Chapter Text
The Great Hall of Berk was heavy with the smell of burning cedar and old stone, the long hearth at the center sending up plumes of smoke that twisted in the rafters. Rain battered the thick wooden doors, and the wind howled like some angry spirit beyond the stone heavy walls. Inside, the elders of Berk gathered around the great oak table, hunched over like gnarled branches around a dying fire.
On the table lay the map — a sprawling, hand-painted tapestry of the Archipelago, worn at the edges from decades of use. Every island, every stronghold, every forgotten shoal was inked into its surface, the North looming dark and jagged, the South sprawling wide and fertile.
Stoick sat at the head of the table, his broad frame wrapped in a heavy fur cloak. His arms were crossed, his jaw set in the way that meant no one was going to change his mind easily, if at all.
Gobber leaned back in his chair to Stoick’s left, absently tapping a carving knife against the wooden armrest, his prosthetic hand clicking occasionally. His eyes darted from face to face, half amused, half wary. He knew the storm brewing outside was nothing compared to the one brewing inside.
Across the table, Elder Hamund shifted his weight, clearing his throat with a rasp like gravel. “We are not saying the girl must marry tomorrow, Stoick,” he began, voice thick with patience. “But offers must be considered. She’s of age, strong, wise—”
“And she’ll stay that way,” Stoick interrupted, his voice a rumble in the hall, “if we don’t shackle her to some Southern peacock.”
Murmurs rippled around the table. Elder Brynja, the oldest among them, narrowed her sharp eyes. “You dismiss them too quickly, Stoick. These are good names. Good blood.”
“Blood doesn’t make a man good.” Stoick’s hand came down heavy on the table, making the map jump. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, and gestured toward the scrolls piled before him, marriage proposals, each more gilded than the last.
Hamund, unfazed, unrolled one such scroll with a flourish. “Sven Volsungr, second son of Chief Arvid. Handsome, literate, trained in the spear and song. His family offers three longships of silver as dowry.”
Stoick grunted. “Sven Volsungr is a preening fool. More oil in his hair than brains in his skull. No.”
Another scroll. Another offer.
“Ebbe Hrafnborg, first of his name, heir to Hrafnheim.”
Stoick leaned forward slightly. “A snake dressed as a man. I’d sooner marry Eira to a Frostmare wolf.”
Brynja bristled. “You insult powerful friends.”
“I do not want powerful friends," Stoick growled. "I want a good man for my daughter. A man who can fly with her, fight beside her, laugh with her, not one who sees her as a crown to wear.”
The hall fell silent. Even the fire seemed to dim. Stoick’s gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the map, toward the jagged sprawl of the North. His fingers hovered over Iskaldheim for a moment before pulling back. Gobber saw the motion but said nothing, only tapping his knife a little faster.
Hamund tried again, smoothing his beard thoughtfully. “Then what of Lord Olaf Yngvarr’s boy? Trained in shipbuilding, respected merchant. Strong ties with the South.”
Stoick barked a humorless laugh. “A merchant's son? Eira would gut him with a look before a blade.”
“There are few others,” Brynja said sharply, leaning forward. Her voice dropped lower, serious. “You know how it is. An unmarried chief’s daughter draws the wrong sort of attention. If not through a proper alliance, others will try by force.”
At that, Stoick’s face hardened. His massive hand closed into a slow, deliberate fist atop the table. Around him, the elders shifted uncomfortably.
Gobber leaned forward finally, his voice dry. “You think Stoick doesn’t know that? You think he hasn't seen it with his own two eyes?” The tension in the room thickened.
Brynja did not flinch. “We only mean to advise, Chief.”
Stoick sighed, a long, heavy sound like stone grinding against stone. He leaned back in his chair, the fur across his shoulders rippling with the motion. “I swore an oath to her mother,” he said, voice low but clear. “That our daughter would choose her own path. That she would marry not because of gold, not because of land, not because of fear.” His sharp eyes pinned each elder in place. “She will marry a man who sees her as she is. Or she will not marry at all.”
The room was still. Rain pelted harder against the windows, wind shrieking like a chorus of furies. After a long moment, Brynja folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head. “As you will, Chief.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the other elders echoed the gesture. Stoick nodded once, the matter settled — for now. Gobber rose, stretching his stiff back. “Well, that’s that then. Anyone who wants to keep their skin intact won’t be bringing any more peacocks and poets to Berk.”
