kept glancing back at the dragon riders in pursuit. The other team's Nadder and Monstrous Nightmare tore after him, and poor Meatlug growled with the strenuous flapping of her small wings. She looked pained, flying as fast as a Gronckle could; and perhaps faster than was advisable. Hookfang glided in alongside her.

"Fishlegs!" Snotlout shouted, holding up his hands.

The sheep was lobbed and he caught it, just in time for the other team to slam into Meatlug in a tangle of tails and wings.

The poor sheep struggled, but Snotlout had an unyielding grip. Hookfang veered away from the trailing dragons, flying low on the final lap to the baskets. Toothless dove to give him cover. Harbinger followed.

"TAKE IT TO THE BASKET, SNOTLOUT!" Spitelout pumped his fist into the air, looking like he might explode from the tension. The score was green-six to red-four, and the black sheep would clinch victory for Hiccup's team.

Stoick was on his feet as well, all composure forgotten. He gestured to the arena as if it could make the young man fly any faster. "Go! GO!"

Hookfang, Toothless, and Harbinger, were out in front. Stefnir flew his dragon in a tight loop, attempting to steal the sheep from above, but Toothless cut in between them. Harbringer came to a dead stop, smacked in the face by the Night Fury's tail as he passed. The majority of the crowd applauded, including the chief and Spitelout, practically dancing on the spot like giddy children. The rest of the spectators booed and hissed.

Harbinger recovered, streaking after Hookfang. Large claws seized the red Nightmare's tail, and Snotlout just barely kept himself from being thrown from his dragon from the abrupt stop.

"Foul! FOUL!" Spitelout bellowed, stomping his foot. Astrid could see the bulging of his neck veins from where she stood.

But there were no such thing as fouls in the game. The only rules in dragon racing were to drop sheep into a designated basket, and the black sheep was worth ten points. Everything else was legal.

Stefnir leaped onto Hookfang's tail, scrambling along the dragon's back toward Snotlout. Harbinger firmly held onto the other Nightmare. No matter how desperately Hookfang flapped his mighty wings, he could not move forward. He would not ignite, nor retaliate; there was an innocent Viking on his back, Snotlout not necessarily included in the tally.

"You dirty—! HICCUP!" Snotlout stood, wobbling precariously and threw the black sheep as far he could.

The animal fell in a graceful arc, but Toothless was already diving for it. He was a blurred shadow while Stefnir screamed,"NO!"

Then Hiccup had the black sheep, and his Night Fury was too fast and unchecked. He soared into the arena while the opposing team could only watched and swear. The resulting screams of red team supporters was deafening, and Astrid rubbed the lump in her belt, fighting back a grin.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, strong and bracing.

"It's alright, Astrid. It was a close game. Stefnir played hard," her father said.

"I should go see him. Show him support," she said, slipping away.

Only when she was lost among the gleeful crowd, did she finally let out a sharp laugh, unheard by anyone else.


"Seriously! What was that?" Snotlout growled. "Did you see how that asshole just attacked Hookfang?"

"I know, right? Or how about the way he kept running into Meatlug?" Fishlegs replied, turning to hug his Gronckle.

"None of that is against the rules," Hiccup told them as they weaved their way through the village. The Great Hall was their destination. Celebratory rounds of ale and mead were warranted.

Berk was a dense pack of Vikings to weave through. Everyone was shopping or tending to their own dragons. The few ten-year-olds from the Selection ceremony were congratulated on their new dragons, and on being a Hooligan.

"Well, it would be against the rules…if there were any rules," Ruffnut droned.

She ducked, nearly getting backhanded by the flailing limbs of drunken Vikings in boisterous song.

"I prefer to sort of just 'wing' it," Tuffnut said, shrugging.

"Well, at least we won. That's a good thing." Hiccup replied. "They played dirty, so I'm glad we beat them."

He waved as a family called out their thanks for the child's saddle he built. The little girl had been one of the selectees, and she was learning how to properly strap a saddle to her Gronckle.

"Yeah. It's only entertaining if we're the ones playing dirty!" Ruffnut snickered, elbowing him with a wink.

Hiccup rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was ambiguous whether or not she was making passes at him, and he thought it best not to ask.

"Ugh! This leather freakin' chafes!" Tuffnut groaned suddenly, scratching his privates with vigor.

Hiccup glanced down at his own formal attire, mildly rumpled from the game. His fur cloak was draped over his arm. Astrid still had his broach, but she had been intercepted by Stefnir after the game, steered away before she could speak with him. She had glanced apologetically over her shoulder as she was marched back out of the arena, and Hiccup could only watch.

