DISCLAIMER: I do not own either the Frozen or How to Train Your Dragon franchises.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: WELCOME DEAR READERS! I know what some of you are thinking. Here we go again with another fic-

bUT I SWEAR ON ME TWO DIMPLES I'LL UPDATE THE OTHER TWO! (just not now.) OH, and everything is reset again (like OAOA) and everything canon is not canon anymore. This fic will take place in an alternate universe, where happy endings (kinda) don't exist. I won't spoil the rest!

As for the characters appearances, Elsa's will be based on an earlier concept of her being a villain. You can interpret Evil Elsa as either the the blond version or the black haired one. I do prefer the latter. Maybe we'll be going with that. You're still free to interpret her however you like, and I'll try to keep her appearance ambiguous.

Hiccup will have a similar attire to Grimmel, with his hair pulled back. His appearance was inspired by a fanart with said description. I unfortunately can't link it here :(

(Not sure if anyone's done this before, but here we go!)

Anyhow, here is the first chapter. Enjoy~

[EDITED 08/26/20]

Chapter 1

to see the world

The waning moon gleamed and shined upon the rough waves that buffeted the beach of Berk, its flowing tides soon disrupted by a keel burrowing into its sand.

Brushing past the shouting Vikings rushing over to the harbor for the unprecedented arrival of the foreign vessels, Gobber interrogated each and everyone of them if they'd seen Stoick's boy.

It was already past his curfew, and Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the third has yet to show his face. He promised to be back by sundown after he brings him a troll's head, something he had little success with, but he and Gobber made a deal, that even if he hadn't, he'd still come home to a nice warm stew as a reward for his hard work.

And yet, the blacksmith couldn't find the young Haddock in the forge, or in any of his hiding spots under the desks, behind the chimney, everywhere. He already scoured their entire house, but there were no traces of him even being there. The chances of finding him in all the chaos was becoming slim, but he decides to try anyway, figuring all the commotion would attract some curious onlookers such as himself.

"Hiccup?!" Gobber cupped his hand to his face as he drew in a big breath to call out his name, anxiety welling in the pits of his stomach. He grew even more worried when the alarms were sounded. "Where are you, lad?!"

There's a fleet of warships and its crew disembarking in their port, where armored men of different tribes and ethnicities trickled into their shores, the likes of which they had never seen in their entire life on Berk.

The Berkians were extra prepared by the time they spotted the mooring ships, as more approached their harbor. The nightly raids had them on their toes and on alert day and night, following the protocols and routines they've established in anticipation of a dragon attack. They were well equipped, well ready for any battle to ensue.

What came that night wasn't a dragon, however.

It was a man. He was at the front of his troops, wading through the waters until they found footing on land. It had been too late to stop them when they came within range of the village square.

Dragon or not, they held their guards up higher than they usually would, as the group of intruders passed the lines of huts and deep into the center of the plaza, paying no mind to the locals when they poured in to form a blockade.

"Who the Hel are you?!"

"Ain't talkin'?"

A clamor of questions were thrown his way, but the strange man was silent in answer. His calculating eyes skimmed through the sea of faces with little to no interest in them, until it landed on a particular Viking blocking his path ahead. The acting chief. He continued to ignore the taunts and glares and shouts sent his way, his only focus was on that particular Viking.

Spitelout, who'd been left in charge to overlook the tribe, brashly came forward to stand up to who he assumed to be their leader. The warlord easily towered Spitelout by a head or two. He found it pathetic that he had to crane his neck to see the foreigner eye to eye.

"I am Drago Bludvist. I am a man of the—"

He crossed his arms, cocking a questioning brow. "Just cut to the chase. State your business."

"Show me the chief's son, and no harm is to befall your island."

All mutterings and chatter came to a sudden halt. It was so quiet, that Spitelout could hear and feel his own frantic heartbeat hammering against his chest.

Spitelout's brows shoot up his hairline as it took him a second to process his absurd request. He shook his head, placing his hands on his hips all while he snickered at the threat that followed. It was a facade, the perfect cover to hide how his knees trembled in fear when he gazed upon their ships covered in iron.

"Heard tha', men? The troll here thinks he can come here and see the chief's kid," still, the second-in-command could barely contain his chuckles at how ridiculous it sounded. "Thinks he can take us on!"

The throng of warriors erupted into a hysterical fit. Their booming guffaws tore through the silence of the night, as they sneered and laughed mockingly at the expense of the man. It doesn't draw any reaction out of him, however.

