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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The Boy the Sky Threw Back

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Berk smelled of salt and iron and meat, but tonight the wind brought something else—smoke, and the dry hiss of burning wood drifting through the gabled rooftops like an unwelcome ghost. Above the village, the sky was bruised purple and gold, dusk falling in bruises over the sea, while distant wings cut through the clouds like black knives.

A sentry’s horn split the restless hush of twilight.

“DRAGONS!”

The warning rolled down the cliffsides, echoing off stone and snow-dusted eaves. Within moments, the whole village of Berk stirred like a disturbed anthill. Vikings poured from huts, half-dressed, swinging axes and shields into place, eyes squinting at the horizon where shadows gathered under the dying sun.

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III stumbled out of the forge, nearly tripping over a pile of unshod horseshoes Gobber had left by the door. He clutched a massively oversized battered helmet under one arm, a crossbow half-built under the other. Sparks and smoke clung to his hair, sweat freezing in the wind.

“I said they’d be back soon!” Gobber roared from somewhere inside, his one hand already locking a sword into place on his prosthetic arm. “You can always smell the Skrill before you see it—storm’s brewing! Grab your gear, Hiccup!”

“Right, right—gear—” Hiccup muttered, heart hammering as he twisted around, nearly colliding with a stocky sheep that had broken loose from its pen.

He hated dragon raids. Not because they were terrifying—though they were, especially if you were a scrawny slip of a Viking who could barely lift a shield, even for a ten year old. No, he hated them because he could never do anything right. Stoick’s booming commands would echo over the roar of dragon fire, the other Vikings would rally in practiced lines, and Hiccup… well, Hiccup would try something clever, and it would explode.

A hot wind swept down from the hills as the first dragons broke from the clouds, nightmarish silhouettes against the flame-scorched sky. Nadder, Gronckle, Monstrous Nightmare—scales flashing red and gold, claws raking the air as they dove for the sheep pens and open storehouses. The shrieks of frightened livestock mingled with the clang of swords on shields, the guttural war cries of warriors, the crackle and hiss of new fires being born.

Hiccup ducked a falling ember that drifted past his nose like a firefly, his fingers itching to run for the catapult line. He knew Stoick would be there, barking orders at the men, his massive shadow the anchor in the chaos. Hiccup just wanted—once—to stand beside him and not be told to stay back, stay out of the way, go home, hide. Just once.

Another blast of wind rattled the forge door behind him. Hiccup glanced up. Clouds churned above, streaked with strange fingers of silver mist that had no business being there. A storm? No—there’d been no sign of rain, not tonight. Only the dragons.

He forced his thoughts back to the present. He slung the helmet over his unruly hair, too big by a mile, and sprinted down the slope toward the main gates.

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At the cliff’s edge, Stoick the Vast stood braced like an ancient oak in a storm, boots planted on the black rocks, his broad shoulders haloed by flame as torches guttered behind him. He bellowed to his men, his voice rising above the clash of swords and the roar of dragons overhead.

“Form up! Defend the livestock! Get those catapults ready—NOW!”

A Gronckle swooped low, belching a glob of molten rock that splashed across a roof. The flames leapt greedily from thatch to beam, a new pyre joining the dozens already burning. Stoick’s face darkened, sweat streaming through his beard as he swung his axe at an incoming Nadder. It shrieked, banking away in a swirl of sparks.

Hiccup scrambled up behind the catapult line, his legs slipping on loose stones. His eyes darted across the chaos, searching for a gap—anything he could do that wouldn’t just get him yelled at or sent home. Gobber was here too, yelling at villagers to haul boulders into the trebuchets. The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, were arguing over who got to light the next net on fire.

A hot wind blew again—then, strangely, it died.

It was subtle at first. A hush between the beats of war. Hiccup froze, shoving a hair out of his eyes, peering upward. The sky was shifting. The purple bruises of dusk gave way to something else—a bruise turned pale, like veins of silver threaded through an angry storm.

“Uh… Dad?” Hiccup said, though he knew Stoick couldn’t hear him over the din.