A few uneasy chuckles broke the tension, but Stoick did not smile. His gaze once again fell on the North — the cold, brutal North, where names like Grimborn still stirred both fear and memory.
Gobber’s eyes followed his friend's line of sight and narrowed slightly. But still, he said nothing.
Not yet.
The fire cracked and spit in the silence, casting flickering shadows over the faces of Berk's greatest and most stubborn sons. And over the map, where storm clouds gathered, North and South looming ever closer to war.
The moment the first uneasy chuckles died, the elders leaned back in their chairs — but the restless energy remained. Like wolves that smelled blood but weren’t yet sure who would draw first.
“Still,” Hamund muttered, tugging at his beard, “there are other offers we should not dismiss so easily. Eiriksson’s boy, for instance. A naval captain. Comes from old blood.”
“Old blood doesn't mend a broken spirit,” Gobber said under his breath, earning a sharp look from Hamund.
Elder Ragna, a wiry woman with a voice like a crow’s, banged her fist lightly against the table. “You’re all fools if you think this girl should run wild much longer. She’s nearly thirty summers! She should be married already. Berk needs heirs, not more stories about her riding storms like some mad Valkyrie.”
Stoick’s brow furrowed deeper. His jaw worked in silence before he spoke. “You speak of my daughter as if she’s a cow to be penned and bred, Ragna. Mind yourself.”
“She has too much fire,” another elder said grimly, tapping a crooked finger against the table. “No man will want a woman who fights and argues like a Northman.”
Spitelout snorted from his seat, his arms crossed lazily over his broad chest. “Maybe that’s the trouble. You lot keep looking for a boy to marry her. What she needs is a man.” His smirk twisted into something close to a grin. “One who won’t mind getting a sword thrown at his head once in a while.”
Several of the elders gasped, half from shock, half from amusement they couldn’t quite hide.
Brynja narrowed her eyes. “You would let her choose anyone? On a whim?”
Spitelout leaned forward on the table, the firelight catching the scars crisscrossing his knuckles. “Better a man she respects than one she’s forced to obey. Eira won’t be shut up in a hall, sewing banners and popping out heirs for some Southern brat.” He gestured toward the map, jabbing a thick finger at the southern islands. “You cage a storm like hers, and you’ll drown in the flood when it breaks loose.”
Gobber barked a laugh, loud and sudden. “Well said, brother.”
Stoick’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. For a moment, silence fell again. The fire cracked and hissed. Rain drummed against the shutters in relentless rhythm.
Then Elder Hamund, stubborn as a tree root, cleared his throat. “The problem remains. She must marry eventually. For alliances, for strength, for the future of Berk.”
“We will find another way,” Stoick said, voice like iron. “Or none at all.”
As the elders grumbled among themselves, some arguing fiercely, some merely muttering into their mugs, Stoick’s gaze drifted again.
Back to the map.
Back to the jagged upper reaches of the Archipelago.
To the North.
His hand hovered, almost imperceptibly above the inked mark where Iskaldheim sat, half-swallowed by the white paint of drawn snowfields. Gobber and Spitelout caught it. They said nothing. But their shared glance spoke volumes. They knew exactly who haunted Stoick’s mind. Not the spoiled Southern boys with their silk-lined boots.
Not the merchant heirs or puppet lords.
No, in Stoick’s mind’s eye, there was a shadow in the North.
Sharp of mind.
Cold of heart.
And carrying the blood of a man Stoick had once called brother.
The fire snapped sharply as a gust of wind found a crack in the Hall’s thick stones. Outside, the storm keened against the walls, rattling the old bones of Berk, but inside it was the silence that roared. Stoick’s hand hovered again above the map, fingers brushing the inked outline of the North. This time, the elders saw it.
Elder Hamund stiffened first. His hand clamped the table's edge, knuckles whitening. “You’re looking North,” he said, the disbelief in his voice cutting through the room like a thrown axe. “By the gods, Stoick, tell me you haven’t...”
Brynja, ever quick, leaned forward sharply. “You’re not considering the clans of the North? The barbarians?”
