Fishlegs hefts the last saddle onto the wall hanger with a small grunt and brushes his hands down his tunic to rub away the raw tingle brought on by the heavy lifting.

"You didn't have to help pack away," Heather says gratefully as she shelves an armful of miscellaneous grooming supplies.

"That's okay, I wanted to," Fishlegs says, smiling and pink-cheeked.

"We didn't," Ruff complains. She and her brother are still working at the Gordian knot of harness straps that resulted from stuffing all six back into their crate at the end of the lesson and that Heather insisted they untangle before they were allowed get on with the rest of their afternoon.

"Then next time make sure you put things away properly," Heather tells them, rolling her eyes.

Snotlout is dozing on a haystack at the back of the storehouse, helmet covering his face, having instructed his friends only to wake him if they think up something fun to do with their free time. The change from yesterday's purchase rattles in Fishlegs' coin purse, but Snot probably wouldn't get up on the promise of one-quarter of a pastry – one-fifth, even, if Heather decides to join them, which Fishlegs is secretly hoping for. But he knows that's unlikely – Heather probably has plenty more important things to do than hang out with him – er, them. But if she didn't, and in the remote possibility that she wants to spend more time together, she'd probably know all the coolest places to go.

Fishlegs reckons he's just about forgiven her for kidnapping him yesterday. When he discovered the Dragon Master's true identity, he was thinking far too rashly. Everything seemed so simple, so absolute, but there was more nuance to the situation than he was able to appreciate before Heather trussed him up and gave Hiccup the chance to explain. Fishlegs still isn't entirely convinced all the smoke and mirrors are necessary, but Heather helped show him that it's not his place to shatter them. Not yet, anyway.

Fishlegs kind of wishes he could have stayed cross with her a little longer because the heat of his temper has been exchanged for a near-constant flush of embarrassment whenever she's near. He feels self-conscious and clumsy and can't help tripping over his words. Like now, for instance. He'd like to ask her what there is to do for fun around the city, but just the thought of asking brings him out in a rash. What if she thinks he's trying to ask her on a date? Or takes it as a slight against her ability to make dragon training good fun? Because that would be manifestly untrue – today's has been Fishlegs' favourite lesson yet. He really enjoys the way she lectures and, you know, the general lack of practical teaching. Not that he's totally against revisiting the Roosts' commons at some point… eventually – more that it was a nice breather amidst the chaos of the rest of the week, and the chaos he knows is yet to come.

After wringing his hands for a few more moments, Fishlegs finds the beginnings of the precise invitation he wishes to extend.

"Um, Heather–"

"Put the shears down!" Heather shouts, a sharp warning to the twins.

Fishlegs jumps. The twins glower, but Tuffnut reluctantly tosses the set of shears over his shoulder and they both resume twisting and teasing the knotted leather straps. The blades land sharp-edge-down, sticking out of the haystack, inches from Snotlout's head. He wakes with a start, fumbling to grab his helmet as it rolls away.

"Alright, who threw these?" he demands, helmet askew, brandishing the offending shears.

Both twins raise their hands.

"Matching haircuts it is, then," Snot declares, grinning maniacally.

Fishlegs watches him chase their cackling friends out of the storehouse before returning his attention to Heather. He watches as she sighs, approaches the tangle of harnesses the twins have abandoned and unfastens a single buckle. She manages to separate each harness before laying them neatly inside the crate.

"What were you about to say?" Heather asks sweetly, closing the lid.

"Um… I, er… would you…?" he stammers, having completely forgotten everything he rehearsed in his mind.

"Hey, do you wanna come to Tankard and Table with me?" she asks abruptly.

"Tankard and Table?" Fishlegs echoes, feeling a little lost from the sudden non-sequitur.

"Yeah, it's this tavern up in the leisure quarter. They have all kinds of strategy games, like King's Table and Nine Men's Morris…" she trails off invitingly.

"Oh, um, I don't really gamble," he admits, mentally kicking himself. If Fishlegs didn't know any better, he would say this sounds suspiciously like a date. And even though he knows it's not – that he's probably, almost definitely, not Heather's type – wasn't he just wishing to spend more time with her not thirty seconds ago?