The clouds gathered, swirling. Thunder, but not the dragon-kind that rumbled from a Skrill’s belly. This was real thunder—low, distant, crawling across the horizon like something old waking up. The sea wind stiffened, carrying a bite that made Hiccup’s breath fog.

Stoick paused mid-command, his eyes narrowing as a few flecks drifted past his nose. White. Soft. They melted instantly against his skin, leaving icy pinpricks.

Snow.

A murmur spread down the catapult line. Gobber looked up, a half-finished spear dangling from his stump-hand, his eyes wide as a child’s.

“What in Odin’s beard—snow? In summer?”

One by one, the Vikings turned their faces skyward, ash and sparks mingling with the falling flakes. The dragons hesitated too—some breaking off their dives, wings flaring wide as they circled higher, wary of the sudden change. A Nadder perched on a burnt-out watchtower screeched uneasily, its spines ruffled, frost gathering on the scorched stone beneath its claws.

Hiccup shivered, tugging his helmet lower. The snow wasn’t normal. It wasn’t soft and lazy like the winter snows that blanketed Berk every year. This was sharp—flurries that swirled against the wind, icy needles carried on currents that made no sense.

Somewhere above the village, thunder cracked again. This time, the clouds parted—not enough to reveal the moon, but enough to show a funnel of swirling white that twisted down like a curious finger. The flurries thickened, hissing as they met dragonfire, steam rising in ghostly tendrils.

“BACK TO THE HALL!” Stoick bellowed. He lifted his axe, pointing it toward the village center. “GET INSIDE! NOW!”

The dragons broke in earnest now—some peeled away over the sea, others screeched and dove lower, confusion scattering them like startled bats. A Monstrous Nightmare banked too hard near the forge, its wing catching an icy gust—Hiccup watched, breath held, as the massive beast faltered, careening into the forest below with a crash that shook the earth.

“Dad!” Hiccup called, his voice nearly lost in the wind.

“Stay with me!” Stoick snapped, gripping his son’s shoulder so hard Hiccup winced. “This storm—this isn’t right.”

And it wasn’t. The snow was thick now, whirling in blinding sheets. Ash from the burning storehouses rose and danced with the flakes, painting the village in shades of soot and frost. Fire hissed and died under the relentless cold, steam rising where embers drowned.

Hiccup’s mind raced. Dragons hated the cold. So why…?

The thought cut off as the wind howled like a living thing, a voice inside the storm. And at its heart—a shape. Or was it just a trick of the snow and the frightened flames? A flicker of white, small, like a falling star in the blizzard.

“Dad, do you see that?” Hiccup whispered, pointing past the main gates.

Stoick didn’t answer. He was staring too, brow furrowed under the thick fringe of his helm.

Something—someone—was coming down with the storm.

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It wasn’t a dragon. Not a Skrill diving with storm lightning in its belly. Not a piece of burning timber torn from a roof. No. This fell slower—tumbling through the swirl of flurries like a scrap of parchment set adrift.

The wind seemed to carry it, placing it delicately in the open space between the gates and the half-burnt training grounds. Snow piled around it, the only patch of white in a village of black rock and charred timber. For a moment, the fighting paused—warriors, dragons, even Gobber frozen mid-curse, all eyes fixed on the impossible snowdrift forming in the middle of a raid.

Hiccup broke free from Stoick’s iron grip. He stumbled down the slope, boots sliding on wet stones, his breath catching in his throat. The air stung his cheeks, dry and sharp as splintered ice.

He stopped at the edge of the new snowbank. Frost licked at the grass, each blade frozen rigid where it met the circle of drifting flakes. And there, half-buried under a thin crust of ice, was a boy.

He looked about Hiccup’s age—ten, maybe eleven—but small. Too small, all thin wrists and bony shoulders, hair a tangled crown of white that looked spun from the storm itself. His lips were blue. His hands were curled tight to his chest, knuckles scraped raw.

Stoick thundered up behind him, axe still raised. “What in Helheim is this?!”

Gobber limped closer, clutching a half-burnt torch. He leaned over, squinting. “It’s a—boy? By the gods, he’s alive—look at his breath.”

Hiccup knelt, heedless of the cold seeping through his trousers. He touched the boy’s wrist, flinching at how it bit with frost. But under that frozen skin was a heartbeat—fluttering, fragile, but real.

