Chapter Text
The royal stables of the Archduchy of Welton smelled of three things: sweet hay, warm horses, and Hiccup’s unending exhaustion. At twenty-three, Hiccup should have possessed the vigor of a man in his prime. Instead, he had the wiry frame of a half-starved teenager and the weary posture of a man twice his age. Years of servitude and a consistently less-than-full belly had left him small and deceptively young-looking, a fact that earned him no favors among the burly guards and pompous knights of the castle.
Here, though, in the cathedral-like quiet of the stables, his size didn't matter. The horses didn't care that his shoulders were narrow or that a strong gust of wind might give him a run for his money. They cared that his hands were gentle, his voice was a low, soothing murmur, and he knew precisely where to scratch behind the ears to make their eyes go soft and hazy.
He moved with a quiet efficiency that bordered on invisibility, a skill honed by a lifetime of trying not to be underfoot. His fingers, though stained with dirt and grease, were deft as he worked a series of stubborn knots from the silken mane of a palfrey mare named Glimmer.
“There now, you see?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Not so bad. You just have to be patient with it.”
Glimmer huffed a warm, grateful sigh against his cheek, nudging him affectionately. Hiccup smiled, a rare, genuine thing that briefly erased the weariness from his face. He was a king in this dusty, hay-strewn kingdom, and these magnificent beasts were his loyal subjects.
His peaceful reign was interrupted by a sharp, pained whinny from a few stalls down. Hiccup’s head snapped up, his smile vanishing. He recognized the sound instantly. It was a young colt, Baron, a recent acquisition for the Duke’s prized cavalry. Hiccup was over the stall door in a flash, his small frame allowing him to slip through the bars rather than fumbling with the latch.
Baron was in distress, kicking at his own belly and trying to roll in the tight confines of the stall. His eyes were wide with panic. The other stablehands would have shouted, maybe even struck the animal to make it stand still. Hiccup did neither.
“Easy, Baron. Easy, boy,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady as he approached the colt’s head, avoiding the flailing hooves. “I know it hurts. We’ll make it better.”
He ran a practiced hand along the horse’s tense, sweat-slicked flank. Colic. Bad. But not a death sentence, not if you knew what you were doing. He began to massage the horse’s abdomen with firm, circular motions, speaking to him the entire time. He didn’t use nonsense words but full sentences, telling the colt about the pasture they would run in later, about the sweet taste of the clover that grew near the stream. He worked methodically, his hands knowing just how much pressure to apply, his voice a constant, hypnotic anchor in the colt’s sea of pain.
Slowly, miraculously, the colt’s frantic movements began to subside. The wildness in his eyes softened. He let out a low groan, less of pain and more of relief, and leaned his weight into Hiccup’s small frame. Hiccup, who probably weighed less than the horse's head, grunted but held firm, continuing the massage until the tension had bled completely from the animal’s muscles.
“There you go,” Hiccup sighed, patting Baron’s neck. “See? All better.”
He stayed with him for another ten minutes, ensuring the danger had passed, before finally slipping back out of the stall, his work done. No one had seen it. No one would thank him. But Baron was safe, and for Hiccup, that was enough.
An hour later, the stable doors groaned open, and a river of horseflesh flowed out into the brilliant midday sun. Hiccup led the charge, not on his own two feet, but on the back of a creature that seemed forged from midnight and lightning. He was a stallion as black as a starless sky, with intelligent, emerald-green eyes that missed nothing. Hiccup called him Toothless, a silly name for a horse with a full set of teeth, but it had felt right.
While the other horses were content to trot, Toothless moved like a coiled spring finally released. With a barely perceptible shift of Hiccup’s weight, the stallion launched forward, leaving the rest of the herd in a cloud of dust. The wind whipped Hiccup’s auburn hair back from his face and tore a shout of pure, unadulterated joy from his lungs.
Out here, on Toothless’s back, he wasn’t the runt of the castle staff. He wasn’t the boy people looked through. He was just a rider, fused to his mount, moving with a speed that felt like flying. Toothless was faster than any warhorse in the Duke’s cavalry, a secret Hiccup kept jealously to himself. The horse was technically the Duke’s property, a strange, undersized colt that had been gifted as an afterthought in a trade. No one else had been able to get near him. But with Hiccup, there was a bond, a silent understanding that transcended words.
They raced across the open pasture, their movements a perfect, synchronized dance. Hiccup leaned low over Toothless’s neck, his small frame an advantage that made them impossibly aerodynamic. They were a single entity, a black arrow streaking across a canvas of green. This was the only time Hiccup ever truly felt big.
The freedom, as always, was fleeting. After ensuring the horses were settled and grazing peacefully, he guided Toothless back toward the stables, his brief taste of glory dissolving back into the mundane reality of his duties. He fed and watered the herd with practiced efficiency before his own stomach gave a low, mournful rumble. It was time to brave the servant’s mess hall.
He slipped into the cavernous, noisy room, grabbing a wooden bowl and a stale hunk of bread. As he ladled a thin, watery stew into his bowl, his ears, always attuned to the undercurrents of the castle, picked up the whispers. They were hushed, frantic, and laced with a delicious thread of terror.
