DISCLAIMER - I DON'T OWN ANYTHING IN THE 'HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON' FRANCHISE
It was that time again—the long-awaited and often dreaded event where tribes from across the archipelago gathered to negotiate, argue, and reaffirm treaties.
The Thing.
For Astrid Hofferson, the pressure of being Berk's heir to these talks weighed heavily on her shoulders. The air around her seemed to grow thick with anticipation, the salty scent of the ocean mingling with the faint tang of smoke from the village hearths. She felt the weight of every step, as though the very earth beneath her feet was urging her to turn back, to avoid the coming storm of diplomacy and conflict.
"Are you ready, Astrid?" Stoick asked, his deep voice rumbling beside her as they walked toward Berk's main docks, the sound of his footsteps heavy and grounded, like the steady pulse of the island itself.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to this," Astrid muttered, her tone betraying the mix of dread and resignation she felt. The docks ahead stretched out like a vast, wooden labyrinth, the beams creaking under the pressure of the ships that were about to dock. She could already hear the clash of metal, the shouting voices, the countless hours of tense discussions that lay ahead.
Stoick let out a booming laugh, clapping her on the back with enough force to nearly send her stumbling forward. She could feel his immense strength through the heavy layers of her armor, the shock of the impact making her grip the haft of her axe just a little bit tighter. "You'll do fine, lass. You've got the Hofferson grit in you—and Odin knows we'll need it today!" His words were thick with warmth and encouragement, but Astrid could sense the underlying tension in his voice. This wasn't just any Thing; today felt different, heavier.
Astrid forced a smile, though it was anything but genuine. Her anxiety only grew as the massive ships of the other tribes approached Berk's shores, their colorful sails billowing against the wind, each one like a banner of power, pride, and history. The sails rippled and snapped in the gusts, hues of red, gold, and deep green catching the sunlight in a display of radiant authority. It was an impressive, almost overwhelming sight, the ships coming closer, their wooden hulls cutting through the waves with the force of a storm. Warriors lined the decks, their faces a mix of stern resolve and quiet anticipation, their finest armor glittering in the light. They were armed to the teeth, axes, swords, and shields gleaming as though in preparation for battle, even as the ships approached in peace.
Some might say it was grandiose, a show of wealth and status meant to intimidate or awe the onlookers. But Astrid had her own theory—this was about preparation. The thing was, these tribes didn't just come for treaties; they came ready for war, just in case the tenuous peace shattered into chaos. After all, old rivalries ran deep, and The Thing was as much about ensuring survival as it was about unity. She could already hear the murmur of the sea as the ships docked, the groan of wood against stone, the creaking of ropes and masts, each sound reminding her of the razor-thin balance that held the tribes together.
As the ships finally settled in the harbor, Astrid felt the eyes of every warrior, chieftain, and emissary on her. She could feel them sizing her up, testing her mettle. To them, she wasn't just Stoick's heir. She wasn't just the girl who had fought dragons and managed to somehow become next in line because the actual heir left the island. Today, she was the future of their island, the one who would carry the weight of their survival on her shoulders. Every glance, every word spoken in hushed tones, felt like an unspoken challenge.
In the distance, she could see the long line of chieftains making their way toward the stone platform where the talks would take place, their retinues following behind in an almost ceremonial display. The air was thick with the anticipation of both alliances and betrayals, the unspoken rules of this gathering etched deeply into the fabric of each tribe. Here, history was written not with ink, but with steel and blood.
The Bog Burglars were the first to land. Their warships, draped in the pelts of wild animals—wolves, bears, and even a few large birds—were rugged and fierce-looking, their wooden hulls scarred from countless battles. The ships seemed to reflect their people's nature: untamed, wild, and capable of enduring the harshest environments. The sails, crafted from rough-hewn hides and patched with iron, billowed in the wind like the wings of some massive, predatory bird. The air seemed to shift as the ships crept closer to the docks, a palpable sense of power hanging in the atmosphere.
Chief Bertha leapt from her vessel with a laugh that seemed to echo across the island, deep and rolling like thunder before a storm. Her weathered face broke into a broad grin, her eyes flashing with mischief. Her enormous frame—tall and thick with muscle—made her an imposing figure, her battle-worn armor gleaming in the sunlight. She swung her massive axe with ease, its weight nothing to her, and landed with a thud, her boots crunching on the gravel beneath. "Stoick!" she bellowed, her voice as loud and brash as a thunderstorm. "You old goat! Still clinging to life? I half-expected to find you a pile of bones by now and this young lassie," she gestured at Astrid, "sitting in your chair."
