Chapter Text
-0-
She hated the sapphire blue dress, loathed the way it cinched her waist and made her feel like she was wrapped in chains of silk. It was too soft, too delicate—an insult to the hardened body beneath. She hated how it made her feel like she was a prisoner in her own skin, but she’d promised Mala she’d do this.
The resistance needed a beautiful young lady to attend balls and eavesdrop, and this was how she could start helping them.
Sure, it wasn’t what she’d hoped to do.
She grew up an orphan in the Pits, the poorest of the slums in the Kingdom of the Wilderwest. She’d learned how to fight at twelve and killed a man when she was fifteen. She’d learned how to move unseen in the streets, invisible to all but those with the sharpest eyes, and how to avoid getting caught by even the fastest guards.
She grew up as a woman, without parents, in a place where the nicest men would only try to mug her. She was proud to say she’d never had a problem dealing with those men, though, and never got mugged or worse.
When she’d been pulled out of her latest gang by a man named Throk following a botched raid, she thought the resistance would see her usefulness as a fighter.
Not as an actor to play some pampered, beautiful young noblewoman.
A beautiful, young noblewoman who could blend in with the nobility, spying on their every move without them even noticing.
As she stepped out of the carriage in her silly, blue dress, relying on Minden’s steady hand to guide her down, Astrid could barely hide the disgust on her face as she took in the sight of the lavish manor and opulent wardrobe of its guests. They were like peacocks in silks and velvets, their garments embroidered with gold and silver thread.
Nobles. Rich, ignorant, stinking highborns. Lord and ladies, dining and dancing while a quarter of the Kingdom starves.
They scampered back and forth, dressed in ridiculous tunics, coats and dresses with all sorts of useless colors. They talked in shrill voices, too high pitched for her ears, and engaged in either useless, idle chatter or passive-aggressive verbal sparring.
They’re weak. Too concerned with fashion and food and what the latest entertainment will be.
They’re so proud of themselves, they don’t even care about the rest of the people. They’re so fat and happy, they can’t even begin to imagine what’s it like to suffer and starve. To not know when the next meal comes, or if there is even a next meal.
They don’t know what it’s like to grow up without parents, to know nothing but pain and agony for the first twenty years of their lives. They knew nothing of the Pits, how much of a struggle to survive each day was.
Or they did know, and they just didn’t care.
She hated them. All of them.
“Mind your expressions, Astrid. Chin up,” Minden murmured quietly as they were escorted to the ball room. “Composure.”
Astrid took a breath and relaxed her face, loosened her jaw and recalled the training she’d done with Atali on proper etiquette for a lady. She straightened her back, softened her face and exhaled slowly, trying to summon the quiet confidence Atali said would befit a beautiful young lady would exude. Every step was made deliberately, without hesitation.
Throk’s words echoed in her head: Walk as if you belong here. They could never imagine someone like you walking on through their front door, wearing their clothing, speaking their language and eating their food. Act as if you belong, like you’ve belonged to it your whole life. Think that you’re better than everyone you know, and you’ll fit in just fine.
“Not too much confidence,” Minden whispered once they passed through the gilded front doors and out of the earshot of the guards. “Remember, this is your first ball, and you can’t appear too confident and outgoing. Be timid and shy, but courteous and kind. We don’t want to attract too much attention.”
Right. “In case you’ve forgotten, this actually is my first ball.” Astrid muttered, but allowing herself to appear a little shyer as they passed some conversing nobles.
She felt their eyes on her as they passed, examining her appearance as if eyeing an interesting new stuffed animal from the border regions. The ladies eyed the beautiful ruby necklace she wore and the dazzling sapphire bracelet, while the men eyed the dress and, she assumed, her figure.
She stomped on the urge to punch them, keeping her eyes in front of her, focused on maintaining her posture and the air of nobility as she was escorted through the manor.
Minden huffed quietly, “I haven’t forgotten,” she murmured out of the corner of her mouth as they entered the ballroom. “Lady Astrid Anderssen mustn’t look too confident, or too out of placed. She may be more rural and nervous around highborn elites, but she still has to behave like a noblewoman.
The attendants opened the doors for them and Astrid’s breath hitched in her throat, taken aback by the absolute splendor of the colossal room.