“Where did he come from?” Hiccup whispered. He brushed a clump of snow from the boy’s temple, revealing a pale, almost translucent bruise already blooming there. “Dad—he’s freezing. We have to—”

Stoick’s scowl deepened. He peered up at the swirling sky, then back down at the pale child cradled in the snow.

“A boy falls from the sky,” he growled. “In the middle of a raid. In summer. Covered in frost.”

The wind gusted again, rattling the forge door behind them. The storm seemed to withdraw at the edges, as if the village itself were exhaling in relief now that its burden had landed.

The other Vikings edged closer, murmuring. “The sky didn’t want him,” someone muttered. “It spat him out—”

“Silence!” Stoick barked. He cast his axe aside, kneeling heavily in the drift. His big hands hovered uncertainly before closing around the boy’s narrow shoulders. He lifted him carefully, bracing him against his massive chest like a cub in a bear’s paws.

“Hiccup—stay close.”

“But Dad—who is he? How did he—?”

Stoick didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the sky, which now hung clear and dark above them, the last flurries dissolving into the sea wind.

He stood in the dying glow of torchlight, the boy cradled awkwardly in his great arms. The chill radiating from the child seeped into his leather armor, a cold that seemed unnatural, impossible even in the sea-winds that blasted Berk’s rocky shores. Stoick’s brow furrowed deep into a scowl; his broad face looked almost carved from stone in the flickering firelight.

The Vikings gathered behind him, their voices low and full of unease. For all their battle-hardened courage, something about this small, frost-bitten stranger unsettled them more than any dragon’s roar.

A rough-voiced fisherman spat into the dirt. “An omen, that’s what he is. The gods don’t just spit out children in the middle of a raid for no reason.”

“Aye,” said another, nodding grimly. “He’s cursed, or worse. The sky itself rejected him.”

Stoick’s eyes narrowed, the firelight catching the glint of steel in his hand as he tightened his grip on his axe. “I’ve seen many signs, but none like this.”

He let the boy’s weight settle on his hip, looking out over the village below—half-ruined, half-burning, all of it caught between fire and frost like some forgotten battlefield. “If this boy is a curse, I won’t have it in my home.”

Gobber the Belch limped forward, dragging his wooden leg behind him with a determined scrape. His one good eye was sharp and steady despite the grim mood. “Now hold on, Stoick.”

He gestured toward the boy, crouching beside him. “You can’t just leave him here to freeze. He’s alive—he’s breathin’, and that’s a gift none of us should ignore.”

Stoick grunted, the lines of battle hardening around his mouth. “Aye, I’m a warrior. I respect strength. But this? This boy’s not like any strength I know.”

Gobber lifted the boy’s hand gently, probing the ice-cold fingers with calloused palms. “Maybe not… but strength isn’t only muscle and steel. Sometimes it’s in surviving, in enduring.”

The boy twitched, eyelids fluttering. A faint breath shuddered from his lips, puffing a tiny cloud into the chill air.

Hiccup stood nearby, holding his breath. The child was so small—frail even. Not a warrior by any measure. Yet there was something different about him—something even the older Vikings couldn’t put their finger on.

“Think of it this way,” Gobber said, raising his voice to address the crowd. “We’re not just warriors and dragon slayers. We’re survivors. We don’t turn our backs on those who need us.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from some in the crowd, but many still looked askance, fingers twitching near weapons as if fearing the boy might be a trick of the gods.

Stoick’s gaze returned to the child. A moment of hesitation passed—then a breath, deep and heavy, like the first winter frost settling on stone.

“Fine,” Stoick said at last, his voice like the grinding of ancient ice. “We’ll keep him. For now.”

A cheer—or was it a groan?—rippling through the onlookers. Some accepted it, others begrudged it. But no one dared question the chief.

Gobber grinned and grunted, already moving to gather blankets and bring heat. “That’s the spirit, big guy. You’ll see, this one might just surprise us all.”