Spitelout dabbed away the tears forming from the corner of his eyes at his lack of response, at the hilarity of his presence as he tried so hard to hide his intimidation. "Wha' a load of nonsense!"

"Stoick will be here, and he'll kick yer sorry arses!" a random Viking hollered with confidence.

Drago's face lit up at the mention of the chieftain's name, emitting a soft scoff. The corners of his mouth rose into a wicked grin. He has taken no offense and was unaffected by their insults, by how they made fun of him. Their jabs did not reach his ears, and it all meant nothing but empty words as far as he's concerned. He had an armada at his disposal, so what's a little village against his overwhelming forces?

Beneath the smug face he was making, Gobber knew there was more to it than that. His guts were telling him this man's not the type to play around, and they better not treat his words lightly, for there will be consequences. He's definitely hiding something from them, judging by the way he carried himself. Perhaps it involved the gathering and Stoick, and—

No, that can't be. May the gods forbid it.

Stoick's coming back. He's sure of it. There was absolutely no need for them to worry. It takes more than a little fire to kill him, and they saw it first hand. He's Stoick. The man who brought down mightier beasts a thousand times his size using only his bare fists. He'd be too stubborn to die. He hated losing to a fight, and what he hated the most was dying.

His tribe had faith in him that he'll return, that someday he'll arrive into their shores alive and well, and his people will always be waiting. Always.

They watched Drago mutter a quiet order to one of his underlings, who then rushed over to where they carried a box of sorts. His lackey bent down to open the oak chest; his fingers were quick to unlock it, lifting the lid to root through its contents.

Inside was an iron headdress battered and scorched in flames, missing the tip of its long darkened horn. He held the item up with his two hands, each on the two horns as he returned to Drago's side, and did as he's told, flaunting the headpiece for everyone to see. Splatters of dried blood decorated the bottom, an indication its previous owner had suffered a grievous injury to the head.

The man opened his palm to receive the item. "Indeed. Your chief is here."

The horned helmet was dropped, and it fell to his feet with a muffled thunk. Ashes spilled from the upturned headpiece, a mix of fine gray and black dust scattered and were swept away once it hit the floor. The dents almost made it impossible to recognize for those who once knew it. But Gobber could never forget a friend's helmet.

As it belonged to none other than Stoick the Vast

A gasp of disbelief left their lips, sweeping through the crowd as if it were a contagious plague, slowly realizing his words and what he meant by it.

"He is home."

The village was silenced at the mere sight of it. It felt like a wall of freezing water washed over them, drowning them, leaving them frightened and in a vulnerable state. What were they to do? Gobber barely managed to breathe, unable to come to terms with the fact that Stoick was gone. But this was no time to mourn. Not now. Not when so many were already at stake. They could lose Hiccup next if they didn't do something.

Do something.

The blacksmith willed his feet to move, to do anything, only to find himself stuck in place, unable to lift a muscle as if he's under some petrifying spell. Move, you stupid—!

Instead, Spitelout was the first to sprint into action.

His grip was tight on the hilt of his sword, yelling a string of curses at the man who murdered their leader, his brother in arms, his half-brother, no less. The hulking figure raised his left arm to cover himself from the sharpened blade, leaving the general in a confused state as to why the steel of his sword hadn't cut open through flesh yet.

What he heard instead was the sound of metal clashing against metal, as the man caught it in time to return the blow, splitting the hilt into half. His prosthetic armor glinted in the moonlight, peeking from under his dragon pelt, and it was too late when Spitelout realized it was a fake limb he had aimed for. The strange man had easily rid the weapon from him, grabbed his face with his large hands before slamming him right into the dirt path with a painful thud.

"The boy. Give him to me." the behemoth of a man demanded again, turning to face the mass of Vikings, his stance unwavering.

When nobody seemed to speak, fearing for their own lives, one of his scouts returned with answers, informing him about the whereabouts of the Viking heir. Nodding, he moves forward again, through the parting crowd.

No one else dared to stand up to the commander after Spitelout's attempt, afraid they would wind up next to him, face first into the ground. Drago's presence alone screamed terrifying power and authority, and one scathing glare could make the biggest of Vikings soil their pants.

Cradling his bleeding nose, the war general numbly lifted himself off the ground, scrambled to his feet as he swayed and staggered in the direction Drago was headed.