If Astrid hated the outside of the extravagant exterior of the manor, she abhorred this.
But she was also fascinated by it.
The room must’ve been two or three stories tall, the ceiling decorated with magnificent frescoes of varying species of dragons, with King Drago’s dark Bewilderbeast in the center of it all. Crystal chandeliers, dozens of them, hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in warm light. Purple curtains framed tall windows, though most remained drawn shut, as if the nobility feared the night air would sully their gathering.. There were colossal stone pillars lining the perimeter of the room, but Astrid couldn’t tell if they served any function other than decoration.
Why put pillars in if they don’t even support the ceiling?
For appearances, her cynical brain told her. She scowled again at the wasteful display of wealth.
There were tables spread out amongst the room, surrounding a massive area in the center which looked to be reserved for dancing. There were musicians playing music she could barely hear over the din of the room, a combination of soft conversations and the clanking of glasses and plates with food.
So, so much food. She blanched at the sight of a young woman sending back a nearly full plate.
Can they really so afford to just…throw it all away?
She’d never seen such wastefulness before.
How many will go hungry tonight, while these fools waste enough to fill dozens of starving bellies?
“Remember, Astrid,” Minden instructed as they made their way to a solitary table out on the periphery of the dining area, “This is Lady Astrid’s first ball, so she must appear nervous but maintain her dignity and polite manners. You’re here to be seen first and foremost. Let the nobility get to know you and begin to trust you. We don’t expect anything from these first few balls—”
“So, I’m just here to look pretty and be seen,” she hissed, her body using muscle memory to maintain perfect pose as she lowered herself into the pulled-out chair, thanking the attendant with a smile and a few kind words before turning back to Minden, “I thought you all wanted me to spy for you?”
“You are, but not yet,” Minden warned, eyes glancing around to make sure no other nobles heard her tone with her ‘lady’, “Everybody here knows everybody, and naturally they’ll be wary of a newcomer, no matter how well-connected that newcomer may be. Now, if they ask you to dance—”
Astrid’s stomach dropped. “Dance?! You didn’t teach me how to dance!” She whispered furiously, face suddenly turning red.
Oh, Freyja above, I’m out of my league here. Why couldn’t they stick me with Throk so I could fight in the caravan raids?!
“There was no time, but don’t worry,” Minden softened her voice, but Astrid didn’t feel that reassured.
“What if they ask me to dance?! I don’t know how to dance!” Her eyes bounced around the room, watching younger nobles ask their dates if they could share a dance. Astrid did her best to study their moves, maybe if she watched it enough…
“The young men know you’re a new noble, just arrived from a…more rural setting.” Minden said gently, and Astrid remembered Throk teasingly calling her a ‘country bumpkin’. “Just appear flustered by the grandeur of it all and politely decline. They’ll just ask you again at the next ball, so we can work on the dancing later.”
Astrid exhaled slowly at that. That could work. She was already flustered at her surroundings anyway, so it wouldn’t be a hard sell.
No, the harder part would be selling the young, simpering, shy noblewoman act.
They brought out food for her and set it on the table in front of her, and Astrid tried not to look disturbed by the sheer amount of it.
This is more food than I used to eat in an entire day. And all for one meal.
Both Atali and Minden warned her she couldn’t eat it all. There were eyes on her, and if she gorged herself on the food it would draw the wrong kind of attention.
She needed to eat slowly, carefully, using the manners Atali taught her and maintaining her posture.
She’d just started on her meal when the first nobleman approached, a short, stout man with coal black hair, a missing tooth and dressed in a brown and green tunic with a black cloak fastened to his shoulders. There was a small, thin moustache above his lip, like the gods were going to give him facial hair but gave up right after starting.
He performed a slight bow with a charming smile, an air of confidence about him. It grated Astrid, but she couldn’t place why.
“My lady, I am Snotlout of the House Jorgenson, and I would be honored if you would share a dance with me tonight,” the words flowed out of his mouth smoothly, like they’d been rehearsed and practiced, as he stretched his hand out toward her.
“Uhh—” Remember the manners, Astrid! “I thank you…kind, sir, but I’m afraid I’m overwhelmed by the grandeur of this ball, and I would hate to embarrass you by stumbling from nervousness. Perhaps next time…?”