Stoick barked a laugh, his booming voice like the rumble of distant thunder. He placed his large hand on the pommel of his battle axe, the familiar weight grounding him. "Ha! I'll step down on my own terms, you old bat, not before!" His voice was thick with affection, but there was a gleam in his eye that showed he wasn't about to be bested by anyone, not even Bertha.
The two chiefs exchanged their usual barbs, a familiar ritual that spoke of years of camaraderie, shared battles, and mutual respect. It was the kind of playful sparring only true friends could engage in without fear of offense. Meanwhile, Camicazi, Bertha's daughter, brushed past Astrid without so much as a glance, her expression sharp and focused, eyes set ahead as she stalked toward the Great Hall with an unmistakable scowl.
Bertha glanced around, her gaze sweeping the area like a hawk searching for its prey. She noticed her daughter's absence immediately, a frown flickering across her face. "Where's that thorn in my side run off to now?" she asked with exaggerated exasperation, shaking her head in mock frustration.
Astrid, caught off guard, pointed toward the general direction of the Great Hall. "She headed inside, I think," she said, unsure of how to handle the sudden attention.
Bertha groaned and shook her head. "That girl has been a nightmare ever since I told her we were coming here for The Thing. I swear, she's doing her best to turn my hair white before my time." The gruff chuckle that escaped her lips carried a hint of exhaustion, though it was clear she adored her daughter despite the trouble she caused.
Stoick chuckled, his broad chest shaking with the sound. "Ah, daughters. But being a heir—especially now—is no easy burden." His voice was softer now, tinged with understanding.
Bertha smirked, glancing at Astrid as though suddenly remembering she wasn't the only one with a daughter to worry about. "Aye, but don't try to tell me this lass here causes you half the trouble Camicazi does me." She looked Astrid up and down, her expression a mixture of amusement and challenge.
Stoick laughed heartily, the sound filling the air like a warm breeze. "I'd be lying if I said she did. Astrid's always done what's right for Berk—makes my job easier." His words were a rare but genuine compliment, and it was clear that he was proud of his decision to make her heir.
Astrid, caught in the spotlight, offered an awkward smile, unsure how to respond. The words hung heavy in the air, her chief's pride palpable, but she wasn't used to receiving compliments of this magnitude. She simply nodded, trying to hide the faint flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck.
The Meatheads arrived next, their ships heavier and more imposing, reinforced with iron and adorned with the fearsome sigil of their tribe—an enormous bull's skull. The ships seemed to move with purpose, cutting through the water with a sense of brutal efficiency. The clanging of metal on metal echoed from their decks as warriors adjusted their weapons and shouted commands to one another, preparing to disembark.
Mogadon the Meathead led the charge, his booming laughter audible even before he stepped onto the dock. His enormous form was wrapped in thick, iron armor, a crown of twisted horns resting atop his head, and a necklace of bones hanging from his neck. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew he was feared. His son, Thuggory, followed closely behind, looking more composed than Astrid remembered. His scowl was tempered now by a practiced neutrality, though his sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the other tribes with a mixture of caution and calculation.
"Stoick!" Mogadon roared, clapping Stoick's shoulder in a friendly but firm grip that would have crushed a lesser man's bones. "Have you gained weight? Or is that armor just tighter than last time?" His voice was jovial but loud, booming through the air like a war drum.
Stoick chuckled, slapping Mogadon's back in return with such force that it seemed to rattle the air around them. "Trying to catch up to you, old friend!" The two giants laughed together, their voices blending in a thunderous chorus, clearly at ease with each other.
While the three chiefs delved into their conversation, Astrid and Thuggory exchanged a slightly awkward greeting. Their last conversation had been far from casual—Astrid had all but interrogated him, desperate to learn about Hiccup's whereabouts. Now, they stood as heirs, bound to the same responsibilities and expectations, the weight of their roles pressing down on them both.
"How's Berk been?" Thuggory asked after a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the lingering silence. His voice was soft, tentative, as if unsure how to bridge the gap between them.
Astrid shrugged, her armor creaking slightly as she moved. "The same as always." Her words were blunt, but the hint of weariness in her tone was unmistakable.
Thuggory nodded, his expression neutral but distant. "And you?"
Astrid hesitated. The truth was complicated. The past few months had been a relentless cycle of expectations, endless duties, and the ever-present pressure of filling Stoick's shoes. Joy had been a rare companion, and she had long since forgotten the taste of freedom. "About as well as you'd expect," she finally said, her tone clipped, the words almost mechanical.
Thuggory was about to respond, but Mogadon's voice rang out over the crowd. "Come, Thuggory! We're heading to the Great Hall before the Uglythugs arrive!" His tone was playful but carried a sense of urgency.
Thuggory groaned under his breath, his expression contorting with a mix of frustration and relief. "Thank the gods."