A ripple of muttered curses and horrified exclamations spread around the table.
Stoick said nothing. Gobber exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the storm break loose in front of him. Spitelout leaned back in his chair, arms folded, jaw tightening slightly.
The elders, however, were far from silent.
“They have their own laws, Stoick,” Ragna hissed, her voice sharp as a serpent’s fang. “They bow to no one. Not even to each other!”
“They trade in blood and iron, not oaths!” Hamund slammed his hand against the map, rattling the mugs and knives laid around it. “They’ve raided the South for generations. Burned our farms. Stolen our people.”
“They know no honor,” Brynja spat. “Only strength.”
“They’d see a girl like Eira as a prize to conquer, not a wife,” added another elder, face twisted with disdain. “Even their weddings are battles, fought with blade and blood.”
“They live like wolves,” someone muttered bitterly. “Savage beasts, the lot of them.”
But then, an unexpected voice cut through the rising tide. Elder Astridsson, an old man with clouded eyes but a mind still sharp as ever, tapped the table lightly with one gnarled finger. “Aye,” he said, voice low, gravelly, measured. “Savage... but not unjust.”
The others turned to glare at him, but he continued, unbothered.
“The North may be brutal, but their women stand shoulder to shoulder with their men. Fight beside them. Speak beside them.” His gaze shifted to Stoick. “They do not hide their daughters behind doors and silk. They raise them to fight, to rule, to survive.”
Brynja scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. “And you’d trade gentility for savagery? Let our Chief’s daughter be dragged to some frozen rock where blood runs thicker than love?”
“She wouldn’t be caged,” Astridsson said simply. “She’d be equal.”
The Great Hall crackled with tension. Stoick sat very still, his hands folded over his belt, the firelight throwing deep lines across his weathered face. He listened. Weighed. Judged. But still, he said nothing. Spitelout glanced sideways at Gobber, who met his gaze with a grim knowing.
Because they both understood what the others were too afraid or too wise to say aloud:
It wasn’t the North itself that Stoick was thinking of.
Not the wolf-clans.
Not the blood feasts.
It was a man.
One man.
The storm raged outside, rattling the heavy doors, as if the Archipelago itself recoiled from the name that no one dared let slip into the fire-lit hall. The tension broke like a dam.
“They’re not even our kind!” Brynja barked, slamming her palm flat against the map. "You'd marry the daughter of Berk into a pack of wolves and murderers?"
Ragna leaned in sharply. "Better a wolf than a snake, Brynja. Better a blade you can see coming than a poisoned cup from the South."
“They raid, they burn, they enslave!” Hamund spat. “Or have you forgotten the fires of Frostmere? The blood on the shores of Skaldfjord? How many of our sons were taken by the clans of the North while our backs were turned?”
“That was twenty years ago,” Astridsson countered, his voice rough with age but steady with conviction. "And not every clan flies the same colors."
Ragna, emboldened, jabbed a crooked finger toward the northern edges of the map. “There are men there. Good blood. Strong names.”
Hamund sneered. “Names like Hakon Vargrheim? The Wolf-King’s bastard grandson? The one who skinned an Outlander alive for stealing a goat?”
"Or Torsten Skjoldborg," Brynja snapped. "The one who broke three betrothals because no Southern bride could stomach the cold or the blade?"
Ragna chuckled darkly. "Aye. At least Torsten would treat her as a warrior, not a jewel to lock away."
"The North does not fear strong women," Astridsson said, almost gently. "They raise them."
More muttering, rough and sharp. Elder Svein, silent until now, leaned forward heavily on the table, his voice a deep growl. "There are worse things than a hard life in the cold. There are Southern lords who would chain her to a bed and call it marriage. There are merchant sons who would sell her honor for a heavier purse."
“That’s no excuse to hand her over to a sword-swinging savage!” Brynja hissed.
“No," Gobber said from the side, voice low and sardonic, "but it’s a damn sight better than handing her over to a boy who'd cry if his wine was poured too cold."
A few of the older warriors snorted, grim agreement breaking through the layers of tradition like stones through ice. Across the table, Stoick remained silent, his great hands folded before him, his broad shoulders set like stone. The muttering grew louder, rising like a gathering storm, words and curses crashing against each other. Arguments about North and South. About blood and loyalty. About what was owed, and what was feared. Stoick sat unmoving.
