Stoick's Point of View
The clang of metal echoed across the village like a heartbeat.
Axes were sharpened. Armor repaired. Ballistae reloaded and tested. Men shouted, barked orders, dragged barrels of pitch and sacks of iron-tipped arrows to the longships. Every soul in Berk worked under a shared purpose: war.
And yet, I couldn't help but feel something was... off.
I stood on the ledge overlooking the docks, arms crossed, wind tugging at my cloak. The sky was overcast. Grey. Thick with the promise of rain or worse.
But the storm wasn't in the sky.
It was coming from the nest.
Hiccup's words haunted me like whispers in a tomb.
"In three days, I'll give you what you always wanted."
"If you win... I'll be your son again."
He said it like a man offering a poisoned gift—like he already knew what would happen. It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't even a threat.
It was a sentence.
I clenched my fists tighter.
This had to end.
I had lost my wife to dragons.
And now... I had lost my son to them, too.
But no more.
This was where the war ended.
We were readying every warrior we could muster. Eight ships. Three siege wagons modified for cliff terrain. Over fifty fighters, most of them veterans. The rest? Young, scared, desperate to prove themselves.
We still didn't know what waited at the nest.
We knew there were dragons.
We assumed they were many.
But we had faced many before.
We had slain wild Nadders and driven back Monstrous Nightmares. We'd tamed the skies and defended our land. Whatever waited there—whatever Hiccup thought would break us—he had underestimated our resolve.
"Chief!"
Gobber approached from the forge path, wiping soot from his face with a rag. "Ballistae are loaded and reinforced. Blades are sharpened. Einar's crew is ready to sail by morning."
"Good," I muttered.
He eyed me warily. "Still thinking about what he said?"
"How could I not?" I snapped.
Gobber held up a hand. "Easy. I didn't come to lecture."
I exhaled.
"I just can't believe how much he's changed," I admitted, quietly. "The way he talks now... like he's not even human anymore."
Gobber looked away. "Maybe part of him isn't."
I turned sharply.
"He was my son," I growled. "He still is."
Gobber didn't answer.
The silence was more painful than any words.
Behind us, warriors marched in formation, practicing shield walls. I could hear the chanting. The drills. But none of it sounded like victory.
It sounded like desperation.
I knew what they were thinking.
We weren't just marching into a nest.
We were marching into his domain.
Hiccup. The boy they once called weak. The dragon boy. The mistake.
Now? He was something else.
And the villagers feared it.
But they would follow me.
They had to.
Because I had led them through every trial. Every blizzard. Every famine. I had built this tribe to survive.
We would not fall.
We would fight tooth and nail, spear and sword, until either Berk stood victorious...
Or nothing was left to bury.
What none of us knew—what none of us could know—was that beneath the nest, something far older stirred.
Something none of us had prepared for.
———————————————————————————
The great hall was filled with firelight and the low rumble of voices.
Warriors, elders, and shieldmaidens lined the central table, seated on benches or standing with arms crossed, weapons resting at their sides. Smoke curled from the hearth at the heart of the room, but even that warmth couldn't soften the tension that hung thick in the air.
We had three days.
Three days to plan a war against a place we had never seen.
Three days to march against the unknown.
And every soul in this room knew exactly who we were marching against.
Hiccup.
Not the boy who fumbled with swords and stammered in front of crowds.
Not the outcast.
No.
The Alpha.
I stepped up to the front of the table, slamming my fist down on the surface.
"Enough standing around. We have work to do."
The murmuring ceased.
I pointed toward the large map splayed across the table—dragon markings inked along the northern isles, where the nest was rumored to be.
"We do not know what waits for us," I began, voice loud and commanding. "But we do know this: Hiccup has the location. And he made it clear he intends to give it to us."
There were murmurs—uncertainty.
I raised a hand. "He's not the source of the raids. Not directly. But he's protecting those who are."
"Are we certain of that?" one warrior asked. "He seemed to want us to go there."
"He wants us to go," I growled. "That's what worries me."
Gobber stepped forward beside me. "Then we plan for the worst."
"Exactly," I said, turning toward the rest of the table. "Every hour from now until we sail is going to be spent preparing for that."
I pointed to the captains. "Formation drills. Reinforce shield walls. Practice cliffside deployments. I want two-man spear rotations ready for tight terrain."
"To what end?" another warrior asked. "We don't know the size of their force. We don't even know how many dragons they have."
I glared at him. "Then we'll plan for too many. And if we're wrong, we'll count our blessings. But we will not go in unprepared."
I motioned to the wall.
Two young scribes dragged a rolled-up diagram forward—old blueprints from raids long past. Catapult formations. Net-launcher placements. Crossbow towers that once turned the tide of smaller conflicts.
"Flame-sacks will be divided across the ships," I continued. "Two per vessel. We'll launch them first to scatter any aerial defense, then follow with spear teams to break through and seize the nest's perimeter."
An elder nodded. "And once we breach it?"
I leaned forward. "Then we kill whatever's inside. I don't care how big they are, how many wings they have, or what tricks they've learned. If they stand between Berk and survival, they die."
Silence followed.
Even the fire had gone quiet.
They knew this wasn't just another skirmish.
This was the climax of a war that had lasted generations.
And none of us knew what we were really walking into.
"Chief!" a voice suddenly cried, echoing through the hall from beyond the doors.
All heads turned.
The thick wooden doors creaked under force—then burst open wide.
Standing in the cold archway were the twins, Snotlout, and Fishlegs. Faces pale. Eyes wide.
"Chief!" Snotlout yelled again. "We need to talk—now!"