In the direction of Stoick's home.

Gobber was not about to let that happen. This man will not take Hiccup for as long as he breathes.

"You'll never take 'im!" wielding his axe in a cry of pain, an inkling of fear found nowhere on his face, Gobber charged at the stranger with everything he's got. His eyes stung in the worst way possible, tears blurring his vision as his footsteps thundered against the dirt. His feet felt like he was dragging boulders as he sprinted across, his limbs heavy with grief as he closed the distance between them.

Their invader turned at the right moment just when he swung his blade upward, where it was hovering inches away from his shoulder, before it could do so much as touch a stand of hair on his scalp.

Gobber stopped midway when he no longer felt the weight of his weapon.

In a second, his battle axe was still attached to his wrist with his good hand supporting it, and in the next, something had cleaved its handle clean off before he could even blink. Splinters fly in the air, and it almost got him in the eye had his arm not flung backwards from the force. The tail of an armored dragon withdraws from the destruction of his wooden prosthetic, seemingly satisfied with its work.

Gobber couldn't believe what his own eyes were seeing. A dragon. One that listened to their every command, and were there for them to control. And there were more of them. It was an advantage that places the invaders above them. A nightmare for the Berkians.

It was only then did he notice that they were completely surrounded, and all means of escape had been cut off. They were cornered, left with no choice but to obey the man's words, lest they want to set their own village on fire. The beasts had swarmed the entire isle of Berk, circling around them like prey, like livestock, as they descended from the sky, taking up roost on the huts.

The tribe was prepared to engage with them from the beginning, but there were dragons involved, beasts that were oddly… behaved. Tamed. It was more like they were forced under their submission, suppressed under the armor holding them down, straining the devils from ever using their full strength. An iron collar was clamped around their jaws, connected by chains which acted as some sort of leash. It hardly gave them any reason to attack at all.

Who exactly were they? Gobber wouldn't want to stick around to find out. He had to get Hiccup. Hide him, under the bunkers and secret tunnels in the Great Hall before this monster beats him to it, before he could whisk him off the isle. The blacksmith and the war general tailed after the intruder, who appears to have located the chief's dwellings.

Soldiers flanked Drago as they marched through the plaza, the civilians fearfully recoiling and stayed clear of his path, providing a way for them.

Drago and his army had only arrived for a very short period of time, but had somehow managed to overtake the entire island of Berk in not less than an hour. Now this madman wanted them to surrender Hiccup. Their Hiccup, their talking fishbone. He had nothing vital to offer them, his scrawny toothpicks for an arm won't be any use for any heavy work, and he's barely in the age where he can even properly fend for himself. He's no threat to anyone, the sweet lad—wouldn't even raise a hand to harm a fly even if he tried.

So why Hiccup? Out of all of them, why did it have to be him?

He's only a child!

"He's not in there!" Gobber exclaimed in panic, desperately pushing past the man's entourage in hopes of finding the hut empty. This was the only time he ever had that thought. Hiccup, not there. If it were any other day, he would have combed the village only to drag his butt back to his room. Right at this moment, his face was the last thing he wanted to see.

"I only need the boy." he repeated, turning his back on them to scale the stone steps to Stoick's quaint home.

Spitelout and the others followed and flocked behind them in haste, brandishing their weapons in case the strange man does any harm to the chief next in line.

The door was violently thrown open, its hinges nearly torn off from the sheer force. Drago lets himself in, only to discover a vacant lounge and an unoccupied chair facing a fire pit, where a weakening flame flickered. His eyes darted at the loft, at the staircase for any signs of its inhabitants. Again, no one was there.

Right. Hiccup was out at Ravens point, hunting down the imaginary trolls that resided in the dense forest, the blacksmith remembered. It would take him a while to walk all the way back to his house. He won't be returning anytime soon. They just needed to buy him enough time, for the other children as well, to hide in the woods and flee to the other side of the island.

Wherever you are, lad, run. Hide. Pray to the gods he'll never—

The sound of light, tiny footsteps padded closer. It was faint, like the soft pitter patter of the rain amidst a brewing storm.

"Dad?"