"Neither do I," Heather replies sunnily. "We mostly play for fun here. Our illustrious Dragon Master set limits on how much you can wager, which is fairly ironic given the stakes he's playing for now," she chuckles. "I'd almost say it was a shame – Hiccup could be as rich as a king with his head for strategy. We both could, really. He says I'm the only one who can give him a run for his money – metaphorically speaking." Heather smirks.

"Hold up, 'could be' as rich as a king?" Fishlegs queries. "I've heard the Dragon Master has more coin than stars in the sky; that his coffers are more full than any this side of… of Rome!"

"Nope," says Heather, popping the 'p'. "I mean, he's hardly destitute," she allows, "but, contrary to popular belief, Hiccup isn't swimming in it like those frilly royal mainlanders."

"But what about, you know, taxes and stuff?" Fishlegs contends, determined to defend the existence of Hiccup's legendary fortune.

"Does our Hiccup really seem like the type to line his pockets with his people's hard-earned gold? Please, it all goes back into the city, one way or another. There's the war effort, the amenities, the infrastructure," Heather says ticking things off with her fingers. "He's not one to crow about it, of course, so it's no wonder half the archipelago thinks my family has a rather nice nest egg, but hoarding taxes isn't gonna help take out the Queen, that's for sure. Sorry to disappoint," she adds, giving him an arch look.

"Why would I be disappointed?" Fish asks, genuinely confused. He's surprised, sure, but not let down; if anything, he's impressed by the Haddocks' shining moral compasses, to forfeit a potential fortune for the greater good is the mark of a true leader.

Heather shrugs. "Men often are when they realise I don't in fact have an enormous dowry," she says matter-of-factly. Fishlegs flushes scarlet. "Oh my gods, your face! I'm not expecting you to marry me," she giggles, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "I'm just asking you on a date. You, me, Morris? It'll be fun, I promise," she wheedles, but it's wholly unnecessary.

"Sure," he squeaks, heart in his throat.

Fishlegs is pretty sure he'd agree to just about anything as long as it were Heather asking. Besides, it does sound pretty fun. He hasn't had a good game of Nine Men's Morris since… well, probably since Hiccup left.

"Nice," Heather cheers, knocking his elbow with hers. "Hiccup says you're smart, so maybe I won't completely slaughter you. He's been too busy to play since I got back, and no one else even counts as competition, she says, echoing his thoughts.

"I'll do my best," he vows, with faux solemnity.

The smile she gives him is pure sunlight. This is almost worse than when he thought his affection wasn't returned. Now he feels as though he's vibrating with anxiety, certain that he'll stop doing whatever it is she seems to like or start doing something that irritates her. He's been called a know-it-all enough times to learn that his conversational repertoire is an acquired taste at best. 'Boring' is the Twin's favoured descriptor. But Heather actually seems to prefer his intellectual side, so he's ignoring his instinct to bite his tongue whenever he feels a long, involved, dorky tangent approaching, and just… leans into it. It's kinda liberating.

They step out of the storehouse hand-in-hand to find Snotlout bearing down on Tuffnut, one of his braids between the blades of the shears. Ruffnut is weeping melodramatically, holding one of her own severed plaits. It's one of the shorter ones that stick out like horns, so its absence isn't that noticeable, but Ruffnut is swearing bloody vengeance nonetheless.

Snotlout glances up as they pass.

"Hey, where are you two lovebirds headed?" he asks.

(His momentary distraction gives Tuffnut a chance to snatch back the shears.

"Coward!" he yells, cutting through a fistful of dreads and then laughs manically.

Ruffnut stops pretending to cry and tackles her brother in a hug. They start to wrestle.

"Idiot," she taunts, but there's affection there – if you know where to look.)

"A tavern, in the leisure quarter," Fishlegs says, attempting to sound nonchalant.

"Sounds great, let's go!" he announces.

"It's a tafl tavern, Snotlout. That means board games. You wouldn't like it," Fishlegs tells him.

Snotlout pulls a face. "You're right – that sounds boring as Frigg. But 'leisure quarter' sounds cool. I'm sure we can find something to do there that's better than your lame-o board games place. You won't even know we're there," he says, winking.

Fishlegs sighs but eventually agrees to let Snotlout and the twins tag along.