Stoick looked down once more at the boy, then up to the darkening sky. “He better hope he doesn’t.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Jack Frost

The wind outside howled like a pack of wolves, rattling the sturdy wooden beams of the Great Hall. The doors, thick with iron bands and heavy from generations of use, held firm against the night storm, but every now and then, a particularly strong gust would slip through the edges, carrying with it a thin, whining whistle that made the flames in the hearth dance wildly. The smell of rain and wet earth seeped in too, mingling with the hearty scent of charred wood and roasting meat from earlier in the evening.

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third sat cross-legged on the floor beside the small cot they’d set up for the strange white-haired boy. It wasn’t much—just a stack of hay covered by old woolen blankets and some patched-up furs, but it was better than the cold stone. Gobber had argued that the boy deserved at least that much warmth after being found unconscious out in the snow, alone and shivering like a leaf.

Stoick hadn’t been keen on it at first—he’d muttered about wasted resources and the dangers of strange magic—but Gobber had shot him a look, and Stoick had grumbled out a reluctant agreement. Gobber always did have a way of winning arguments with Stoick, mostly because the older man didn’t have the energy to argue with someone who could out-shout him at every turn.

Hiccup let his head rest in his palm, elbow propped awkwardly on his knee. His eyelids drooped in spite of himself, the heavy warmth of the fire lulling him deeper and deeper into the haze between waking and sleep. Gobber sat a little ways off on an upturned crate, arms crossed over his broad chest, his iron hook resting against his knee like a silent threat to any danger that might decide to pop up in the middle of the night.

Every so often, Gobber would clear his throat, the low rumble startling Hiccup back to the present. Each time, Hiccup would jerk upright, blinking furiously, trying to keep the blurry edges of his vision from closing in. But it was hard to fight the pull of sleep when the hall was so warm and the storm outside sounded like a mother’s song, hushing him, telling him he’d earned a moment of rest.

The boy on the cot hadn’t moved an inch since they’d laid him down there. Hiccup found himself studying the stranger in the flickering firelight. The boy was about his age, maybe a bit smaller even, but there was something otherworldly about him. His hair shone silver-white even in the dim hall, each strand catching the firelight like spun frost. His eyelashes, thick and pale, cast tiny shadows on his sharp, pale cheeks. He looked fragile—like if you touched him, your warmth might melt him away.

Hiccup wondered what he was dreaming about. He liked to think dreams were doorways to other places, and maybe this boy was walking through some magical land while Hiccup sat here, heavy-eyed and dozing in the real world. He imagined the boy running across endless snowfields, laughing, his hair catching the moonlight. He wondered if he’d ever seen snow before, snow that didn’t come with screaming villagers and fire-breathing dragons.

A log in the fire popped, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. Gobber shifted, the leather of his coat creaking. “Oi, lad,” he grunted, nudging Hiccup with his boot. “Keep those peepers open. Yer not on watch to take a nap.”

Hiccup yawned so hard his jaw clicked. “M’not sleeping,” he mumbled, despite the fact that he was seconds from doing just that. “Just… resting my eyes.”

Gobber huffed out a laugh. “Aye, and I’m just restin’ my hand when I hammer nails. Sit up straight, lad. Wouldn’t want yer da to come back and find ye snoring.”

Hiccup did as he was told, rolling his shoulders back, blinking hard to clear the haze. He watched the rain batter the thick wooden doors, each drop sounding like a tiny drumbeat. His mind drifted again, this time to thoughts of dragons. He’d always wanted to see a dragon up close without the fear that it would roast him alive. He wondered what this boy’s story was—found in the snow with no wounds, no signs of a dragon near him, just lying there like a gift left behind by the storm.

Minutes stretched into an hour. Hiccup’s head bobbed forward once, twice, and on the third time, it settled there. His chin rested in the palm of his hand, his breathing even and soft, eyelids fluttering with half-formed dreams. He dreamed of dragons with scales made of ice and teeth that glowed like moonlight. He dreamed of flying through endless night skies, snowflakes dancing around him, the stars so close he could almost reach out and grab them.

He might’ve slept like that for the rest of the night if it weren’t for the sudden rustle of blankets and the sharp sound of someone gasping for breath.

Gobber jumped to his feet so fast his crate toppled over. “By Thor’s big hammer—Hiccup! Wake up, lad!”

