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The Dragon Conqueror was a volatile foe to all who opposed his belief in freedom for the dragons. Coupled with the needless hunger, the insatiable ache for the battlefield, it was unthinkable for any Viking - any sane Viking - to attempt the formidable task of conquering him. Even daring to set foot toward him, a single step, risked the jaws of his scaled soldiers.
One particular dragon ruled above them all, though. The Dragon Conqueror's partner, his seeming equal. The terror of the night, horror of the cosmos, the unholy offspring of life and death itself: The Night Fury.
Only those with the lowest of wit dared gossip of its origins, wondering how the scaly beast had found itself at the right hand of the Dragon Conqueror. Many assumed it had witnessed the potential - a spark - from its master, and donned its rightful spot beside him. Others speculated the Dragon Conqueror himself had hunted for the Fury - a theory which only further proved the existence of a possible, replaced tail fin, a limb torn off for seeming disobedience - and trained it to perfection, the perfect tool for deliverance. Few considered them to have been raised together as hatchlings in the Fury's nest, for it was the only plausible explanation for their closeness; but this theory was often disregarded as pure insanity.
The Dragon Conqueror never confirmed or denied the rumours. Never had to, for he never spoke without pure intention - and when he did, it was of the sharpest wit and mind. None could deny the brilliance behind the mask. Whether it be foe, ally, or dragon, all knew that to underestimate the Conqueror was to be a fool.
…
Barely anybody knew the true Dragon Conqueror. The one behind the mask. No one - no one he'd ever trusted enough - had ever seen his face. And even if they had, no one would have the ability of putting a name to it.
—
For years, the Heir of Berk, Hiccup Haddock Horrendous III, had been assumed dead. And the rest of the Vikings had believed it to be true, for although he was the Chief's son, he was as lean as a toothpick, and still as scrawny and clumsy as he was as a wee babe - even if he'd proved he was something of a prodigy in the arena (the week before he'd died, he'd been given the privilege to fight, maim, and kill a Monstrous Nightmare). Though that didn't matter, with the discovery of his boot attached to a severed leg, coupled with bloody, shed scales, it was safer to assume his demise. To accept he'd fallen prey to a loose dragon was safer, easier. To accept he'd gone down fighting.
Stoick the Vast hadn't accepted any other explanation, of course. How could he, when his son had just been besting the beasts earlier? When Stoick knew how easily it was for Hiccup to maneuver past them, to get to their blind spots and take them down with just a pinch? How could his son die doing nothing to stop it? It'd clearly been a cruel fate, a test by the gods, so surely his son must have passed - in a cruel, sickening way, his son was still out there.
So, when he stopped by the cliffs everyday to observe the horizon, Stoick let himself dream of a world where Hiccup was alive. Free from scrutiny. A world where the boy was able to grow into himself a little more. Finally become the Chief that Stoick has always imagined, dreamed of him being.
But yet the grief was immense, ever drowning in its presence, so even just thinking of Hiccup being alive was enough to make him freeze, to make him succumb to tears on the spot.
Was he up there, his boy, up where the Pillars of Valhalla lay? Was he living his dreams of conquering dragons, the sky, the stars? (Maybe Hiccup had never thought of it, the idea of conquering something - but it seemed what Stoick thought fit for him, for someone who seemed to have everything and yet be nothing at all.)
Regardless of what Stoick thought, the legacy Hiccup had left behind was one of that of a failed prodigy - a dead heir. The… the boy was his only son. And as sickening as it was, his people needed someone to lead the tribe after he was gone. To be the Chief.
And back then, it had been only right for him to take up his Chiefly duty, and assign Berk a new heir.
It was only right.
His son would understand.
—
Astrid Hofferson did not expect any of it. Did not expect scrawny Hiccup, the Chief's disappointing son - the crazy inventor, they'd said, whose bloodlust for the death of dragons was as low as his muscle count - to rise up. To beat everyone else in the arena. To beat her.
She'd always been the warrior of her generation, the one everyone assumed to forge her way in the world some day. Daresay, some even wanted her to become Chief - though that dream had been distant, laughable, even, with Hiccup in the way. And with the way Hiccup was turning out? With his crazy methods of… what, getting the dragons to listen to him? To let him win?
And it was working.
It was working.
Suddenly, all eyes were on him now.
He was the late bloomer, of course. And that meant that everyone else got thrown away in the dust, because now he was the son the Chief wanted. The son the Chief was constantly bragging about in his rapports to his people, to anyone who would listen. And they listened, because they knew it too. All were excited about his hidden potential. His sudden belonging in the Arena.
He could have been a cheat. A scam. Astrid had that feeling in her gut, that something was off. No human being suddenlyturns over in just a few weeks of training, no human being suddenly unveils themselves to have been a secret prodigy all along, after years of withstanding constant insults and gossip. He wasn't who she knew.
But… she desperately wanted to know the secret behind it. No, needed to know. How could he suddenly do all of those things? What was the secret, the ingredient needed to become better, too?
"It's nothing, really," he had told her, abashed. She'd confronted him after a day of training at the arena, when her patience had run out.
She had scoffed, pushed his shoulder. How could he just say it so casually like that? Try to act humble? Was he trying to make her feel bad? "It's not nothing. You were a clumsy muttonhead, afraid to hurt a yak, but- whatever. No offense." She glanced to the side. "Just… how'd you become so good at this?"