Snotlout makes good on his word and splits from the couple as soon as they reach the leisure quarter. It's busy but not quite the overcrowded crush that would water down fun and wear at his patience. The twins spy a developing brawl through the open doors of a sports hall and ditch him in favour of putting their names down for the next game of skinnleikr. Snotlout is tempted to join them, but he's already spotted something more interesting. A flash of silver and a pair of gliding figures attract his attention, glimpsed through a window of ice so clear it might as well be glass.

Having an ice-breathing leviathan is good for one thing at least – Ísfjall appears to enjoy a permanent skating rink, clinging to the side of the mountain like a soap bubble. He pushes through a thick curtain tapestry, leaving behind the volcanic warmth of the city and enters a sudden cold that makes his skin erupt in goosebumps. His breath clouds in front of him against a backdrop that is so incredibly blue. The full intensity of the daylight makes Snotlout squint at first. The clouds are tinted turquoise through the globe of ice protecting the rink from the sea winds, and the ocean is washed an even brighter hue. It almost hurts to look at. When his eyes eventually adjust, the figures who initially caught his attention are coming towards him – two women clad in silver armour, with wing-shaped… accessories on their backs. It could be Snotlout's imagination, but he could swear the wings flap, propelling the women towards him over the ice. But it's probably just a trick of the light.

"You'll have to come back in a quarter-eykt," says one of the women, her face framed by an armoured circlet. "We have a standing reservation for special hatchling care," she explains. She has an interesting accent and Snotlout wonders how far she travelled to be here.

"Really?" asks Snotlout. "I don't see any hatchlings."

It's not like he has his heart set on skating – didn't even know it was an option until a few moments ago – and he's not even trying to be antagonistic, for once; he just can't see any proof that they do, in fact, have dibs. Snot will totally respect their claim if they can produce a scaly little ankle-biter. Fire-breathing creatures and floors made of ice seem like a recipe for disaster, and Snot would be more than happy to give these guys a wide berth, but he won't be driven off for no reason. The Dragon Master granted them the run of the city after all.

The women give him a strange look as if they can't quite tell whether he's joking.

"Never seen a razorwhip before?" the second woman asks, mouth curved with amusement.

She's really pretty, with glossy dark hair, all sharp edges and perfection. Snotlout has the strange urge to check his reflection in case his shirt is on backwards or there are crumbs on his face. He shakes it off quickly – he always looks good – and focuses on her question. Heather mentioned that species this morning during her lecture. She said it was her specialist subject, that she's bonded with a razorwhip with a pretty awesome name, wind-something (cooler than Toothless at any rate). But he couldn't remember how she'd described her dragon. Heather had been bombarding them with information all morning and only about ten percent had actually stuck.

Snotlout shrugs. "I've been here less than a week. Where I'm from we mostly see nadders, gronckles, zipplebacks; your basic heavy-hitters."

The dark-haired one elbows her friend. "That means he's one of those Hooligans, Atali," she tells her quietly. "Maybe we shouldn't be talking to him."

"We weren't told not to talk to the Hooligans at all," Atali replies. "Just to avoid certain subjects."

"I hate that rule," Snotlout grouses. "They say my cousin wasn't actually eaten alive, but no one can tell me what happened to him. I don't want to get my hopes up, but–"

"You're Hiccup's cousin!?" the previously-wary one exclaims.

"Minden!" Atali hushes.

Hiccup's infamy is no less weird with every passing encounter. Astrid says it's because he's the mastermind behind the city's mad engineering feats, which doesn't make much sense to Snot. Because no one's ever gone down in history for being smart of all things. But there's little else that could've generated the sort of accolade attached to Hiccup, so sure, why not? Stranger things have happened at sea.

"Right, right," Minden mumbles. "I'm sorry, we wish we could help you…?"

"Snotlout," Snotlout offers.

"Snotlout," Minden repeats gently. "But we're here on the Dragon Master's sufferance. We need access to this rink to care for the late hatchers. I'd tell you about your cousin if I could, but I won't break the Dragon Master's trust. He's an important ally to the wingmaidens."