Hiccup jolted as Gobber’s meaty hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him so hard his teeth clacked together. He squeaked out a startled sound, arms flailing as he fought to keep from toppling sideways. He felt tiny and feather-light in Gobber’s rough grasp, his mind struggling to catch up with the sudden jolt from dream to reality.

“I’m awake! I’m awake!” he squeaked, blinking furiously as the warmth of sleep bled away, replaced by the sharp, cold rush of adrenaline.

The cot beside him shifted again, the blankets pulling tight around the figure within. Hiccup rubbed his eyes, peering through the dim firelight. The boy—Jack, he thought—was sitting up now, pale fingers clutching the blanket like a lifeline. His eyes opened slowly, impossibly large and so bright they seemed to glow, pale blue like sunlight hitting fresh snow.

They stared at each other in silence, two boys caught between worlds. For a heartbeat, Hiccup thought Jack might be a spirit, some lost ghost that the storm had blown in from the mountains. But the other boy’s soft, ragged breathing said otherwise—he was real, fragile and trembling, but real.

Gobber cleared his throat, a sound that echoed through the vast hall. It broke the moment like a stone dropped into still water.

Jack flinched at the noise, his head snapping toward Gobber. His eyes darted between the older man’s grizzled face and the iron hook glinting dully in the firelight. The boy pressed himself back against the cot, shoulders hunching up around his ears, the blankets rising with him. His breath came in tiny, quick puffs, fogging the air in front of his lips.

Gobber raised his hands—one flesh, one iron—palms out in a show of peace. He gestured downwards with the hook, trying to look as unthreatening as a one-handed blacksmith could manage. “Easy, lad. Easy now,” he rumbled, voice softer than Hiccup expected. “Yer safe here, see? No one’s gonna hurt ye.”

It didn’t seem to help. Jack’s wide eyes fixed on the hook, and he shrank back even more, as if the sharp edge might spring to life and bite him. Gobber dropped his hands with an exaggerated sigh, casting an imploring look at Hiccup, who stood frozen, his small heart thudding wildly.

This was it. His moment. His father always told him he was too small, too weak, too much of a disappointment to handle anything important. But now Gobber was looking at him like he was the only one who could fix this. The thought made his chest puff out just the tiniest bit.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, then knelt on the floor beside the cot again, his knees creaking. He forced his face into what he hoped was a friendly smile—not too toothy, not too wide, just… normal. He held out his hand, palm up, fingers trembling slightly in the firelight.

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking only once. “I’m Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third. But you can just call me Hiccup. Um… what’s your name?”

The boy stared at the outstretched hand. His pale lashes fluttered once, twice, before his gaze lifted to meet Hiccup’s. Up close, Hiccup could see how impossibly clear his eyes were—like staring into a frozen pond that went on forever. There was a tiny spark there too, a flicker of warmth that surprised Hiccup so much he almost forgot to breathe.

Jack’s lips twitched, the corners lifting in the ghost of a smile. Then, like a snowflake landing softly on the edge of a branch, he giggled—a sound so light and crystalline it made Hiccup grin in return.

The boy’s hand emerged from the cocoon of blankets, hovering just above Hiccup’s. His fingers were slender and long, the skin pale like milk. When they finally touched, Hiccup nearly flinched at the chill. The boy’s skin was cold—colder than the stone floor beneath them, colder than the night wind that rattled the hall’s doors. But it wasn’t the icy cold of winter that bit at your skin and made your bones ache; it was soft, like the first touch of frost on a windowpane. Soothing, almost.

“I’m Jack,” the boy said quietly, his voice breathy and unsure, but with a hint of laughter still tucked in the syllables. “Jack Frost.”

Hiccup’s grin stretched so wide it nearly split his face. He squeezed the boy’s hand gently, warmth and cold mingling together in that tiny, fragile connection.

“Nice to meet you, Jack Frost,” he said. And for the first time that night, the storm outside seemed just a little bit less fierce.

The name hung between them like a wisp of winter air. Jack Frost.

Hiccup tested it in his mind, letting it settle on his tongue, taste its unfamiliar shape. Jack Frost. It sounded like something out of a story — something you’d hear in an old hunter’s tale about the spirits that danced on the wind and painted the village rooftops in delicate white when everyone was asleep.