Until finally, Spitelout exhaled a long, put-upon breath through his nose and slapped his palm down hard on the table, making a few mugs jump.
“Oh, for Thor’s sake,” he grumbled, louder than necessary. “Since no one here’s got the balls to say it, I will.”
The room fell into sudden, brittle silence. Even the fire seemed to crouch low.
Spitelout leaned forward, planting his elbows on the map, his voice carrying to every shadowed corner of the Great Hall. “Viggo Grimborn," he said. “Son of Agnar. Of Iskaldheim.”
The name hit the air like a war hammer. For a breathless moment, no one moved. No one dared even blink. Then the Great Hall exploded.
"You’ve gone mad!" Brynja spat, half rising from her seat.
"Viggo Grimborn?!" Hamund echoed, face red with fury. "Chief of the Dragon Hunters? That wretch?"
"They played together as children, aye!" barked Elder Svein. "When Sigurd still lived! But that boy’s been dead for years. In his place stands a man who commands hunters and killers!"
"Blood or no blood, he’s a serpent now," Brynja snapped. "Colder than the sea in winter."
"Eira’s heart would be broken within a year," Ragna muttered, shaking her head as if the very thought were poison.
"The man bleeds silver, not red," another elder growled. "He’d sell his own kin if it brought him one step closer to victory. It is even in his name. Viggo , he is the war bringer. Is that what you want for Eira?!"
Still Stoick said nothing. Still he sat, stone-faced, his shoulders weighed down with something heavier than fury, heavier than shame.Spitelout, to his credit, didn’t back down.
He simply shrugged once, a tired gesture, as if he’d carried this truth for far too long.
"You all think I’m wrong?" he said, glancing around the roaring elders. "Fine. Say it. Pretend you don’t see it. But don’t lie to yourselves and think there’s a boy in the South, or anywhere else that’ll match her fire."
He leaned back, crossing his arms, mouth twisting into a grim smile.
"You all talk of alliances," he said. "Of strength. Of survival. Well, there’s your strength. Sitting up there in the cold, with blood on his hands and a mind sharper than any blade you own."
The elders shouted over each other, arguments of honor, of fear, of loyalty to Berk and the old ways. The elders’ outrage thickened the air like smoke.
“He’s a cold-blooded sadist!” Brynja snapped, her fingers digging into the heavy furs draped around her shoulders. “A snake who plays men like game pieces on a board!”
“I've heard tales from Skjoldborg,” Ragna growled, spitting into the fire for emphasis. “Of what he did to Frostmere’s raiders. Hung them upside down and let the dragons feast.”
“Deals in blood and treachery!” Hamund barked. “Drinks with murderers. Barters in chains.”
Around the table, the accusations flew, harsh and hot and full of the fear men feel when they know they are speaking half-truths, and that the full truth is worse.
Spitelout merely leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression full of infuriating calm.
Gobber tapped his carving knife lightly on the arm of his chair — tap, tap, tap — a steady rhythm in the storm of voices.
At last, Gobber spoke, voice rough but measured.
“Aye. He’s cold.”
Another tap.
“He’s ruthless.”
Tap.
“He’ll use a man’s pride against him just to see him fall harder.”
The elders nodded fiercely, vindicated.
But Gobber wasn’t finished. He leaned forward, the firelight catching the thick scars at his temple. "But he keeps his word once it’s given."
Silence. A stunned, uneasy silence.
Spitelout grunted, kicking the leg of the table with his boot. "And he’s no fool, neither. He sees what’s needed and he does it. Whether it’s pretty or not."
Brynja spluttered. "You would trust that butcher with Berk’s only daughter?"
Gobber’s eyes narrowed. "Better a butcher who knows her worth than a soft-handed lordling who sees her as a trophy."
The elders recoiled as if Gobber had slapped them. But Spitelout only smiled, that knowing, wolfish grin he wore when he had baited a trap and all the chickens had waddled right into it.
“Tell me,” he said slowly, “which of those pretty Southern lads would stand at her side when the fighting starts? Which would sharpen her sword, not hide it? Which would ride into the storm with her, not send another man in his place?"
No one answered. Because they all knew the answer. None of them. Not a single one.