Snotlout sighs dramatically. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters, used to the put-down at this point. Besides, she seems genuine in her regret, and he hopes that Hiccup suffering under the Dragon Master's regime would be something Minden wouldn't hide – not with the way she lit up with the revelation that Snotlout is the heir's cousin; almost as if their relation made the three of them friends already. So, in an unlikely moment of maturity, Snotlout decides to change the subject. "I still don't see any hatchlings, by the way," he says, perhaps still a little moodily.

Minden and Atali's eyes sparkle and the cloud of secrets lifts a little.

"Don't you?" Atali asks. She turns on the spot so that her back faces him and he realises her silver wings are neither decorative nor do they belong to her at all. A very small dragon clings to her shoulders, eyes only open the tiniest crack. "This is, as you've probably guessed, a razorwhip. We raise them on our island. When they first hatch, their wings are too small to carry themselves, let alone one of us wingmaidens too, so we help them grow stronger by skating with them – getting them to propel us around the rink for practice. But when eggs hatch late, there's no ice left. That used to be a problem before General Heather set this up for us," she explains gesturing to the bubble expansively.

"That's pretty neat," Snotlout admits.

"You know," Minden muses to Atali, "the Dragon Master did encourage us to embrace any opportunities to show the Hooligans how great dragons can be," she says.

"And we do have a spare pair of skates," Atali mentions, nodding along with the suggestion. "I'd ask if we could trust him around the hatchlings, but I'm sure we could take him if he gets any stupid ideas."

It has not escaped Snotlout's notice that either woman could easily break him in half. Nor does it surprise him that he finds that a particularly alluring quality. He's also pretty sure that if he did do anything to hurt the precious little lizards on either of their backs, he'd deserve every broken bone they'd see fit to give him. And that part does surprise him. Suddenly his instincts regard baby dragons as something to be protected, to be cared for, and he's weirdly honoured that they want him to join them. When Minden and Atali hand over the spare skates, he doesn't hesitate to lace them up and stride out into the rink.

(He immediately slips over.)

Astrid tried at least a dozen more times to manoeuvre the flow of conversation towards Hiccup, but Valka still wouldn't give her a straight answer. By the time she finally cries uncle, she knows nothing more about Hiccup than she did when she entered the archives. That's not to say she found their chat completely useless, but it was just as frustratingly guarded as each one she's had with the Dragon Master. At least she feels more centred on her feelings towards dragons now. She won't rush herself into forgiveness, but neither will she punish herself for wanting to break the cycle.

Strangely, Valka seemed to get more out of the conversation than she did. She'd wanted to hear about her old friends from twenty years ago – who had wed who, and what they had named their children. She asked Astrid questions about herself too – her hobbies, her favoured weapon… if there were any men she had her eye on (she lied, of course, in her answer to that last one). It hadn't felt like mere niceties; Valka seemed interested, invested, as if Astrid's answers have some bearing on Valka's own life, which seems like a pretty positive indicator that she's seriously entertaining thoughts of coming home. Soon.

Valka shows her out when afternoon turns to evening and the scribes start dousing the torches. Astrid holds open the door leading to the war room for the other woman but nearly lets it swing back in Valka's face when she spots H over by the war table. He's rocking back on two legs of one of the council's high-backed chairs, boots propped up on the edge. His hands are busy, but he looks up when they enter. The council must have adjourned some time ago as H looks entrenched enough in his seat to have been waiting a while.

"Hey," he says, smiling hopefully at them both. "How did it go?"

"I'll let Astrid tell it," Valka says. "We'll talk later, dear." She pulls H up for a quick hug, whispering something in his ear too low for Astrid to catch, but that makes H blush furiously.

Valka gives Astrid a hug too, murmuring her thanks, and Astrid returns both affections, before the older woman slips through another set of doors, leaving her and H alone.

"Did you get what you were after?" H asks. He sets his handiwork down on the edge of the war table – a nadder figurine, matching the ones already strewn across the table. Astrid wonders absently if H carved those ones too.

"More or less," she tells him. "How long have you been waiting?"

They had loose plans to meet after this, but Astrid was fully expecting H to be horrendously late. Perhaps their missed meeting the other day is weighing on his conscience and he'd come early as penance. He certainly still looks guilty, fingers anxiously tugging at the leather braid circling his wrist.