The blacksmith's blood ran cold, his heart sinking at the sound of the child's voice. His shoulders dropped in stunned silence, as if the sky came crashing down on them. Hiccup wasn't supposed to be there yet… and yet…

With a wave of his hand, Drago motioned for his men to wait outside and guard the door. They ushered Gobber and the others away, pointing the tips of their spears at them warningly, preventing them from seeing what will become of Hiccup. Was he going to execute him on the spot? Gobber was on the brink of crying, his breaths coming out uneven, in broken sobs as the worst scenarios play over his head.

He inwardly chanted prayers, pleading, begging to whoever gods were listening to spare the boy. Through the crack of the door, he finally sees his tiny boots as he descended the stairs.

Then the door was shut.

May Odin be with him.

The footsteps gradually grew louder until a child appeared from the loft.

"Dad? Is that you?" a six-year old Hiccup called curiously, his excited little legs carrying him to where he heard the sound of heavy footfalls were coming from.

As he hurried down the base of the stairs, he wasn't met with the warm and gentle face of his father, no. What he found instead was an unfamiliar face covered in scars and a permanent scowl on his lips. His dreadlocks were dark and fell past his face, his garments made in a foreign design, bearing a dark cloak over his left shoulder. He was roughly around the same height as his father, but wasn't anything like him.

He nearly tumbles over the last wooden flight of stairs, but caught himself from ever falling further. Hiccup's fingers curled into a ball, clenching a fistful of his tunic over his chest, and in the other a doll was clutched tightly to his side as he crouched down to sit himself at the steps.

"Do I know you?"

"No, child. You do not know me."

Was the man's reply when he walked over to the wooden chair and turned to face him; settling himself on his father's seat that seemed to creak under his weight.

Embers floated in the air like fairies and fireflies, the smouldering fire in the pit slowly shrinking as the seconds went by. Even against the diminishing light of the flames, the gaze of the stranger was cold, distant and uncaring. The meanest Viking he'd ever seen. He might not even be a human, for all Hiccup knows.

"Are you a troll?" guessed the small boy, studying his face closely. Trolls were said to be huge, strong, and scary, and he appeared to fit the bill. But that would be mean of him to assume he was.

When he saw the white lines and marks on his face, he immediately gasped in amazement. "You have a scar just like mine! See? See? Where did you get yours?"

An uncomfortable silence stretched heavy over the household. The strange man's face was blank, void of any emotions, his eyes fixated on Hiccup's. He swallowed a lump down his throat, and asked again.

"Who are you then, mister?" the child asked. "My name's Hiccup."

He paused for a beat, then smiled softly, something he never thought he was ever capable of doing. "My name is Drago Bludvist. I am a friend."

"A friend? Really? You mean you're one of dad's chief friends?" asked the young confused Viking. His dad mentioned nothing about bringing any of his friends along to the island.

"Yes— I mean, no," Drago sighed in frustration, at his inability to properly communicate with a boy several decades younger than him. "Well, yes and no. But, no."

"Were you with him in the gathering of chieftains…?" the tiny child let go of his shirt and wrung his hands, the plushie resting on his lap, hoping to hear any news about his father.

"I was there, but I am not one of them."

"Then… how are you any different?"

"It's because I know I am." the stranger assured him.

Hiccup tucked his legs and placed his chin on the top of his knees, growing all the more curious. "Was my dad there?"

"I'm afraid not," Drago replied in a low voice, and Hiccup simply nodded in understanding. "Tell me, young one, have you seen the world?"

"No, I haven't yet, but my dad told me he'll take me to the next island when he returns," he told him, smiling brightly, his eyes are full of hope. "He just left a little while ago. He's coming back, like he always does."

"How long is a little while?"

"Forever, I guess."

"I sail from island to island. I have been to vast lands no man has ever been," the warlord glided his hand through the air, as if the rolling hills and churning waves were there at the tips of his fingers, not far from his reach. "In search of brave and worthy souls to join me for a greater purpose in their lives: to liberate the world from dragons."

"Oh, shoot! That's why you're on Berk, aren't you?!" Hiccup deduced, and it didn't take much to put two and two together. "You're going to bring me with you, aren't you, mister? To see the world?"

"You accept my offer then?"

"I get to fight dragons, and travel the world! There's nothing cooler than that!" he shot up from the stairs, grabbing the stuffed dragon by its paw and swings the it in the air, punching and swinging his pretend sword. "Count me in!"

"Let us get you out of here first." he stood from his chair to pick the boy up and held him carefully in his arms. Soon, they were out the door.

"Will there be Night Furies?"

"There is a man I know who hunted them down."

"Does that mean they're… gone?"