"Gee, thanks," Hiccup drawled out sarcastically. "I'm not offended whatsoever."
"Just tell me," Astrid pleaded. She wanted to become better. Needed to become better. She was already the second best in the arena, but - second was not enough. Second was just the first loser. She needed to become first on the podium overall, even if she had to make a fool of herself just to extract information from Hiccup. "I won't tell a soul. I just- want to know."
He stopped walking for a second, then looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then, his eyes softened. Pity, she realized in disgust. She didn't need pity. "You know, you don't need tips from me for anything, Astrid. You're already…" he paused, trailing off.
"Already…" Astrid prompted, a brow raised questioningly. "Already what, horrific? You don't need to rub it in my face."
"No!" Hiccup blurted, before freezing. He coughed, seemingly collecting himself. "I mean, you're, uh… you're already amazing, you know? You're talented, beautiful, smart-"
Astrid stared at him. Did he really just say what she think he said? She would have said something about it, but he was still rattling off adjectives by the time she even finished processing it.
"-Wonderful, and so, so much more!" he finished, before looking back up at her ashamedly. Then smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, just- just wanted to let you know that," he whispered. "You're great in the battlefield. I just.. got lucky."
A muttonhead. That was what he was. A complete muttonhead. Did he take her for a fool?
Astrid stared at him in disbelief. “Lucky? Lucky!” she snapped, stepping in close. He blinked, startled, taking a small step back. “I’ve trained my whole life for this - bled for it- and you show up out of nowhere, outpace me in weeks, and call it luck?”
Hiccup's mouth opened, then shut again. Like a fish out of water. Useless, like he is. Was.
He seemingly didn't know what to say, at first.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, after a moment of nothing but silence and the sounds of chirping cicadas in the distance, his palms up in surrender. "I just… what do you want me to say, Astrid? That I'm doing some secret training behind my father's back? Doing witchcraft? I'm not! Seriously, it's- it's just.." He trailed off.
She didn't back down. She had to know, she wanted to know, she needed to know. With her jaw clenched, she retorted, "Then what do you have, Hiccup? Because clearly it’s something. It is something, because everyone's suddenly infatuated with you for some reason, and I’m tired - so tired - of pretending it’s nothing at all. So just tell me."
He hesitated.
Then, Hiccup nodded.
This was it, she realized with a sick glee. The point where he'd tell her everything - or at the very least, something. The split-second pause, the guilty glance away - it was proof, actual, concrete proof that he had something! She knew it.
Then, Astrid heard something back in the bushes.
She realized, with a pang, that the sun had set, and… looking out at the trees and bushes now, she didn't know how far exactly they had walked.
Another growl rumbled from the bushes.
Hiccup stiffened.
"It's not what you think," he began, looking suspiciously to his right.
Her eyes narrowed.
"You better get to explaining what it is, then."
…
She looked out at the cliff.
The conversation had stuck with her.
Particularly, the rest of it, rather.
Where he revealed his insane connection to a Night Fury (one he had STRUCK down, no less) and how he'd been keeping it a secret for the past few months. How he'd leave soon, for better shores. She remembers trying to convince him not to. And she remembers him telling her it was for the best, how she'd likely be the next in line. Astrid had protested, said it was foolish - but he said he was tired of everything. Of having to fight dragons. To now be forced to kill them. He'd said all his tricks had come from interacting with them in the wild, of being friends with them. He'd told her how friendly they were. How kind dragons were, if you gave them the chance.
He was leaving for them. She'd been disbelieving, made a fool, at the time - because he now had all the popularity, everything in his grasp, so why would he leave and change that? - but she understood, somewhat.
Astrid had replayed the conversation in her head more times than she'd like to admit.
It was just... sometimes, she wondered that if she'd done something back then, he'd still be here. If she'd just convinced him to stay and bask in it all, so that when he became Chief, he could show that to all of them. To prove that dragons weren't just cold blooded killers.
But the people had gotten what they wanted - even if they changed their minds - and now, he was officially gone. Written out of most of Berk's books, just a footnote beneath Stoick's name.
Now, she was set out to be chief.
Like everybody wanted.
(Like she'd wanted.)
The new Heir.
.
.
.
.
.
She knew the previous heir wasn't gone.
The rumours of a 'Dragon Conqueror' hung dry in the halls of Berk, cast aside. Even she had disregarded it, taking it as a fable. A new, tall tale that the little Vikings were told so that they would go to bed in the night. She'd been disbelieving. A fool.
But when she heard the theory of his equal being a Night Fury, too… it could only be him.
There was only one Night Fury out in the Archipelago.
..
..
..
Wherever he was, Astrid knew he was doing alright.
He had taken his spot in the world, and she had taken hers.
—
The Dragon Conqueror was not a conqueror.
He was a friend. An ally. A rider of dragons.
But in his case, it was a safer alternative - for his scaly friends' sakes - for him to be feared, rather than loved, by the rest of humankind.
Others would stay well enough away from them.
Especially with Toothless. No one would dare make an attempt on their lives - not unless they wanted to lose theirs.
Hiccup was content with that.
(Even if he missed Berk sometimes, he knew it was better for him to be far, far away from there. He would never be treated like he was useless ever again.)
Even more important than that, no dragon would ever be treated like a wild beast ever again.
Not on his watch.