"Not that long," he denies. "Besides, I needed the time to think. I gotta tell you something, Astrid. You're gonna find out tomorrow anyway, and it's gonna change… everything. Once you know, you're… well, you're prob'ly not gonna like me much anymore," H says, voice bitter at the prospect. "But I wanted you to hear it from me, okay?"

Astrid nods, but when he opens his mouth to speak, she softly presses her fingers to his lips. She already knows what this is about. He's going to confess his parentage, but selfishly, she doesn't want to hear him say his mother is Aesir. Because it will only serve to remind her that he won't be so easily smuggled into her tribe as she's been determinedly plotting practically since the day she met him. Astrid's so sure he'd be happier as a Hooligan, but Aesir probably won't be too pleased with this plan of hers.

"Tell me later," she insists, wanting to keep the dream alive a little longer. "I bet it won't change anything, but tell me later. Let's do something fun first."

H looks uncertain. "Pretty sure you'll hate me more for not telling you right away," he says.

"You've already waited this long," Astrid says lightly. "What's a few more hours?"

H concedes the point. "Okay, I'd like that," he says, finally letting himself smile. "Yeah, let's do something fun."

They take a gondola to the leisure quarter because H says a fairly popular skald is performing at the amphitheatre this evening. The boat ride is peaceful, but Astrid finds herself longing for the day she can saddle up Stormfly and get around like an Ísfjallan. She wonders if H feels grounded, escorting her everywhere on foot.

"You don't have to keep your dragon away from me anymore," Astrid tells him, studying him from the bench opposite. "Exposure therapy's kinda given me a new perspective. I wouldn't hurt him."

The boat sways gently. "I know," H says simply, and the acknowledgement embeds itself deep in Astrid's heart. The part of her that fears H still sees her as another violent Viking with a mercurial temper, who'd use fists first and words later loosens. She feels trusted and it's nice.

"So why isn't he with you now?" she asks curiously.

"He's sleeping. I'll introduce you some other time," he assures.

Astrid's spirits sink a little. "There's not gonna be another time, not for a while," she says, running her fingernail along the grain of the gunwale. "The Dragon Master's sending us home tomorrow."

It's supposed to be a good thing. She misses Berk; misses her family. But she knows as soon as she steps foot on the Sparrowhawk, things will become more difficult than ever. She knows she's not in good standing with Stoick anymore, knows that half the choices she's made since she last saw him have gone against his every edict. And she knows as soon as they leave, she'll have to answer for them. She'll have to bid Stormfly farewell with only a sliver of hope that someday they'll fly together again. She'll have to figure out a way to reconcile her old life with her new, and that might mean defying her chief in defence of what's right. She's scared.

"I know," H says again. "I'll be part of the Dragon Master's landing party."

Astrid perks up a little. "You're coming to Berk?"

H nods, looking vaguely ill at the prospect. His usual effervescence is still muted, despite having agreed to postpone his confession in favour of a fun evening together, and this is probably why. He's nervous about going to Berk too.

"But you're not part of the Ísfjallan guard, right? What do they need you for?" she asks.

It sounds kind of brutal, hearing herself say that out loud. She isn't trying to imply he's useless, but H doesn't exactly look like much of a fighter. Camp followers are important too, she reminds herself sternly.

"I can't tell you that," H says, mouth downturned ruefully. "It's to do with the other thing – the thing we said we'd talk about later."

So his mom is making him tag along. Astrid hopes it's just the battle that H wants to avoid and not the island itself. She wants to show him the beauty of her home just as he'd shown her his. She knows he'd like it there if he gave it a chance. H might not be looking forward to coming to Berk, but Astrid feels a frisson of excitement from the news, latching onto the unexpected silver lining to the ominous clouds of her return.

"Okay, but you better promise to come flying with me while you're there," she insists.

H looks more melancholy than before. "Sure, if that's still something you want after tonight."

Astrid takes both his hands in hers. "I will."

He cracks a weak smile and doesn't bring it up again for the rest of the boat ride. His mood lifts a little the closer they get to the leisure quarter, cheerful voices drifting towards them from all directions and smiles at every turn.

They slip into a couple of the higher seats, at the back of the sunken amphitheatre. H makes them sneak in quietly – he assures her it's free admittance, but he doesn't want the skald to spot him and little light from the fire pit reaches the nosebleeds.