She’d spoken in that soft and weak tone she’d practiced for weeks with Minden, and Astrid hated how she sounded.
Weak, childish and like a flighty bird.
“Of course, my lady. I will eagerly await the night our paths cross again,” he performed a little bow, but looked up and winked at Astrid flirtatiously.
Her stomach flipped and she bit back a scathing remark on her tongue, opting to return the gesture with a small bow of her head, but her glare returned the second the man had his back turned to her.
“Well done,” Minden whispered from behind her, “But you will have to dance with him at the next dance.”
Astrid tried not to scowl again, “Why? He’s so…”
“Many young men of the nobility are like that,” Minden explained, “they are…perhaps too confident in themselves. He won’t be the last you see tonight, not for a young, beautiful and mysterious new noblewoman like yourself.”
Beautiful.
She’d never been called ‘beautiful’ before all this. It was a word she’d never heard in the context of her appearance, only her skills or the way she swung her fists or an axe.
She’d prided herself on being a skilled fighter, an expert in hand-to-hand combat and most weapons under the sun. It was how she survived the slums of the Pits, after all, and beauty didn’t count for shit down there.
Down there, the stronger dogs took from the weak, no matter how pretty they looked.
Down in the Pits, her looks were never an asset; they were a liability.
She turned down a few more men, each politely and gently, before returning to her food. She ate slowly, making sure to leave some on the plate so as not to be suspicious, no matter how much it hurt her to watch the food be taken away.
Minden left her shortly after to go eat with the other servants, and Astrid settled in to observe the room. Her eyes scanned the crowd, picking out memorable faces and running them against the descriptions Throk gave her.
Bald, muscular with a black moustache and goatee, brown eyes. That must be Ryker Grimborn, so the man next to him would be his younger brother, Viggo.
Tall, muscular, facial tattoo on a large chin, black hair. That’s Eret, Son of Eret. She held back a snicker at the ridiculousness of the name.
She’d spotted Dagur the Deranged and his sister Heather not much later, as well as other faces she’d been told would be in attendance.
She then decided to relax a bit, since she was mainly here to look pretty and nervous, but it was getting exhausting looking nervous all the time. There were eyes constantly on her, little gestures made over to her side of the room, furtive glances shot her way.
It was incessant. She felt like she was back in the fighting arenas with all eyes on her, watching her every move and waiting for her to make a mistake.
She was nervous, just for different reasons than everyone else in the room seemed to think.
A passing server handed her a glass of dark red wine, which Astrid gratefully took. She took a sniff and willed her face to remain neutral, but internally she winced at the aroma of the wine.
Swirling it slightly like Atali showed her, she carefully took a sip. The taste overwhelmed her, and she struggled to maintain her distinguished pose.
That’s far too sweet.
Atali told her it would be sweet, made from only the finest grapes from the Wine Barons of the southern marches, but this was far sweeter than anything she’d had.
What I wouldn’t give for mead or ale right now.
She’d grown up on the stuff, and it practically went down like water for her, but she figured such a refined event like this would serve only wine.
Maybe the servants are given mead or ale, maybe even beer. I’ll have to ask Minden if she can sneak me some next time.
After what must’ve been half an hour, spent idly watching the dancing, politely declining dances from suitors and memorizing faces of the nobility, she finally spotted the man responsible for the evening’s event.
Large red beard, braided. Green eyes, enormous size and strength. That’s Stoick ‘the Vast’ Haddock.
The Grand Duke of Berk looked every bit as imposing as Throk told her, yet he didn’t look as menacing as she would’ve believed.
Almost…jovial, in a way. He laughed and joked loudly with other lords, and more than once she saw heads turn in annoyance only for that annoyance to quickly fade once they realized the source of the noise.
So, he’s the big dog here, Astrid pondered. Everyone treats him with deference and respect.
She watched him move about the room, engaging with every manner of noble and noblewoman, always using the same respectful, polite expression with each.
The only times that expression faltered, it seemed, were with Drago’s strongest supporters.
Wonder if he believes the rumors, then. Even down in the Pits, it was known the Haddocks were descended from the first Kings of the Wilderwest, which made them a threat to Drago’s rule.