Across the table, Stoick remained silent his heavy gaze locked on the flickering fire, lost in a place far from the shouting and the fear.
Lost in memory.
Because seventeen years ago, Berk had known peace, for a little while. Before the tides of war and politics and dragons had torn the world apart. Back then, there had been a boy. A dark-haired boy, slight for his age but quick, with sharp eyes and a sharper mind. A boy who had ridden the coasts of Berk with Eira at his side, laughing and shouting challenges into the salt wind. A boy who had built her toy shields and carved little swords for their games. Who had always let her win, but only barely and had grinned wide when she bested him.
My warrior, Eira had called him once, unknowing of what the years would make of them both.
That boy had been bright, and fierce, and kind in the way that mattered most: He had never once looked at Eira and seen a prize. He had seen a partner. And then, the world had shifted.
Agnar dead. Sigurd dead. Iskaldheim sealed behind walls of ice and blood. And Viggo Grimborn had vanished from their lives like a ship swallowed by the storm. Stoick’s throat tightened. He could almost hear their laughter again, wild and bright and so full of the future. He gripped the edge of the table hard enough to creak the old oak. The man Viggo had become was a stranger. But the boy... the boy still haunted him. And maybe, just maybe there was something of that boy left under all the ice and iron.
And if there was…
The fire cracked sharply as if even it had grown tired of the arguing. But the elders were far from done. Hamund was first to speak again, his voice dripping with the kind of disbelief that could cut through stone.
“You forget something vital in your scheming, Gobber, Spitelout,” he said, jabbing a thick finger toward them. “Hiccup and the riders are at war with Viggo Grimborn’s men as we speak.
At war!
”
Several other elders grumbled darkly, pounding their fists lightly on the table in emphasis. “And you want,” Brynja hissed, “to ally with the man who seeks their blood?”
“How do you even imagine that working?” Ragna demanded, her weathered hands splayed wide. “One minute, swords drawn. Next minute, wedding rings? Are you mad?”
Gobber, for his part, didn’t flinch. He simply tipped back his mug, drained the last of the ale, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking. “Didn’t say it would be easy,” he said simply. “Didn’t say it would be quick. Said it might be right .”
Spitelout leaned forward, arms braced against the rough table.
"Aye. You think wars end with victory songs and pretty banners?" His voice cut through the rising anger. "Sometimes, they end with blood. Sometimes with a knife in the dark." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And sometimes... they end with two sides deciding they’ve bled enough."
The elders muttered among themselves, but none spoke louder than their own unease.
“And what about Eira ?” Brynja demanded suddenly, voice sharp and shrill. “You speak of treaties and alliances and strength — but what of the girl herself?” She turned, jabbing her finger now at Stoick, who still had not moved.
“She hates the Dragon Hunters as much as her brother does! She’s fought them! Bled because of them!”
“She hasn’t seen Viggo Grimborn since she was a child,” Hamund added, voice low, dangerous. “She wouldn’t even remember him. Not who he was... and certainly not who he’s become.”
Murmurs of grim agreement spread around the table like wildfire.
“She remembers the blade that cut down her dragon,” another elder growled. "The brand of the clenched fist on every trap, every chain."
"She remembers the pain," Ragna spat. "Not the boy who played with her in the fields."
Gobber set his mug down with a heavy thud , cutting through the noise like a battle axe.
“You’re right,” he said grimly. “She doesn’t remember him.”
He rose slowly to his feet, rolling his bad shoulder with a grunt. "And that's the one thing working in our favor."
The elders fell silent, thrown off balance.
Spitelout stood too, crossing his arms tightly across his broad chest. “She’d judge him as he is now," he said. “Not as a boy. Not as a memory."
Gobber’s good eye gleamed in the firelight. "And maybe," he added, voice quieter but no less sharp, "just maybe he'd do the same for her."
The Hall hung heavy with the words. Above the map, the North loomed cold and brutal, yes but also untamed, full of wild, dangerous possibilities.
And Stoick still said nothing. Because deep in his heart, he knew: Whatever path lay ahead, it would not be simple. It would not be safe. And it would not be without blood.
But then again —
Nothing worth forging ever was.