They climbed the steps to the Great Hall, followed by their dragons. Their supporters clapped and whooped as they sauntered through the double doors. Hiccup spotted his father, beaming proudly and raising his mug. Hiccup smirked and rubbed the back of his neck, always feeling small and inadequate under his father's lofty expectations and abundant praise. Snotlout, however, adopted an obvious swagger. Fishlegs stood straighter, reflecting the glow of their tribe's adoration. Tuffnut was more interested in scoping out the nearest mug of ale he could get his hands on. Ruffnut, well…Hiccup did not know who she was making those heavy-lidded eyes at, but he was glad it was not him.

They sat at their usual table and they did not have to ask for drinks before tankards were being shoved into their hands. Particular compliments were lost among the noise: babbling, laughing, and off-key singing. Someone was playing a lute to encourage melodic screeching, and Hiccup tried not to slosh ale onto his lap as hands jovially slapped his back.

He smiled politely. He tipped his mug to his lips to avoid conversation; but through the fans he noticed a commotion, tucked away in the back of the hall. In the shadows and muffled by the surrounding revelry, Stefnir was berating Astrid. He kept grabbing for her, sharp and aggressive, and she kept wrenching free. She snarled something back at him and his fist struck the wall beside her head. Hiccup was on his feet before he even realized it.

He slammed his mug down too forcefully, because Snotlout glanced up at him, bewildered.

"What's with you?" his cousin asked, brow quirked.

"That jar of Hookfang's saliva we talked about?" Hiccup led.

"Yeaaah…?" Snotlout hesitantly followed.

"I'm going to need it as soon as possible."

Snotlout scoffed. "You're crazy, but whatever." He returned to his drink.

Hiccup was excusing himself from the table, crossing the hall with tunnel vision. A few people tried to get his attention, but the only thing he heard was the distant argument between his lover and her husband-to-be. Every blow of Stefnir's hand against the wall hurried Hiccup's pace. Toothless followed, sensing his disquiet; and seeing the frustration on Astrid's face tempted Hiccup to order a plasma blast. He was driven by his burning righteousness, imagining punching Stefnir with a satisfaction and lust for violence that would be uncharacteristic under any other circumstances. He had not intended for such an early confrontation; he was not going to challenge the other man until the morning. But Stefnir's violent hands were too close to Astrid and she was pushing back; and he grew louder, slapping her hands away from him.

Hiccup was out of patience and restraint.

"Stefnir!" he snapped.

Astrid's eye were wide, considering him from where Stefnir had her backed against the wall.

"You!" Stefnir snarled. With a flick of his wrist, something hard and metallic hit Hiccup in the chest, glinting in the light from the sconces as it fell to the floor. "What gives you the right?"

Hiccup bent down and picked up his broach, clenching his fist around it. He steeled his gut, feeling the Strike Class sigil digging into his palm.

"I have every right," he replied calmly.

"You hang around like you have chance and it's pathetic. Stop putting ideas in her head! She loves me! She wants to marry me!" Stefnir thumbed his own chest emphatically.

"Last I checked a happy marriage is a companionship. Partners—unless I've failed to grasp the concept entirely."

"We are—!"

Hiccup shook his head. "Astrid. Do you love him?"

She hesitated for a beat and Stefnir leaned in, tall and solid. She inched back up the wall until she was at her full height, glaring back at him.

"No," she answered.

He recoiled, fingers trembling as he dragged them over his mouth. His eyes were wild.

"Do you want to marry him?" Hiccup continued.

Astrid was cold as winter ice.

"No," she answered again.

"You…You lying—!" he seized her by the front of her apron-skirt, and Toothless growled in response to Hiccup's outrage.

"Take your hands off her, Stefnir!" he demanded. "I challenge you to a holmgang! Until then, the claim to Astrid is under dispute. She's not mine. She's not yours. So don't touch her!"

Astrid flinched as Stefnir snapped the beautiful necklace he had undoubtedly given her with a rough jerk of his hand. Colorful beads scattered on the floor, rolling every which way.

He stalked towards Hiccup, stopping just sort of their chests bumping, like he had done before the race.

He snickered, incredulous, "You really think you can beat me in a fight?"

"Yes."

Stefnir's nose almost touched his, and his hissed through gritted teeth, "Then I'm going to enjoy watching you bleed."