Third-Person Perspective
The Great Hall was unusually quiet.
No feast. No fire. Only tension.
The teens sat together near the center, still pale from what they had witnessed in the arena—the battle against the Nadder, the terrifying strength Hiccup had revealed, and the way he looked at them as though they were nothing more than insects beneath his feet.
The warriors stood near the walls, armed but uncertain, their expressions clouded with unease. Murmurs passed between them like drifting smoke, thick with doubt and questions no one wanted to ask aloud.
And at the front, seated upon the elder platform, were three figures that carried the weight of generations.
Elder Yrsa, sharp-eyed and composed even in her old age, leaned slightly on her carved cane, her expression unreadable.
Elder Halvar, his silence heavier than any war axe, sat beside her, his thick fingers steepled beneath his beard.
Gothi stood to the side, arms crossed, her usual quiet presence far heavier than usual.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Yrsa broke the silence.
"So," she said, her voice calm but firm, "we've seen what Hiccup Horrendous Haddock has become."
Snotlout shifted uncomfortably. "Become?" he muttered. "He wasn't like that before. He was—"
"He was hiding," Astrid interrupted sharply, her fists clenched. "Everything we saw... it wasn't new. It was revealed."
Fishlegs said nothing. Neither did the twins.
"You saw it too, then," Halvar rumbled at last. "The restraint. The control. He didn't learn that overnight."
Yrsa nodded. "That boy isn't a mistake. He's a weapon. Forged, tempered... and pointed right at us."
"And who do we blame for that?" came a soft rasp.
All heads turned to Gothi.
She stepped forward slowly, her weathered hands moving as she began to sign—but then, to everyone's surprise, she spoke.
"I knew this day would come," she said, her voice quiet but carrying across the hall like a ghost.
The room froze.
"When Hiccup was still just a child—no more than four—I began to notice the wounds," she said. "Not the scraped knees of a clumsy toddler. But deep bruises. Old fractures. Scars from wild animals. Blades. Fire."
She looked down for a moment. "He always brushed them off. Said he fell. Said he wandered. But I knew. I've treated warriors for decades. I know what a training injury looks like. I know what a beast's bite looks like."
"Wait," Ruffnut whispered. "He was training? At four?"
Gothi nodded.
"I kept silent," she continued. "At first, I thought it was just a phase. That maybe he was trying to prove something. But over the years... I saw the change. The light in his eyes dimmed. The kindness remained—but it was buried. Hardened."
"And you never told anyone?" Astrid asked, stunned.
Gothi looked at her. "What would you have done? Who would have believed me? He was called 'Useless.' 'Burden.' His own father ignored him. The village mocked him. I was the only one who saw the truth—and by the time I realized how far it had gone... it was too late."
Silence fell again. Heavier this time. Like stone dropped into a grave.
Yrsa exhaled slowly. "So he's seen us as his jailors... for years."
"Longer," Gothi said. "He's seen Berk not as home, but as a cage. And you forged the bars with every insult, every dismissal, every time you turned your backs."
Astrid sat in stunned silence. Tuffnut rubbed the back of his neck.
"And now," Halvar said slowly, "we face a man who does not hesitate. Who has every reason to burn us down. Who just claimed a dragon in the arena and made a statement without saying a word."
Yrsa leaned forward on her cane. "Then there's the matter of Stoick."
The room tensed again.
"We all know how he is," she continued. "Proud. Stubborn. He believes strength is force. That a Viking is made of blood and brawn. And now we know the truth."
She looked to Gothi. "If what you're saying is true... if Hiccup has felt this way since he was a child, if he's hidden it for this long—"
"Then he won't hesitate," Halvar finished. "If Stoick stands in his way. If he's not already in Hiccup's plans."
Snotlout paled. "You think he'd kill his own father?"
Gothi met his eyes. "If he considers Stoick part of the cage that forged him... yes. I do."
The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing shadows across the floor.
Yrsa tapped her cane once. The sound echoed like a warning bell.
"Then we must ask ourselves," she said softly, "not how to stop him. But how to survive him. And perhaps... how to make peace with the monster we created."
The room was thick with tension when Elder Yrsa shifted her gaze to the warriors standing at attention along the walls. Her sharp eyes landed on a hulking figure near the center—a man with a weathered face, a single eye that gleamed like polished steel, and a presence that demanded silence.
"Bjarke," Yrsa called, her voice cutting through the hall like a blade.
The Old Wolf stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his heavy boots. He said nothing at first, only folding his scarred arms across his chest as he waited for her question.
"You were the one Stoick trusted to safeguard Berk while he was away," Yrsa said. "And you witnessed Hiccup's... display. I would hear your thoughts."
The hall held its breath.
Bjarke's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Hiccup's fighting style... is unlike anything I've seen among Vikings."
Several of the teens shifted uncomfortably.
"He doesn't move like a man," Bjarke continued, his expression grim. "He moves like a predator. Like a Timberjack stalking prey. Fluid. Lethal. Controlled. Every strike is deliberate. Every movement born from instinct, not taught drills."
Astrid's fists clenched tighter at her sides.
"But," Bjarke said, and this time his eye sharpened dangerously, "what we saw in the arena... wasn't the full truth."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"I believe," he growled, "he was holding back. Feeding us a weaker version of his style. Incomplete. A performance."
Yrsa's brow furrowed. "Explain."
Bjarke's mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a frown. "There was a moment. When he dropped onto all fours. Low to the ground. Like a beast about to pounce. His body shifted. His eyes sharpened. That—that was the closest glimpse we saw of his real strength."
He paused, letting the words settle like stones.
"When he fought from that position... there was a ferocity I've only ever seen in dragons during a kill. It was instinctual. Natural. But even then—" Bjarke shook his head— "even then... he was restraining himself. His claws moved fast, yes. His strikes were brutal. But his breathing stayed measured. His stance—tight. Ready."
A long silence stretched between them all.
"Which means," Bjarke said, voice dropping lower, "Hiccup's real strength—the true depth of it—remains hidden. He's feeding us just enough to make us think we know what he's capable of. Enough to lure us into underestimating him."
Halvar swore under his breath.
Gothi simply closed her eyes.
Yrsa tapped her cane against the ground once, twice, thinking.
"And if we did move against him?" she asked softly.
Bjarke's single eye gleamed with cold certainty. "If anyone attacks him... or worse, touches what he cares for..." He let the silence hang, heavy and deadly. "He will do exactly what he promised. He will kill. Without hesitation. Without mercy. And none of us—not Stoick, not the best warriors in Berk—will survive the storm he'll unleash."
The words struck like blows.
The teens had no rebuttal.
Neither did the warriors.
Elder Yrsa exhaled slowly, the weight of the future pressing onto her shoulders. Her knuckles whitened around the head of her cane.
"Then hear me well," she said, voice firm and final. "Do not provoke him. Do not threaten him. Do not undermine him. He has no loyalty left for Berk—and if we give him reason, he will not just leave."
Her gaze swept over the room, hard and merciless.
"He will destroy us."
Bjarke gave a small, approving nod. "The boy you knew is gone," he said. "What remains is a creature we made—one we cannot chain."
Yrsa sighed heavily, the lines around her eyes deepening. She tapped her cane once more, the sound echoing like a command.
"This council is dismissed."
The warriors bowed their heads and began to file out silently, the teens following, their footsteps subdued.
At the door, Bjarke paused, his voice rumbling one last time.
"If you want to live... remember this: never corner a dragon."
And with that, the Old Wolf was gone, leaving only silence—and the growing shadow of the storm they had birthed.