Chapter Text
The morning air was thick with a tension so palpable Hiccup could practically taste it on his tongue—a bitter, metallic tang of fear. The Berkian delegation had arrived with the dawn, a grim, silent procession of warriors who looked as though they had been carved from the northern mountains themselves. They didn't ride with the polished pomp of Welton's knights; they moved with the quiet, deadly purpose of wolves stalking prey.
Hiccup was in the middle of his morning routine when the stable doors were thrown open with a crash that made him jump. Sir Reginald, a guard whose belly strained the limits of his surcoat and whose temperament was perpetually sour, filled the doorway.
“You, stable boy,” he barked, his voice accustomed to being obeyed without question.
Hiccup sighed internally. “My name is Hiccup, Sir.”
Reginald waved a dismissive, gauntleted hand. “I don’t care if your name is the Archduke himself. The Northmen are here. Their horses are to be housed in the royal stalls.” He jabbed a thick finger toward the pristine, empty stalls reserved for visiting nobility. “You are responsible for them. You will feed them, water them, brush them, and sing them lullabies if that’s what it takes. If so much as a single hair on one of their mangy heads is out of place, the Duke has promised that your head will be forfeit. Do you understand me?”
To emphasize his point, he strode forward and gave Hiccup a sharp slap on the back of the head. It wasn’t hard enough to do real damage, but it was demeaning, a casual assertion of power that sent Hiccup stumbling forward a step.
“Yes, Sir,” Hiccup mumbled, rubbing the spot. “Crystal clear.”
“Good.” Reginald sniffed, casting a disdainful look around the stables. “See that you don’t screw it up.” With that, he turned and marched out, leaving Hiccup alone with his new, life-threatening responsibilities.
The Berkian horses were brought in shortly after, and they were nothing like the sleek, pampered creatures of Welton. They were beasts of war, thick-limbed and powerful, with intelligent eyes that seemed to size him up with a disconcerting awareness. They were also impeccably cared for, their coats shining with health despite the rigors of the road. Hiccup felt a grudging respect for their riders; these were not men who treated their mounts as disposable tools.
He set to work, his earlier anxiety melting away as he fell into the familiar rhythm of his craft. He spoke to each horse in a low, calming tone, introducing himself and running a practiced hand over their flanks to check for sores or injuries. He was gentle but firm, a quiet authority that the animals seemed to understand and accept.
One, however, captured his full attention. She was a magnificent blue roan, a creature of breathtaking power and grace. Her coat was a stunning tapestry of black and white hairs that gave her a shimmering, silvery-blue appearance, like a storm cloud kissed by moonlight. Her muscles were not the bulky, cumbersome kind seen on Welton’s heavy destriers; they were long, lean, and exquisitely defined, speaking of explosive speed and incredible stamina. She stood a full hand taller than any other horse in the stable, yet she carried her size with an elegant poise that was utterly captivating.
Hiccup found himself circling her, his professional admiration bordering on awe. “Well now,” he whispered, reaching out slowly. “You are something else, aren’t you?”
The mare watched him with eyes the color of a winter sky, intelligent and calculating. She didn’t flinch as he touched her neck, but she didn’t offer affection either. She simply stood, allowing his inspection. He gave her the most thorough treatment of all, carefully brushing the road dust from her unique coat until it shone, meticulously checking her hooves, and massaging the powerful muscles in her shoulders and hindquarters.
“You’re built for running,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Not just a battle charger. You’re a tempest on four legs.”
When his work was done, it was time to let them graze. He led the herd out to the vast royal pastures. As always, he swung himself onto Toothless’s back, the familiar feel of the black stallion beneath him a comforting anchor. With a joyful whoop, he gave Toothless his head, and they shot forward.
He expected the thunder of hooves to fade behind him, but as he glanced back, he saw a flash of silvery-blue keeping pace. The roan mare was running with them. Not out of panic or herd instinct, but for the sheer joy of the chase. She ran with a beautiful, ground-eating stride, her powerful legs pumping like pistons.
A wide, delighted grin split Hiccup’s face. “You want to race, do you?” he laughed into the wind.