"She'll definitely heckle us," H whispers to Astrid. "There was a poetry slam the week she arrived, and Silver's been angling for a rematch ever since."

(Silvertongue isn't her real name, he reveals sometime later, in an aside during her performance.

"Do you have a stage name?" Astrid asks curiously. Perhaps one is required to compete.

H sighs, weary. "Too many.")

The skald, Silvertongue, has a presence that fills the entire stage. She's tall and willowy with silky red hair, spun into an elaborate updo. Her dress is a gorgeous cerulean with a snowy fur trim that brushes against the inked skin of her arms. She hasn't started the recital in earnest yet, still warming up the crowd as a few late-comers trickle in. But it's already nearly a full house. A quarter or so of the seats are warmed by dragons, and as a sign of how far she's come this week, Astrid doesn't even flinch when a gronckle beds down beside her. She might shuffle a little closer to H, but she'd be lying if she claimed it had anything to do with the dragon.

Silver's opening patter recaps previous nights' instalments of the story, but it's fairly superfluous. Pretty much everyone knows Beowulf. It's been a long time since she could spare a skald an ear, however, let alone one with a voice as rich and powerful as Silver, and Astrid finds herself already leaning in.

Silver reminds her audience of Beowulf's two epic battles thus far – the vanquishing of first Grendel, then Grendel's mother. And then with a cry of Hwæt Silver strikes up the next scene. Beo, now king of the Geats and an old man, must fight his deadliest foe yet: the great dragon. It's a little on the nose for Astrid, but the story is told with such skill that she enjoys every moment, though the warm shape of H at her side is her favourite part of all.

They stay long after the amphitheatre has emptied out, chatting about the performance, voices echoing around the staggered stone bowl. The fire crackles gently, steadily burning away in its brazier. Astrid's comfortable enough, seated on a plush cushion and picking at some sweetmeats H purchased at the intermission, while Silver rested her vocal cords.

"Pretty topical, huh?" Astrid comments. "Legendary hero slays hideous dragon terrorising his realm."

"I sure hope not," H replies dryly. "Beowulf's soldiers abandoned him. He died slowly and in pain."

"The Geats didn't ride dragons," she counters easily. "And Ísfjallans aren't cowards. I read the testimonies, remember? These people know what they're up against and they're not going anywhere."

"And the Dragon Master's young and in his prime," H agrees, a twinkle of… something in his eyes.

Astrid thinks about the Dragon Master's strong arms and broad shoulders, and blushes. She tactically says nothing in response, fearing that any sort of agreement would be incriminating.

"He is a little like Beo, though," H allows after some thoughtful chewing on a slice of honeyed apple. "Neither of them want their power."

"What do you mean?" Astrid asks, tucking her legs underneath her.

"Beowulf became king of the Geats after the previous king and his son died. He wasn't ambitious, he was just the best man for the job," H explains. "I'm not saying the Dragon Master is the best person to lead – he's not, but she wouldn't take the job." Astrid wonders who 'she' is, the person who H regards as more capable than the Dragon Master, but doesn't interrupt. "I'm saying that he saw a way to end the war and that's all he's here to do. He doesn't care about the Dragon Master mantle, he just… wants to help."

"What about after the war?" Astrid asks.

"I don't know." H shrugs. "It's all kind of… up in the air," he chuckles.

"Was that a joke? That was so bad. Seriously, worst pun ever," she tells him, but she's laughing too.

There's a weirdly charged moment where Astrid thinks she catches H staring at her lips before he clears his throat, his eyes skirting left.

"What I don't get," H starts, voice a touch too loud, "is why Grendel's mother is always portrayed as this monster woman. They literally dismembered her son."

"Grendel had been rampaging for weeks. Someone had to stop him. He was… let's say tactically neutralised," she argues, allowing the distraction.

"Yeah, but Beowulf kills her because the King of the Danes wants revenge for his friend, right? Well, how come her desire for revenge makes her a villain and not his? Besides, I know my mom would want to avenge me if I were brutally murdered. I kinda get where she's coming from," H says.

It strikes her as a little strange that H would decide to bring up his mom now after avoiding the subject all evening, but Astrid figures now is as good a time as any to address the rumblehorn in the room.