The Great Hall emptied slowly, like a wounded beast bleeding into the night. One by one, the elders muttered curses and prayers under their breath, wrapping themselves in heavy cloaks and disappearing into the storm outside. Until only three remained.
Stoick sat unmoving at the head of the table, staring into the dying fire as if it held the answer to a riddle he’d never been able to solve. Gobber dropped heavily onto the bench beside him, groaning as his old joints protested. Spitelout leaned against a pillar nearby, arms crossed, the ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, none of them spoke.
Only the wind howled beyond the thick walls, and the fire snapped low and mean in the hearth. Finally, Gobber broke the silence.
“So,” he said, voice low and scratchy. “Are you really thinkin’ about it?”
Stoick didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. He simply exhaled a slow, tired breath that seemed to take years with it. “No,” he said bitterly. “It’s not thinking that keeps me from sleep.”
Spitelout let out a soft snort. “Still brooding over that Promise , then?” he asked, voice light but the eyes sharp underneath. “That boy was, what thirteen? Still wet behind the ears. Barely tall enough to swing a blade without falling over.”
Gobber gave a rough chuckle, nodding. “Aye. Wasn’t even big enough for his own armor yet. Eira bossed him around like a sheepdog.”
But Stoick didn’t smile. He leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the scarred oak table, his eyes locked on the flames. “It’s been seventeen years,” he said, voice low, grinding like stone. “But I remember it clear as yesterday.”
Neither Spitelout nor Gobber interrupted. They knew better. Stoick's voice was a rumble in the quiet, heavy with memory.
“He stood right there in this Hall. Small, gangly thing. Face full of bruises from training, clothes too big for him." His mouth twisted, somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
"And there she was Eira dragging him by the hand like he was some lost pup." He stared into the fire, seeing it all.
"And he looked me in the eye," Stoick said, voice growing rougher, heavier, "and swore. On his blood. On his ancestors . That he’d come back.” He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose. "That when he was Chief... when he was a man... he'd come back for her." The firelight danced over the heavy lines of his face. “That she would be his wife.”
The words dropped into the silence like stones into a black river.
Spitelout shifted uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. “That was a boy’s oath,” he muttered. “Made with a heart too big for his chest and a head too empty to know better.”
Gobber leaned back, rubbing his thick hand over his beard. “Seventeen years, Stoick. Seventeen years of blood and ice and war. He ain’t the same boy.”
Stoick opened his eyes and for the first time, they were weary. Old in a way even the fiercest warriors feared. “No,” he said softly. “He’s not.”
He sat back heavily, the chair creaking under his weight. “But blood remembers. Oaths remember.” He shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear away cobwebs that had been spun too thick, too deep. “And so do I.”
The fire guttered low, shadows curling like smoke around them, wrapping the Great Hall in a silence too heavy for words. Because they all knew: Promises made in blood have a weight that time alone cannot wash away.
And somewhere out there, in the cold darkness of the North,
the boy who once laughed beside Eira… had grown into a man no one could predict.
And perhaps,
just perhaps
, he had not forgotten either.
The fire in the Great Hall had burned low, little more than glowing coals now. The light threw long, flickering shadows across the carved beams and stone walls, wrapping the three men in a quiet, grim cocoon. Gobber shifted uneasily, tapping his prosthetic fingers against the table in a steady, restless rhythm. Spitelout stood nearby, arms still crossed, staring hard at the map but not really seeing it.
"You know it's a bad idea, Stoick," Spitelout said finally, voice gruff but almost tired. "You can't seriously be thinking to put Eira in the path of that... that man ."
Gobber nodded slowly. "Whatever promises were made — he ain't the boy we knew."
Stoick didn't move for a long moment. Then, finally, he sat back in his chair, the heavy wood creaking under the shift of his weight. His hand dragged down his beard, slow, rough, as if trying to scrub the weariness from his bones. “That’s not what worries me,” he said at last, voice low, bitter.
Gobber and Spitelout exchanged a glance, the old, familiar one that meant Brace yourself .
“I gave her the right to choose,” Stoick continued, staring into the coals. "And I will not take it from her. Not now. Not ever." There was steel in his voice that old, immovable Stoick who had faced dragons and armies alike without flinching. "But..." He paused, fingers curling into a slow, tight fist against the table. “What worries me," he said, voice dropping to a rough whisper, "is him ."