As the story went down in the Pits, Drago quickly subdued the Archipelago with his dragons, all controlled by the Alpha under his personal command. No one dared to resist when he brought his soldiers and dragon army to their land, and he crowned himself King quickly in his new capital city.
But Drago knew there’d be resistance, the strongest of which would come from the Haddocks of Berk, so, supposedly, he’d sent a devastating dragon raid to Berk, where Stoick’s wife, Valka, was carried off by a dragon.
Just a few months after her son was born.
They said ‘supposedly’ because Drago never admitted to ordering the raid, only saying it was the work of wild dragons, and that he would bring them under control to further protect the Archipelago.
Throk and Mala, though, refused to make an approach to Stoick. Since he lost his wife, it seemed, Stoick remained only a passive opponent to Drago, never an actual threat. Like most of the nobles, he couldn’t be trusted to act against the King.
If Stoick held a grudge, he kept it close to his chest, unwilling to risk his only child.
Another half hour passed and Astrid grew bored. Minden still wasn’t back, and she refused to sit any longer.
She eyed the balcony, wondering if it would be alright to step outside and breath the fresh air rather than sit in the stale, humid atmosphere in the ballroom.
Screw it, I’ve sat here long enough, and I’m tired of letting their eyes wander all over me.
-0-
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, heir to the throne of Berk, hated balls.
Really, he just hated any social function that required him to be in the same room—no, building—as the people who’d allegedly killed his mother.
He knew why his father did it, but that didn’t make it any easier.
So, every time there was a social event where supporters of Drago were invited, he made himself scarce. It was the best form of rebellion he could think of given the immense power Drago lorded over the Kingdom of the Wilderwest, and he wasn’t going to completely roll over to Drago like his father had.
“Your father is going to be upset at you, you know,” Gobber, his father’s chamberlain, chided as Hiccup made his way to the door.
“Oh, please, he’ll give me another one of those lectures. You know, the ones where he always goes, ‘Son, you are going to be the Grand Duke someday, and you’ll need to show the King and his supporters the proper respect’, or some variation of that.”
“Lad, he’s just—”
“—trying to protect me, I know Gobber. But he seriously can’t let this—”
Gobber held up a hand to stop him, “He loves you. More than anything in this world. And he loves his people, too.” Gobber leaned in and lowered his voice, “Rebellion puts both of those things in jeopardy, so, as Stoick sees it, the best way to save those things is to submit to Drago.”
Hiccup huffed, “I know, Gobber. It’s just…” He trailed off. They’d had this conversation enough times that they both knew how it would end.
“The past is the past, Hiccup, and nothing we do can bring her back, lad. I miss her, too, but revenge against Drago won’t bring your mother back to life.”
“I know,” he conceded. But it’s not about bringing her back. It’s about retribution. About what’s right.
Sighing, Gobber patted his shoulder, “Alright, wait one hour, and if you’re going to go off, at least don’t go far. I don’t wanna go all the way out to the Preserves to find you, alright? Stay on the manor premises.”
Hiccup wanted to argue but thought better of it. He simply shrugged and followed Gobber to begin socializing.
After cutting that hour of mandatory attendance in half, Hiccup snuck off to the balcony, making sure to move when Gobber had his back turned.
The cold air prevented most of the guests from staying outside too long, but Hiccup was used to the cold weather at this point. It was bracing, and he relished any time he got to spend alone.
Besides, it gives me time to work on the tail fin.
Glancing around a few times to make sure no one too close saw what he was doing, he pulled out his sketchbook and flipped to the page.
The outline of the Night Fury.
The rarest dragon in the world, the only known breed to be totally resistant to the call of the Alpha. The fastest dragon in the world, the offspring of lightning and death itself, with a terrifying, diving scream and a plasma blast that never missed. With onyx black scales and fearsome green eyes, it owns the night, nearly invisible against the sky.
Hiccup chuckled as he reconciled that fearsome image with the oversized cat that was his dragon, Toothless.
Grabbing the charcoal pencil, he began sketching a new design for a better tailfin. It’d been five years since he shot Toothless down, five years spent hiding him in the woods of their personal Preserve and smuggling his fish.
It was rough, especially during hunting season, and Hiccup found he needed to alter his sleep schedule to become more a night owl, but in his mind it was all worth it.
Because he was the only human outside of Drago Bludvist who knew what it was like to fly.