He urged Toothless on, and the black stallion responded with a surge of speed. The world blurred into a streak of green and gold. Yet, the roan stayed with them. She couldn't match Toothless's explosive acceleration—nothing could—but she was keeping up, her stamina seemingly endless. She was barely a length behind, her ears pricked forward, her blue-gray coat a phantom at their heels. It was the most impressive display of equine athleticism Hiccup had ever witnessed.
They thundered across the pasture, a black shadow and a silver storm, leaving the rest of the world behind. Finally, Hiccup slowed Toothless to a canter, then a trot, coming to a stop near a small, shaded grove. The blue roan pulled up alongside them, her sides heaving slightly but her spirit undimmed.
Hiccup slid off Toothless’s back and approached her, his heart still pounding with exhilaration. “That was incredible,” he said, stroking her damp neck. “Absolutely incredible. You are magnificent.”
The mare seemed to preen under the praise, nudging his shoulder with her head in a clear gesture of approval. As he stood there, sharing a quiet moment with the two most amazing horses he had ever known, he was completely unaware of a pair of calculating, ice-blue human eyes watching him from the distant battlements of the castle.
Lunchtime in the mess hall was an even more chaotic affair than the day before. The delegation was within the castle walls, and the servant’s gossip had reached a fever pitch. Hiccup grabbed his meager meal and found his usual corner, content to listen to the escalating mythology of the Dragon of Berk.
“I saw him!” a scullery maid declared, her voice trembling with excitement. “He was walking across the courtyard. He’s a giant! His head nearly scraped the top of the archway!”
“Nonsense,” scoffed a baker, dusting flour from his apron. “I saw him too, when they were meeting the Duke. He wasn’t a giant. He was just… wide. Broader than a barrel. And he had a beard down to his belt, red as blood.”
“You’re both wrong,” a footman insisted smugly. “I got a good look at him in the Great Hall. He’s bald, with tattoos all over his scalp. And he doesn’t carry an axe, he has a massive war hammer slung on his back.”
Hiccup took a thoughtful bite of his bread. A tall giant. A wide, red-bearded dwarf. A bald, tattooed hammer-wielder. None of the accounts matched. They couldn’t all be right. Which meant… they were all wrong. The stories were just that—stories. Fear and rumor painting a dozen different pictures of the same man. The Dragon of Berk was likely just a man, a very capable and intimidating man, but a man nonetheless. The realization didn’t make him feel safer, but it did make him feel slightly less like he was living in a fairy tale.
He finished his meal and headed back to the stables, his sanctuary of quiet logic. But the moment he stepped through the door, he knew something was wrong. The air was different. One of the stalls—the one holding the magnificent blue roan—was occupied by more than just a horse.
An intruder.
Standing with her back to him was a woman. She was dressed in fine, dark blue formalwear, the kind of tailored tunic and trousers that spoke of wealth and status, but it wasn't armor. A longsword with a simple, practical crossguard hung from a belt on her left hip. And she was tall. Taller than any woman Hiccup had ever seen, taller than most of the men in the Duke’s guard. Even from behind, he could see the powerful line of her shoulders and the defined curve of muscle in her back beneath the fine cloth. This was not a woman who spent her days doing needlepoint.
She was stroking the blue roan’s neck, murmuring something too low for him to hear. The horse, which had been so reserved with him, seemed to melt under her touch.
Hiccup’s heart began to pound a nervous rhythm against his ribs. Sir Reginald’s threat echoed in his mind. Nothing happens to these horses. An unauthorized visitor was the definition of something happening . He took a steadying breath, his hand instinctively going to the small, worn dagger tucked into his belt. He approached silently, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the hay-strewn floor.
“You cannot be here,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. He was startled by how steady it sounded. “There is a visiting delegation, and we cannot accept visitors to the stables at this time.”
The woman froze. She turned her head slowly, and Hiccup got his first proper look at her. If he thought she was impressive from behind, it was nothing compared to the full view. Her face was all sharp, beautiful angles, framed by a thick braid of golden hair. But it was her eyes that seized his attention—they were the same piercing, ice-blue color as the mare’s, and they fixed on him with an unnerving intensity. She was, without a doubt, the most gobsmackingly beautiful and terrifying person he had ever seen in his life.
She raised a single, perfect blonde eyebrow. “I am merely here to check on my horse, to make sure she is being well cared for.” Her voice was a low, melodic alto, but it held an undercurrent of steel.