“…saw the smoke from the western garrison,” one kitchen maid whispered, her eyes wide. “They say he didn’t even use siege engines. Just walked right through the gates.”
“I heard he’s nine feet tall,” a pot-boy added, puffing out his chest. “And carries an axe so big, it takes two normal men just to lift it.”
Hiccup found a quiet corner and listened as he ate. They were talking about the Dragon of Berk. For weeks, the name had been a ghost story told to frighten children. Now, the ghost was real, and he was at their doorstep. The Archduchy of Welton, in its infinite wisdom, had picked a fight with the northern island kingdom of Berk. And Welton, for all its pomp and polished armor, was losing. Badly.
The legend of the man leading the charge grew more ludicrous with every retelling.
“My cousin’s brother is a guard,” another servant chimed in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “He says the Dragon of Berk cut down three hundred of the Duke’s best men. By himself. In an afternoon.”
“And his horse,” the first maid gasped, “they say it’s a monster from the pits of Hel. A demon clad in horseflesh that eats the other horses on the battlefield!”
“He’s not even a man,” the pot-boy declared with the absolute certainty of someone who had heard it third-hand. “He’s half-man, half-giant, and half-dragon.”
A nearby baker’s apprentice, a boy who was better at sums than most, frowned. “That’s three halves.”
“That’s because he’s one hundred and fifty percent of everyone else!” the pot-boy shot back, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Hiccup almost choked on his bread. He had to admit, that part was almost clever. The worst part of the rumors, however, wasn't the mythology. It was the truth simmering beneath it. The Dragon of Berk had shattered their army and was now marching on the capital. He was coming here. To demand their surrender, or to burn the city to the ground.
The familiar clang of a hammer on steel was a welcome sound, a beacon of sanity in a castle spiraling into panic. Hiccup ducked under the heavy timber frame of the blacksmith’s forge, the heat from the coals washing over him like a warm blanket.
“Ah, look what the wind blew in,” a booming, cheerful voice echoed from the back. “And here I was thinking it was just a stray leaf.”
Gobber, the castle blacksmith, emerged from the shadows, wiping a soot-covered hand on his leather apron. He was a mountain of a man, with a single leg, a prosthetic hammer for one hand, and a magnificent, braided blonde mustache that seemed to have a life of its own. He had taken Hiccup in years ago, giving him a place to sleep in the forge in exchange for help with odd jobs.
“Very funny, Gobber,” Hiccup said, setting his empty bowl down. “Did you finish the hinges for the main gate?”
“Finished them this morning while you were still dreaming of ponies and rainbows,” Gobber retorted, clapping Hiccup on the shoulder with his good hand, the force nearly sending him stumbling. “And what has you looking more miserable than usual? Did the Duke’s prize mare look at you funny again?”
“Worse,” Hiccup said, his voice dropping. “The whole castle is in a panic. The Dragon of Berk is coming.”
The change in Gobber was immediate. The jovial, sarcastic light in his eye flickered and died, replaced by the grim, weary look of a man who had seen too many wars. The rhythmic clang of the forge suddenly seemed very far away.
“So, the rumors are true, then,” Gobber said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against his anvil, the great slab of iron that had been his life’s companion. “I’d hoped it was just talk.”
“They say he’s a monster,” Hiccup murmured, repeating the mess hall gossip. “A giant who breathes fire and eats men for breakfast.”
Gobber let out a short, harsh laugh devoid of any humor. “He doesn’t need to breathe fire, lad. Men like that, they’re worse than any story. They don’t have to be giants. They just have to be good at what they do. And what they do is kill.” He picked up a half-finished sword from his workbench, testing its balance. “I’ve seen what a single, determined Northman can do to a line of our preening knights. They fight like cornered wolves, all instinct and fury. This ‘Dragon’... he’s the king of them.”
A heavy silence settled over the forge, thick with the weight of unspoken fears.
“Our Duke will posture,” Gobber continued, his voice grim. “He’ll thump his chest and make grand speeches about the honor of Welton. He’ll insult this Dragon to his face, and he’ll get us all killed for his pride.”
Hiccup looked into the glowing heart of the forge, watching the embers dance. He wasn’t afraid of the monster. He was afraid for the pot-boys, the kitchen maids, the bakers, and all the other small, forgotten people who would pay the price for their Duke’s arrogance.
“I just hope the King accepts defeat graciously,” Hiccup said quietly. “So the people don’t have to suffer.”
Gobber looked at the boy—the small, kind-hearted boy who thought of others before himself—and his expression softened with a deep, aching affection. He placed the sword back on the rack and rested his heavy hand on Hiccup’s shoulder again, this time with a gentle, reassuring weight.
“Get some sleep, lad,” he said gruffly. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, no matter who comes knocking.”
Hiccup nodded, giving his mentor a small, grateful smile. He made his way to his small cot in the corner of the forge, the rhythmic sounds of Gobber banking the coals for the night lulling him into a state of unease. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come easy. He could only listen to the sounds of the castle preparing for a guest, and pray they weren’t also preparing for a war. The Dragon was coming, and Hiccup could only hope he wasn't hungry.