And it was incredible. Spectacular. The ultimate feeling of freedom, to not be tied down.
He spent a half hour sketching various designs, working out how to build it and getting the best balance between flexibility and strength when he heard the door open behind him. He glanced back, making sure it wasn’t one of his father’s guards or Gobber trying to get him to dance.
But it wasn’t either of those things.
Instead, he saw her.
A young woman, perhaps his age, with golden hair in a complicated braid and striking blue eyes. She wore an elegant sapphire gown, the rich fabric offset by a ruby pendant at her throat. The contrast of red against blue only made her features more vivid, more striking.
She was beautiful—breathtaking, even—one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on, but that wasn’t why he kept glancing at her as she made her way to the far end of the giant balcony.
No, it was because she was unfamiliar.
When he was younger, Hiccup watched from the sidelines, and he’d developed a gift of memorizing faces and reading body language. It was a skill he’d honed people watching, and it’d only improved over time.
What struck him about this flaxen-haired beauty was how she both belonged and didn’t belong. She walked with the poise of a noble, yet her sharp, searching eyes flitted through the shadows, as if expecting trouble. Her posture was too rigid, her shoulders squared—not with the elegance of a lady, but with something else, like she was about to fight.
And then there was the way she moved. Graceful, but not in the way noblewomen were. There was strength in every step, deliberateness and control that spoke of discipline rather than dainty refinement.
She also didn’t look like the kind of simpering lady that seemed to be more common these days. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but something about her said try me or I’ll snap your arm.
He was intrigued, and it made it even more interesting that he’d never seen her before.
Tucking his notebook into the inside pocket of his tunic, Hiccup checked his appearance before he walked over. Straightening his collar and fixing his cuffs, he took a breath before slowly making his way over.
She noticed him immediately. Her head barely shifted, but he caught the side-eyed glance she sent his way before turning back, feigning indifference.
She’s a clever one.
When he was close enough, she turned fully, flashing a flawless smile and dipping into a polite, practiced curtsy.
He returned the gesture, eyeing her carefully, “Good evening, milady. Enjoying the ball?”
She let out a breathy, flustered laugh, “Oh, well, it’s just so grand. I admit I got a little overwhelmed in there.”
A perfectly acceptable answer. A little too perfect.
And that was her first mistake.
She ignored his social faux paus. He hadn’t introduced himself, as etiquette dictated, yet she hadn’t questioned it.
A true noblewoman would’ve waited for him to introduce himself—or at least subtly fished for his name. But she ignored the breach of etiquette completely.
Someone pretending to be a noblewoman but not raised in the nobility.
It made her even more interesting.
“Of course,” he said smoothly, keeping his expression pleasant even as he analyzed everything about her voice.
He was familiar with the rural accent, having spent so much in the villages bordering the Preserves buying fish for Toothless. Her accent sounded rural, but it wasn’t.
There’s too much emphasis on vowels that don’t need much emphasis. Her accent…it’s an attempt at rural, southern nobility. A learned accent and not learned well enough.
That wasn’t completely true; it was good enough to fool most people, just not him. He’d traveled too much around the kingdom and heard too many accents. He knew what they all sounded like.
“I don’t mean to be forward,” he said smoothly, “but your accent is quite unique. May I ask where you’re from?”
Her smile remained, but something flickered in her eyes—just for a fraction of a second. A hesitation. A calculation.
But she smiled, and there was a slight edge in her voice when she spoke next, “My uncle, Anders Anderssen, Lord of the Harrowing Heights in the south…”
He listened to her explain her origins, and he supposed it could be true. Members of House Anderssen rarely came this far north, so no one really paid them much attention even though they were a relatively wealthy, middling noble house. There were few people who would challenge that claim if she’d said it to others.
He would’ve believed her, except for a few more mistakes she’d made.
The controlled, unladylike way she held herself—wrong. And most telling of all, the way she’d stiffened at his question.
The southern, rural accent hid something beneath it, which he caught more and more of the longer she spoke. It was well hidden, but it was there. Something natural. Something like an urban accent.
Only commoners spoke with an urban accent.
And gods, he found it irresistible.
When she was done laying out the lie of her origin, he smiled, then pretended to be aghast, “Thor above, I must apologize, milady, I seemed to have neglected to introduce myself.”