Hiccup swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold his ground. “I am deeply sorry, my lady, but regardless, you cannot be here without authorization.” He took a half-step closer. “Do you have proof that this is your horse?”
The other eyebrow joined the first. Her gaze swept over him, taking in his small stature, his worn clothes, and the determined set of his jaw. It was a look that could curdle milk. “And what could I possibly have that proves this is my horse, besides her name?”
Hiccup’s mind raced. He had to be careful. She was clearly important. “You are claiming to be a knight with the foreign delegation?” he asked, trying to sound professional.
A ghost of a smirk touched her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest. The movement caused the muscles in her arms and shoulders to flex, a subtle but potent display of power. “Is that so hard to believe? That a woman can be a knight?”
Hiccup’s cheeks flushed. “That is not at all what I am insinuating,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Gender has nothing to do with it. Your presence does. If you are claiming to be with the visiting delegation, then you may visit one horse from the visiting delegation. With proof.” He stood a little straighter. “Show me your banner.”
The smirk blossomed into a full, genuine smile. It transformed her face, making her even more intimidatingly beautiful. She seemed more amused than offended. She reached into a pouch on her belt and produced a small, rolled-up piece of cloth. She unfurled it. It was a miniature banner, bearing the stark sigil of Berk—a stylized dragon’s head—and a personal crest of a white battle-axe on a blue field.
“Happy?” she asked.
Hiccup let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yes, my lady. Thank you.” He relaxed his posture slightly, but his hand did not leave the hilt of his dagger. “But I will have to stay for supervision. The head of the guard was very clear. The last thing we want is something happening to one of the horses.”
She nodded, turning back to the roan. “He took excellent care of you, didn’t he, Stormfly?” she murmured to the horse. “You had a good run.”
Stormfly. It suited her. “She’s an incredible runner,” Hiccup found himself saying. “Fastest I’ve ever seen, aside from my own.” The woman looked at him, her blue eyes sharp with interest. “The fact that she trusted you enough to let you pet her is a big bonus in your favor,” Hiccup added, feeling a surge of confidence. “Otherwise, I would have had to kick you out.”
The woman’s smile returned, wider this time, full of challenge. “Oh, really?” she purred, turning her full attention back to him. “And how, exactly, would a little thing like you do that?”
Hiccup felt a spark of defiance ignite in his chest. Little thing? He drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “I don’t care who you are, my lady,” he said, his voice taking on the mock-posh, airy tone of a Welton noble. “Here in these stables, I am its king. Therefore, I outrank you.” He gave a theatrical, dismissive wave of his hand. “Guards,” he called out to the empty stable, “remove this peasant from my kingdom.” He dropped the act and shrugged. “Something like that.”
The woman laughed. A real, throaty laugh that echoed in the quiet stable. Before Hiccup could react, she closed the distance between them in two long strides. Suddenly, she was there , looming over him, a mountain of powerful femininity that blocked out the light. He had to crane his neck to look up at her. He could smell the faint scent of leather and cold, clean air clinging to her.
Her large, calloused hand came up and gently covered his own, which was still resting on his dagger. Her hand was warm and heavy, and it dwarfed his completely. His fingers, which he had always thought of as nimble and capable, felt like a child’s twigs beneath her palm. He got a real, visceral sense of just how strong she was, a strength that was currently being held in careful check.
Her voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial murmur, her smile widening into a predatory grin. “You have spine, boy,” she said, the word landing like a physical tap on his chest. “I like that.”
Her eyes glinted with a dangerous light. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”
Before Hiccup could form a coherent protest, she released his hand, strode over to a rack of spare equipment, and pulled out a rusty, poorly balanced practice sword. She tossed it to him. He fumbled with it, catching it awkwardly.
“We’re going to spar,” she announced, her voice leaving no room for argument.
“What? No! I can’t!” Hiccup stammered, his mind reeling. “I have to take care of the horses! Sir Reginald will have my head!”
“The horses will be fine,” she said, already marching toward the stable doors and the open pasture beyond. “And I’ll deal with Reginald.” She glanced back over her shoulder, her blue eyes locking onto his. “Now, are you coming, or do I have to drag you, Your Majesty ?”
Hiccup looked from the sword in his hand to the formidable woman waiting for him, and had the distinct, sinking feeling that he didn’t really have a choice at all.