Gobber leaned forward slightly. "Viggo?"
Stoick nodded once, heavy and final. "I worry," he said slowly, "that he hasn’t forgotten." The fire popped sharply, as if in answer. "Everything he’s done," Stoick said, almost to himself. "Since he took the throne at fifteen every raid, every alliance, every battle he’s survived " he shook his head grimly, " all of it... proves it."
Spitelout frowned. "Proves what , exactly?"
Stoick turned his head slightly, his eyes grim and sharp as a winter sea. "That he remembers," he said. "And that he’s coming to collect."
The silence was deafening.
Gobber shifted uneasily again, running his hand down his face. "But Stoick," he said finally, voice rough, "even if he does... even if he still holds that promise in his heart... you can’t seriously think he’s the same boy who swore it."
Stoick gave a rough laugh a humorless thing, sharp and cold. "No," he said. "He isn’t." He pushed himself slowly to his feet, standing tall and broad against the flickering firelight. "And that's the real trouble, Gobber." He braced his hands against the table, the old oak groaning under the weight of his anger and fear. "Because I was the fool who gave him a condition ."
Spitelout straightened from the pillar, wary now.
"I told him, he wasn't to come back for her as a boy," Stoick said, his voice a slow, dangerous growl. "I told him, he was to grow up first. Become a man.
Become a better Chief than his father, better even than Sigurd the Wise." He shook his head again, bitterly, fiercely. "And damn me," he said, voice cracking low, "but he’s done it."
Fifteen years of blood and ice, of broken clans and bought loyalties. Of dragons captured and men made to kneel. Of building an empire not with kindness but with unrelenting, brutal brilliance. Viggo Grimborn had not forgotten.
And he had kept his vow in the only way he knew how: By becoming the one thing no man not even Stoick could easily deny. A Chief worthy of Eira.
The Hall rang with laughter that night full and booming, the kind that rolled up into the high beams and rattled the rafters with its joy. Mugs of ale clattered together. Plates heaped high with roasted meats and warm bread littered the table. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and salt, leather and good cheer.
At the head of the table sat Stoick, younger then but already massive, his laughter a roar that could shake the stone foundations.
Beside him, Gobber howled into his mug, slapping Spitelout so hard on the back the younger man nearly choked on his drink.
And across from them, towering and proud, sat Sigurd Grimborn, Sigurd the Wise, chieftain of the Dragon Hunters, draped in a heavy cloak of black fur. His great mane of gray hair caught the firelight like a crown, and his eyes dark as coal, gleamed with good humor.
The elders of Berk lounged along the sides, swapping tales and boasts, warmed by both fire and ale. It was the rarest kind of night one without war, without death, without duty pressing at the door. And into that warm, golden moment came Viggo.
The boy was slight, almost too thin for his heavy wool tunic, his dark hair falling into serious, determined eyes. His hand was gripped tightly around Eira’s, who skipped beside him without a trace of fear. The Hall quieted slightly at the sight of them, curiosity flickering among the elders. Stoick sat back in his chair, lifting one brow.
Viggo didn't hesitate. He walked straight up to the head of the table, dragging Eira with him like a knight presenting his standard before a king. And then to the astonishment of every man and woman in the Hall, Viggo lifted his chin, locked his bright, fierce gaze onto Stoick, and declared: "I wish to marry Eira."
A heartbeat of stunned silence. And then laughter. Not cruel. Not mocking. But deep and warm the kind of laughter that comes from being caught unprepared by something so audacious it demands respect. Gobber nearly fell off his bench. Spitelout slapped the table hard enough to spill half the ale mugs. Even Sigurd roared, the sound booming like a distant avalanche.
But Stoick only watched. Because where others saw a boy playing games he saw something else. He saw the way Viggo’s hand trembled slightly where it held Eira’s not with fear, but with effort. He saw the stubborn set of the boy’s jaw. The gleam of steel, not just in the boy’s pride but in his soul.
Stoick leaned forward slowly, planting his forearms on the table. "And why," he asked, voice calm but carrying, "should I give you my daughter, boy?"
The Hall grew still, the laughter fading into the heavy hush of expectation. Viggo did not flinch.
"Because I will be worthy of her," he said, steady as the tide.