He pretended to be guilt-ridden over his misstep, making a show of asking for forgiveness, “My name is Hiccup of House Henrikson, and I ask that you forgive me for such a foolish blunder in etiquette. After all, every true noble knows how impolite it is to neglect introductions…”
There it is.
There was a flash of panic in her eyes, her mouth agape for a split second, and hands fidgeting with her dress.
She tried to regain some semblance of composure, “I…There is no need for an apology, Sir Hiccup. I…I also forgot my manners, of course, I’ve just been so—”
“Flustered,” he finished with a small grin, “of course. I do not hold it against you, Miss Anderssen.”
“Please, call me Astrid, Sir Henrickson.” She replied.
Another mistake. There was no House Henrickson. She would’ve known that if she was a noble, even if she was from the southern marches.
But the real tell? The moment she got flustered, her false accent slipped, revealing the crisp urban tones beneath.
She was a commoner.
But how had she gotten in here?
More importantly, why was he so damn drawn to her?
“I thank you, Sir Henrickson…” Her fake accent was back, but there was a look in her eyes. She was more closed off, guarded against him. “Say, where does House Henrickson hail from, good sir?”
Oh, she wants to play that game.
“The west, milady,” keeping his tone civil and calm, “by the sea, near the salt mines.”
“There are no salt mines near the sea,” she quipped, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course there are,” he replied politely, and she crossed her arms, fixing him with an accusatory look.
Very unladylike. And very…cute.
“Is that so?” she challenged, tilting her head ever so slightly, “Because I have never heard of any salt mines being located close to the sea, only further inland.”
“Oh, forgive me, milady, but our salt mines are quite abysmal in comparison to those mines. Ours are more of a…small scale operation. We don’t make much wealth from the mines, nor from our lands.”
She caught the challenge immediately. “Ah. Then how is it you find yourself here at the ball of the Grand Duke if you are from a modest house?”
“I could say the same of you,” he quipped, smiling and crossing his arms. “The Anderssens aren’t a house of means, are they?”
“They have means enough,” she hit back, but with a small smile, “They wanted to send me up to establish themselves closer to the capital.”
“Ah,” he nodded, as if he believed her. Then, with playful curiosity, “So you’re here looking for a husband?”
That got a reaction. A flash of something in her eyes, maybe amusement, maybe mischief.
“Something like that,” she said smoothly.
Her walls were still up, but they were slipping. He had to reassure her. He knew, or least was pretty sure, she didn’t belong, but that was ok with him. She was the most interesting thing to happen to him since he shot down Toothless, and he needed to reassure her the secret was safe with him.
Leaning in slightly, he let his voice drop lower, warmer. “Now, milady… I don’t mean to offend, but your accent truly is unique. Not quite like anything I’ve heard before. Almost sounds… well, urban.”
Her breath hitched—just barely.
But she didn’t refute it.
He needed to reassure her, and dropped all pretense of polite society since he’d confirmed she was a commoner, “Listen, I won’t say anything, alright? Honest,” he put his hand over his heart, “I swear to Odin. I just… Well, I know what it’s like to be an outsider.” He hesitated, then offered a slow, lopsided smile. “And you definitely caught my eye.”
Astrid studied him, searching for lies.
She wouldn’t find any. He wasn’t lying.
Rarely did a woman catch his eye at these gatherings anymore. They all felt stale, like the same sword design from the same forge. Sure, they were all technically different swords, but not really.
Whereas this ‘Lady Anderssen’? She was an axe, so different from the rest he just had to get to know her.
Slowly, after another glance around, the noble act faded. He saw her as she really was.
In an instant, the softness faded from her face, the simpering smile replaced by a hard grin.
She regarded him wearily before she spoke, with no trace of her false southern accent, “Well, we could start over with the names, but I didn’t lie. My name really is Astrid.”
The shift from the southern, rural accent to the sharp urban tone made his heart pound harder. There was something intoxicating about the contradiction before him. A woman with the dress and bearing of a noble, but the voice and vitality of a commoner. The fire of someone who wanted to fight.
Maybe it was the thrill of it. Maybe it was the mystery. Or maybe it was just her.
She spoke with such ferocity; it wasn’t like other urban accents he’d heard.