"I don't doubt it." Astrid bites her lip. She takes H by the shoulder and gently turns him so that they're face to face. "H, I already know what it is you wanted to tell me earlier," she confesses, "I know who your mother is."

H looks surprised and unbalanced. "Did she tell you? Today, in the archives?" he asks, brows drawn together in confusion.

"She told my friends," Astrid says slowly. "After the brawl at the apartment. What do you mean in the archives?"

This conversation isn't going at all how she thought it would. And there's something about what H just said that's sounding a warning in her mind.

"Oh. No, that's not the thing I need to tell you," he says, he looks hunted, even though this confession was his idea. Not that Astrid wants secrets between them, of course. "I know you know my mom's Aesir. The thing I have to tell you is bad, like so bad."

"And that's not?" Astrid asks, deadpan.

H looks fairly offended. "No, and you'll see why not pretty soon." He takes a fortifying breath. "The thing I have to tell you is that I've been lying to you since that day at the botanical gardens."

Astrid's mouth is dry. "What?"

"You needed medicine and I needed you not to ask too many questions, so I lied. About who I was. Who I am."

Her heart is pounding. Because she knows, she knows. But she still needs to hear him say it out loud. "And who are you, H?"

"Someone who really cares about you, Astrid. Someone who's just trying to help."

"Tell me," she whispers.

"I'm Hiccup."

Hiccup. He's been right in front of her all along, and didn't think to bloody mention it! All that time asking H for information about Hiccup, and it was him playing keepaway. He let her think he died, twice! They could've avoided all this trouble if only he told her the truth in the botanical gardens. Astrid would have returned home with medicine and better news for the chief than the whereabouts of his son's supposed killer.

Did he think this was funny? Has He been laughing at her this whole time as she ran ragged trying to find clues about where he's been for the last five years? Did he get a kick out of pretending to be her friend?

She's seeing red, she honestly doesn't know what she might do. She has to leave before she does something she might regret. Astrid brushes past H – no, Hiccup – and storms up out of the amphitheatre into the main street of the leisure quarter. Her face feels hot with anger and she keeps clenching and unclenching her fists, digging her nails into her palms.

"Wait. Astrid, wait," Hiccup calls. When she doesn't stop, he crosses in front of her, blocking her path.

She can't even look at him. It's so obvious now that she knows and she's kicking herself for not immediately recognising him. He might look a little older, but his panicked expression when facing the consequences of his latest screw up hasn't changed at all. She doesn't want to listen to anything else he has to say right now.

"If you say another word, I will hit you," Astrid bites out.

"I can explain–"

She socks him in the eye. Not as hard as she wants to, but hard enough to bruise. He staggers back. Her knuckles tingle.

In the same instant, every dragon in the vicinity snaps to attention and the ground begins to reverberate with a collective growl. Astrid staggers back, unnerved. It occurs to her that she may have made a fatal error in judgement; Hiccup has the home advantage here.

Hiccup's eyes go wide and he extends his open palms to the nearest snarling creature. "Stop that, everyone," he instructs, addressing them all together. "Stop, I deserved it."

The dragons fall silent, but Astrid can still feel the weight of their suspicious glares and the eyes of at least a dozen human bystanders spectating from the sidelines. Their gawking fans the flames of her anger; she's not Silvertongue, she isn't here for their entertainment.

"Mind your own business," she spits at them, which successfully disperses some onlookers.

Through the thinned crowd, she sees the figures of all four of her friends, plus Heather emerging from various corners of the leisure quarter. Even at this distance, she can make out their expressions of shock and alarm and she realises with a surge of frustration that she's going to have to explain this whole mess when all she really wants to do is simply stew in her anger alone.

"You should go," Astrid tells Hiccup forcefully. She doesn't want any more of this to play out in public. She just wants him gone.

She expects Hiccup to argue, she expects him to try talking his way back into her good graces, telling her whatever he thinks she might want to hear right now. But he just nods, face a picture of misery, and leaves quietly, like a kicked puppy with his tail between his legs. Within moments his depressed figure has been swallowed up by the sea of late-night revellers.

Snotlout, Ruffnut and Tuffnut are still heading towards her, along with Fishlegs and Heather, who are inexplicably holding hands.