Astrid raised a brow, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "Not fond of the Uglythugs?"
Thuggory grimaced, his lips curling downward. "Let's just say the last conversation I had with the other heirs didn't go well. We're not on the best of terms."
Astrid smirked, a flicker of mischief lighting her eyes. "Was it about the time you tried to suggest making peace with the dragons?" she teased.
Thuggory looked sheepish but nodded, his ears turning pink. "Yeah, that didn't help my reputation much." He sighed, clearly uncomfortable with the memory.
"Being the outcast as the heir isn't ideal," Astrid said, her voice tinged with irony, though she knew the feeling all too well. The memory of Hiccup, once the island's outcast heir, lingered like a shadow between them.
The two shared a brief glance, the unspoken memory of Berk's former outcast heir—Hiccup—hanging between them.
Their conversation ended as they entered the Great Hall. The doors loomed ahead, dark and imposing, and as they stepped inside, the heat of the room enveloped them. It was already bustling with warriors and leaders, each staking out their place in preparation for the talks. The smell of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filled the air, a temporary comfort in the tense atmosphere. The Uglythugs would arrive soon, and then the negotiations could begin in earnest. Astrid could feel the shift in the air as the chiefs began to settle into their places, the weight of the upcoming discussions already heavy on their shoulders.
Elsewhere in the Great Hall, Ruffnut was trying to calm a fussy baby, but her patience was clearly running thin. The child squirmed in her arms, crying and flailing. "Why won't you go to sleep!" she groaned, bouncing the baby awkwardly in an attempt to soothe him. But nothing seemed to help.
Fishlegs approached cautiously, his expression softening as he saw her struggle. "Here, you're holding him wrong. See?" He gently took the baby from her arms, adjusting the infant's position. Almost immediately, the baby settled, his cries quieting to soft gurgles.
Ruffnut crossed her arms, her frustration evident as she glared at Fishlegs. "Oh, sure. Just ignore the fact that I do everything for him, and he settles for you."
"They act more like a married couple every day," Snotlout snorted from a corner, leaning toward Tuffnut, who was busy braiding the ends of his hair.
"At least you don't have to witness all of it," Tuffnut muttered, clearly unimpressed as he focused on his task of braiding his long hair. "If I have to hear one more argument over diapers, I'm going to bash my own skull in with a mace."
Snotlout grinned at the thought. "Could've been worse—you could've had me as a brother-in-law."
"Any kid with your genes wouldn't survive the first winter," Fishlegs quipped without missing a beat.
"He's not wrong," Tuffnut agreed, laughing along with Ruffnut at Snotlout's expense.
Snotlout scowled, his pride stung. "Oh, and your son's going to grow up to be the next Chief?" he sneered while pointing at the baby, clearly taking offense.
Fishlegs raised an eyebrow, grabbed Snotlout's finger, and bent it just enough to make the larger Viking yelp. "Yeah, don't push it."
Ruffnut leaned in, her voice low and teasing. "You're so hot when you do that."
Fishlegs immediately flushed, his face turning a deep shade of red, visibly flustered by her comment. Tuffnut groaned, covering his ears dramatically. "Thor, make it stop," he muttered, trying to block out the awkwardness.
Ruffnut, however, was not easily deterred. She'd been preparing a snarky jab at her twin when her attention shifted. She caught sight of Astrid walking into the Great Hall. The shieldmaiden moved with purpose, her face a mask of focus, the kind she wore when determined to block out distractions. She navigated the crowd with the ease of someone used to making her way through a battlefield, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
Ruffnut, always quick to pounce, couldn't resist. "Well, look who finally decided to check up on her friends," she drawled, her tone dripping with exaggerated disapproval. She leaned casually against a nearby table, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she watched Astrid approach.
Astrid rolled her eyes, unphased by the teasing. "You're a first-time mom, Ruffnut," she shot back, raising a brow. "Shouldn't you be more worried about your baby?"
"I can multitask!" Ruffnut scoffed, waving off the remark as though it were beneath her.
"She gets it from me," Tuffnut chimed in, braiding a strand of his hair with meticulous care.
The group turned to him, confusion written on their faces. "What?" he asked, looking up at them, seemingly unfazed. "I invented multitasking between the two of us."
Ruffnut raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly would that be?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Being dumb and stupid at the same time?"
The jab landed perfectly, and the group erupted into laughter—everyone except Astrid, who merely exhaled sharply through her nose, her expression unamused.
"Come on, Astrid, lighten up," Ruffnut nudged her friend's shoulder with a teasing glint in her eyes.
Astrid, however, brushed her off with a curt shake of her head. "Not now, Ruff. It's The Thing, and I have to make sure everything goes well." Her voice was tight with tension, and her words were clipped, showing the weight of the responsibility that she carried.