“And my name really is Hiccup.”
Her lips curved. “You don’t suppose we could skip the business of our houses?”
He smirked. “I suppose we could.”
She grinned, and Thor’s hammer, his heart nearly tripped over itself.
He smiled back, and flushed at seeing her face redden.
They began chatting, mostly about other lords and ladies. She seemed especially interested in the names of other nobles, as well as any rumors he could remember about them. She ate up everything he said, listening intently and absorbing every word he said with only a nod.
But she was grinning, and he realized he wanted to keep talking just so he could see her smile some more.
At one point, she leaned up against the balcony railing, and he realized just how unladylike her posture was. Not even in a bad way.
Just…different. So far different from what he was used to, he actually appreciated it.
It reminded him there was a whole other world he never saw, of people whose names he didn’t know. People who suffered more than he could ever imagine.
Was she one of those people?
He didn’t dare ask.
He didn’t want to ruin the rapport they’d built surprisingly quickly. Not with her so relaxed and…normal around him.
He lost track of time as they continued talking, and the party was nearly over by the time he’d run out of things to say.
She smiled at him again, her honest smile, or at least he thought it was her honest smile. But he was confident.
A shout startled them both out of their relaxed, casual postures, and for a moment Hiccup worried he was now the subject of a scandal.
Luckily, it was a brown-haired woman wearing the clothes of a servant, who introduced herself as Minden, the lady’s servant, who rushed Astrid away from him.
Astrid quickly apologized, her southern accent returning as she bid him farewell, “Until we see each other again, Sir Henrikson.”
“Until then, Lady Anderssen.”
-0-
“What were you thinking?!” Minden shouted once the carriage was safely out of earshot of the manor.
Astrid fumed. “What? I just wanted some fresh air! Do you know how stuffy it is in there with all stuffy highborns?!”
“No! Not that!” Minden groaned, which only confused Astrid, “What were you thinking talking to him?!”
“Who? Sir Henrickson?” She wasn’t stupid, she knew it wasn’t his name, but if he was someone like her, she didn’t want to expose him.
What if this was a test? What if he was planted by rebels to see if she might give up his name? Or what if he worked for a different rebel cell?
No, she’d keep his secret just like he kept hers. It was the right thing to do.
That, and maybe a secret part of her wanted to see him again. Maybe at another ball, when she’d learned to dance—when she could actually talk to him without feeling like she had to guard every word.
Odin’s beard, what am I saying? Do you hear yourself Astrid?
Her heart beat a little faster, though she told herself it was just from the argument.
“There is no Sir Henrickson!” Minden shouted.
“Ok, then who was he?!” Astrid was getting pissed now.
Why couldn’t Minden just tell her who he was if she knew?
“That,” she pointed back in the direction of the manor, “That is the home of the Grand Duke Stoick, who we cannot approach because he’s too protective of his son, and he’d sell us out instantly—”
“I know that! What does that have to do with—”
“The young man you were conversing with? That’s his son, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III!”
Oh, shit.
“And that is not the kind of attention you need! You’re to play the part of a relative of a minor lord, sent north to establish connections! We do not need the eyes of the Grand Duke Haddock —and the King— on us! You cannot not see him again!”
Astrid slowly nodded, mulling over the news in her head.
He was a Haddock? He certainly didn’t look like one, let alone act like one.
As far as highborn went, a Haddock was right up there with a Durinsson or a Sigurdsson. They were legendary bloodlines who carried so much weight, even the King didn’t dare destroy them completely.
And yet…
She’d seen highborn all her life—pristine, arrogant, looking down their noses at people like her. But Hiccup had been different. At first, he’d played the part, but then he’d changed. He’d softened, dropped the act, and… what? Treated her like an equal? Like she mattered?
And he’d lied about his name.
Why?
Why would someone like him, someone with everything, need to hide who he was?
And why would he keep it from me?
She chewed on the thought as the carriage rattled along the dirt road. The questions gnawed at her, sinking deep into her chest, refusing to let go even as exhaustion pulled at her limbs.
Slowly, as she drifted off into sleep, she thought of Hiccup, with his toothy smile and quick wit, who’d seen right through her quicker than anyone else.
She was there to catch the eyes of the nobility as a newcomer, but he was the only one who’d managed to catch her eye.