"What just happened?" Snotlout asks.

"Was that Hiccup!?" Ruffnut exclaims.

"Why did you punch him?" Heather demands, dropping Fishlegs' hand in favour of unholstering her axe and snapping the blades apart threateningly.

Astrid's not intimidated, but her fingers itch to brandish her own weapon in return. "He lied to me!" she cries. "I told him: get lost or I'll punch you. Guess he needed the extra encouragement." She tosses her hands in the air. "Argh! He played me! Hiccup was right in front of me this whole time and never said anything!"

Fishlegs lets out an explosive breath. "Thank Thor, I am so glad someone else knows," he gasps.

Astrid's head whips around. "You knew!?"

Heather elbows Fish in the side. "Yes! I told him just now, at the tavern. Now we all know that Astrid's secret friend, H has been Hiccup all along."

"Wait, what?" Fish questions, alarmed.

Heather glares at him.

"Oh, right. Yes. That," he squeaks, cowed, shoulders hunched up to his ears.

Astrid supposes she can let Fishlegs off the hook – he hadn't had the chance to tell her what he knew before now, unlike Hiccup, who had every opportunity to come clean.

"Can we circle back to the part where you punched him?" Heather demands. "Did you let him explain anything before you sent him packing?" she asks, gesturing in the direction Hiccup vanished moments before.

Astrid scoffs. "What's there to explain? He should have told me the truth," she returns heatedly.

"He did," Heather replies, voice even.

"Earlier," Astrid grits out.

"What makes you think he owed you the truth?" Heather challenges, hand on hip. "Better question: what would make him think he could trust you with it? That you'd even listen?"

Astrid reels back as if slapped. "He's a Hooligan; we're tribesmen."

How dare Heather question her integrity or her intentions towards the Hooligan heir? All she's been trying to do since they arrived in Ísfjall is help Hiccup. Of course, he could trust her.

"And I'm sure you all impressed on him the full extent of your feelings of solidarity and friendship before he left," Heather snarks. Everyone stares guiltily at their feet, Astrid included. "He trusted you enough to come forward after five days of being your friend, Astrid. Take that as a win."

Astrid wants to object to the term 'friend'. But Heather's argument might have a tiny bit of merit. Maybe.

She chews the inside of her cheek, partially chastened, but still plenty riled up. "The only reason he told me now is because apparently, I was going to find out tomorrow anyway," she reveals sourly.

"Huh? How come?" Heather questions.

"You don't know?" Astrid asks, and okay, there's a bit of goading there. Heather shakes her head in the negative, and Astrid permits herself a moment of satisfaction for knowing more than Ísfjall's own Mistress of Whispers. "The Dragon Master renegotiated the bargain with Stoick. Tomorrow we'll be sailing home."

"What!?" her friends chorus. They sound universally dismayed and it's reassuring to know she's not the only one having reservations about leaving this place. Their exclamation turns a few heads once again, and Astrid has had enough of airing their personal affairs in the street like dirty laundry. She wants to go back to the apartment and spend the rest of the night not thinking.

She quickly passes on everything the Dragon Master told her earlier today about the sudden change – that he's going to launch his attack on the Queen from Berk, and that they'll be able to keep learning how to train dragons, allegedly without pushback from Stoick.

"I guess the Dragon Master must have agreed to hand over Hiccup to make it happen," Astrid suggests as she ushers her friends towards the pier. "Or Hiccup finally decided to pull his head out of his ass and stop playing this stupid game."

"It's not a game to him," Heather sighs, having whistled for her razorwhip and waiting for its arrival. "He's just really, really bad at politics."

Tafl were Viking board games and Skinnleikr was a ball game.

Skald can probably be inferred from the context as poet.

Beowulf was referenced in HTTYD1, when Tuffnut refers to the Red Death as 'Bride of Grendel', so after reading Maria Dahvana Headley's translation I knew I had to include it. Go check it out!

Here's another chunky chapter to make up for the fact that this is *checks watch* eight months late. But I never did claim I could manage regular updates. This chapter is dedicated to Dragonlover, who left lots of lovely reviews on the last chapter. I would have updated eventually, but your kind words definitely sped things up! You can find me on tumblr: marya-blackbone.

Originally published 19/03/25