With that, Astrid turned on her heel and walked away, leaving her friends exchanging puzzled glances.
"We never see her these days," Fishlegs murmured, his gaze lingering on Astrid's retreating figure, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Yeah," Ruffnut agreed, her tone softening slightly as she watched her friend go. "She's always off shadowing Stoick and making sure she learns how to be a good chief."
Snotlout, as usual, had a less empathetic response. "If she just forfeited the chiefdom to me, then all of her problems would be solved," he declared smugly, puffing out his chest as if the idea was the most brilliant thing ever.
"I think a chicken would run Berk better than you," Ruffnut deadpanned, her voice as flat as her expression. The remark earned snickers from Fishlegs and Tuffnut.
"Regardless," Fishlegs said, his tone carrying a sudden gravity. "It's true. Astrid's been throwing herself into her duties. She's barely been training."
Ruffnut's eyes widened, scandalized. "Astrid never skips training!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in disbelief.
Tuffnut leaned in conspiratorially, his voice hushed as if sharing a secret. "I heard she skipped last week. And the week before that."
The twins gasped as if hearing the juiciest gossip in ages, their eyes wide.
"Maybe we should talk to her about it," Snotlout suggested, surprising everyone. The group turned to him in unison, their expressions ranging from disbelief to mild horror.
"What?" Snotlout demanded, crossing his arms defensively, clearly sensing their skepticism. "I'm allowed to have good ideas!"
"That might be the first thing you've ever said that makes sense," Tuffnut said, leaning back dramatically, his voice full of sarcasm. "Is this really Snotlout, or has he been replaced by some other ugly short Viking?"
"Enough," Fishlegs cut in firmly, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to wrangling unruly peers. "It's a good idea. We can't let Astrid lose herself in all of this."
The others nodded, their usual antics tempered by genuine concern for their friend. They huddled together, quietly plotting a way to approach Astrid when she wasn't so busy.
Meanwhile, across the hall, a hushed but heated argument was brewing between the other heirs. Thuggory, the Meathead heir, stood with his arms crossed, his face a mixture of frustration and indignation. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out of the conversation, but it seemed there was no escape.
"I want nothing to do with you two!" he hissed, his voice low but tinged with anger.
"Thuggory, just listen to us," Dogsbreath pleaded, his tone earnest but his patience clearly thinning. "We want to make amends."
"Make amends?" Thuggory scoffed, his voice rising in frustration. "You think an apology can fix what happened last year? You left me to face the fallout alone!"
"We know we messed up," Camicazi interjected, her tone sharp but not without a hint of regret. "That's why we're here."
Thuggory's fists clenched as his voice broke out louder than before. "You let me stand there, humiliated, in front of every tribe in the archipelago!" He cut himself off quickly, lowering his voice and glancing around to ensure no one was paying too much attention. "You're cowards, the both of you."
Camicazi's eyes narrowed. "And you're stubborn," she shot back, folding her arms with a snap. "You didn't think it through when you went and proclaimed that Berk just needed to make peace with dragons!"
"I tried to do the right thing!" Thuggory growled, his posture stiff with frustration. "I've spent the better part of a year trying to regain my tribe's respect. You have no idea what that's like."
"Okay yeah, we have no idea," Camicazi said, her voice laced with exasperation. "But you're missing the point. We're sorry. We want to help fix this."
Thuggory's scowl faltered for just a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. His arms dropped slightly as his posture softened, though skepticism still lingered in his eyes. "Help?" he asked, a bitter edge to his voice.
"Anything," Dogsbreath said firmly, locking eyes with him. "You name it."
Thuggory studied them both for a long moment, as if weighing his options. Then, a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, his demeanor shifting.
"Fine," he said, his tone deceptively casual. "You want to help? Let's make the impossible… possible."
Dogsbreath groaned, already regretting his decision. "I don't like where this is going."
"Too late," Thuggory replied, his grin widening. "You brought your dragons, right?"
"Of course," Camicazi said with a shrug, barely fazed by the request. "Spitfire's circling above, out of sight."
"Windstorm swam under the fleet," Dogsbreath added, glancing nervously around them.
"Perfect," Thuggory said, his grin growing with each word. "Here's the plan. We're going to teach Berk about dragons the way Hiccup taught us."
Camicazi's expression fell as she recognized the dangerous glint in his eyes. "You don't mean—"
"Oh, I mean exactly that," Thuggory said, his eyes gleaming with mischief and determination. "Astrid's about to get a crash course in dragon diplomacy."
Dogsbreath's stomach sank. "I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered, his voice tinged with regret. But it was clear from the look in Thuggory's eyes that there was no turning back now.