Some of the elders exchanged amused, indulgent looks. Stoick let the silence stretch testing. And then he spoke. "You want my daughter?" he said, voice low, carrying to every ear. "Then listen well, boy. She is not a prize to be handed over like some flagon of mead. She is my blood. A Chief's blood. And if you would have her, you must earn her."
The fire crackled.
"You must grow," Stoick said. "Become more than a boy with big dreams. You must become a man." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "A Chief better than your father. Better even than Sigurd himself."
Sigurd only chuckled at that, raising his mug in salute.
"You must build a name," Stoick said, "that she can stand beside with pride. You must forge yourself into something no one, no one could deny her."
The Hall held its breath. And without a single beat of hesitation Viggo dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"I swear it," he said, voice clear and sharp. "On my blood. On my clan.
I swear I will. When I grow up and become a Chief, I will come back for her. And she will be mine."
A ripple of astonishment moved through the gathered chiefs. Eira, ten years old and all fire and stubbornness, squeezed his hand tight and beamed up at Stoick.
"He's mine," she said brightly. "And I'm keeping him."
More laughter softer now. Less at the children more with them.
Because even the oldest warriors there, hardened by years of blood and loss, could feel it:
Something had been forged in that moment. Something raw and real and deeper than any treaty signed with wine and words. Even Sigurd himself the wily old Chief of hunters and killers nodded with a quiet, approving grunt. "Not a bad idea," he said under his breath. "Not a bad idea at all."
And Stoick, who had seen dreams rise and shatter more times than he cared to count felt a strange, dangerous thing stir deep inside him:
Hope.
The memory faded slowly, like smoke slipping through old fingers. And with it, the fire in Stoick’s chest that bright hope from so long ago guttered into cold, bitter ash. The Great Hall was silent, save for the faint crackle of dying embers.
Gobber stirred first, clearing his throat roughly. When he spoke, his voice was low, gruff with something too old to be anger and too raw to be pity. "Dreams," he said, "are easy for boys." He leaned forward heavily, setting his elbows on the battered oak table. "But for men?" He shook his head slowly. "Dreams turn into weapons. Shields. Chains."
Spitelout grunted, pushing away from the pillar where he’d been leaning. "Or worse," he said dryly. "Obsession." He crossed the floor with heavy steps and dropped onto the bench across from Stoick, his voice a little rougher than before. "That boy you remember? The one who swore himself to your daughter like some storybook hero?" He leaned in, voice cutting low. "That boy’s dead , Stoick."
The words hung sharp and cruel between them but not untrue. Stoick didn’t flinch. He only exhaled slowly, his thick hands curling slightly against the table. "I know," he said.
Gobber’s gaze softened, but only a little. "We all loved 'em once, Stoick," he said. "The boy he was. The man Sigurd wanted him to be." He paused, working his jaw, as if the words themselves cost him. "But that ain’t the man who rules Iskaldheim now."
Spitelout nodded grimly. "That man’s built himself a kingdom of blood and ice." He jabbed a thumb northward toward the inked map still lying forgotten on the table. "A man who sees everything as a game. Who’s been playin' it better than the rest of us for years."
Gobber tapped his fingers once, twice, three times against the wood. Soft. Sharp. Measured. "You think he kept that promise outta love, Stoick?" he asked finally, voice almost gentle. "Or outta pride?"
The question hit harder than any accusation could have. Stoick's jaw tightened, the old grief and anger warring deep behind his storm-grey eyes. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe both." He straightened slowly, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the table. "But I know this."
He met their eyes Gobber’s tired one, Spitelout’s sharp and wary ones. "If Viggo Grimborn comes to Berk," Stoick said, voice low and final, "he won’t come with flowers in his hand." He leaned heavier against the table, as if the weight of what he carried had finally become too much to hide. "He'll come," Stoick said bitterly, "with a sword and fire in his hands. He will not bring peace, only war."
The fire sputtered once, throwing long, leaping shadows across the walls as if the Hall itself recoiled at the truth spoken aloud. And for the first time in a very long while, Stoick the Vast looked very, very tired.
And in his head, like a whisper the words of the vow made by the boy seventeen years ago continued to reverberate.
"When I grow up and become a Chief, I will come back for her. And she will be mine."