Again, silence.

Finally emerging from the house, for what felt like an eternity of waiting, the village watched in despair as the man had successfully captured the Haddock.

His weapon was out of his reach; there was hardly any time to retrieve it, but that didn't stop Gobber from trying again.

"Gobber!" Hiccup giggled, his fragile hands stretched out for him to hold, for him to keep safe. He promised Stoick he'd keep him safe until his return. He swore on his life he'll protect that smile. He'll protect him from trolls and goblins and gnomes he's so intent on hunting. He'll protect him. He always had, and always will. "Dargo's taking me to see the world!"

Unshed tears glistened against the wall of his eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. The warrior's blades were directed at him, at Spitelout who struggled to get past the guards, determined to save his nephew from the horrible man. Gobber goes against every sensible thought he had, shoving the spears away with his shattered appendage, taking a step closer to the pair, wanting nothing more than to rip the boy from his arms and run as fast as he could, to a place where this man won't reach him.

And he tries again.

"HICCUP!"

The boy turned around to the sound of his name, recognizing his mentor. But why does he look so… sad? Hiccup had no clue.

And again.

Maybe he'll be happier if he came along with them. And they'll find his father, and they will all get to see the world.

"Can we take Gobber with us?"

"We shall see, little one."

Little one?

The old blacksmith glared at the taller man, which Drago quickly picked up on. "Is there a problem here?"

"Hiccup," he corrected in a stern voice. "His name is Hiccup." Gobber's eyes were nailed to the ground, sighing heavily. He wasn't going to see Hiccup anymore.

For the wee years spent teaching the younger Haddock, raising him like a proper Viking and guiding him in the arts of the smiths, he was going to lose his precious apprentice to this horrible man in not less than a day. To the very man who murdered the boy's own father.

"Of course it is," the madman chuckled darkly, sending chills down the spine of everyone watching. He flinched slightly when the enormous man looked his way, and he knew he was already beginning to get on Drago's nerves. He glanced to where his subordinates were, calling them forth. "Get the boy. We set sail at once."

"What if my dad comes back? Or are you taking me to see him?" again, Hiccup's question goes unanswered. Drago's goons complied as he wordlessly hands the kid over and lets him go.

Blood raced in Gobber's ears, his face flaring with anger again. "I won't let scum like you take him!"

"And his caretaker as well."

"Yes, sir."

Everything falls silent. The Berkians helplessly spectated, basically held at knifepoint, what with all the dragons breathing down on their necks, feeling hopeless and frustrated having done nothing about it.

And all Gobber could do was watch them disappear down the slope of the hill, the hilt of spears poked at his back, prompting him to shortly follow. He could feel his knees about to give away from the combined exhaustion and all the fruitless running and searching that night. He feels pathetic. Useless.

Their procession back to the ships was quick and the hunters wasted no time when they saw Drago, hurrying to hoist the sails and draw the anchor to ready for their departure.

"I will give him everything he wants and all that he would ever need. I am a generous man." Drago promised, his back turned on him as they ascended the ship on a dinghy.

Gobber's eyes warily flitted over to the commander as he spoke. It's almost impossible to look him straight in the eye, much less his person, even with his back facing him. He hated how the madman made it sound as if Hiccup was being saved from the mediocrity of his life on Berk, that he and Stoick failed to provide for his everyday needs, failed to care for him.

His glare was burning holes at his head. Then the warlord resumes his speech once they were on deck.

"He will lead my army into greatness, for he is the son of a great man."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Every time I write drago calling Hiccup little one, i sWEAR I HEAR THANOS. But why would he call Stoick a great man without any hard feelings? Spitelout and Stoick are half-brothers? Why am I asking you this-

But, seriously, why another fic, you ask? Well, after writing only an ocean away, I had this inspiration. While I thought it was fun playing with the idea that Hiccup became a hunter, something else crossed my mind. What if we explored the opposite or evil versions of themselves?

(Dw about the 2 other fics, I'm in the process of editing and revising the next updates!) I think this would be the last fic I'll post in a while, until I get the next chapters out for the other two.

(Oh, and if anyone is curious about Hiccup's appearance, you can search "Dragon Hunter Hiccup", the artist is byEIEIEI. As for evil Elsa's concept, it was mostly inspired by arts commissioned by ForteEXEMaster)

I do hope to see you guys again in the next update! Always keep safe, everyone! Ciao~