“Jack Frost,” Hiccup repeated under his breath, grinning as if the name itself were a secret. Jack didn’t pull his hand away. For a few moments, they just sat like that, fingers linked loosely, warmth mixing with cold. But then the soft moment cracked open with the echo of heavy footsteps.

Gobber loomed above them like a bear who’d caught his cubs whispering in the dark. He cleared his throat, though there was the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his bristly mustache. He rested his hook on his hip, eyes flicking between the two boys. For a man who could single-handedly hammer steel into strong armor, Gobber’s eyes had a softness in that firelight — like he knew this was the beginning of something he didn’t quite understand, but was willing to protect.

“Alright, you two. Don’t get too cozy. The Chief’ll want words.” Gobber gestured with his hook toward the wide double doors at the far end of the hall. Even through the thick beams, they could hear the muffled thud of boots on muddy ground, the rising swell of voices outside. Word of the strange boy’s awakening had traveled faster than a rat chasing scraps.

Hiccup felt Jack’s cold fingers tighten around his own. He turned, found Jack’s eyes fixed on the door as if he expected it to burst open and swallow him whole. Hiccup squeezed back, a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. It’ll be okay, he wanted to say. But he’d lived long enough on Berk to know that “okay” could be a slippery thing.

The doors groaned open before Gobber could reach for the latch. The blast of wind and rain that followed made the flames in the hearth bow low, shadows dancing on the ancient stone walls like restless ghosts. Villagers pushed in through the doorway in clusters — shapes bundled in furs and dripping cloaks, their boots leaving muddy prints on the polished wooden floor. Someone had spread the word to everyone, it seemed; even the elders, including elder Gothi, who rarely left their beds on stormy nights, were there, eyes sharp beneath their hoods.

In moments, the Great Hall transformed from a warm, half-empty room into a theater of suspicion and cold curiosity. The benches filled with neighbors, cousins, and tribemates, some pressing close to the central hearth for warmth while others stood back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Torches were lit along the walls, their flames flickering in the drafts, throwing everything into an orange glow that made the carved dragon heads overhead look alive, leering.

Gobber ushered the boys to a wide space near the front, where the clan’s stone seat — the Chief’s seat — waited. Hiccup was nudged up the few steps that led to the platform beside it. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling Jack’s hesitant steps behind him. He wished he could pull him up beside him, but there were rules. Even Hiccup didn’t get to sit in that chair, not yet. That space was Stoick’s and Stoick’s alone.

When the last of the villagers trickled in, Stoick appeared through the side door behind the Chief’s seat. He was still in his heavy coat, rainwater dripping from the ends of his thick, braided beard. The flames glowed in the metal rivets of his scale armour, the scratches and dents a map of decades spent fighting the very beasts that dropped this boy in front of them.

Hiccup flinched a little when Stoick’s eyes found his — not because he feared his father’s anger, but because Stoick’s gaze was so heavy, like standing under a storm cloud and knowing it might break open at any second. But Stoick’s eyes flicked past him, locking onto the white-haired boy standing awkwardly in the circle of torchlight. And there they stayed, unblinking.

They moved to Gothi a second later- the village elder nodded her head. It was not her decision, but she had given her support to the boy.

“Bring the boy forward, sit him on the chair,” Stoick’s voice boomed, rumbling off the high beams above. He didn’t raise it; he didn’t have to. Stoick’s words always found a way to fill every corner of a room, like the tide rolling into a cave.

Gobber gave Jack the gentlest push he could manage, but it still sent the boy stumbling forward a step or two. Jack’s bare feet slapped softly on the stone, leaving tiny prints of damp where he’d stepped out of his cot. His thin shoulders hunched up near his ears as he pushed himself up onto the large wooden chare in the centre of the room. It made him look even smaller. 

For a moment, Stoick didn’t speak. He just studied the boy like he was something washed up on shore — an odd piece of driftwood that might hide a venomous eel inside. Hiccup watched the muscles in his father’s jaw shift, the heavy bone grinding in thought.

Then Stoick leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The braids in his beard swung slightly with the movement. “What is your name, boy?” he demanded. Not cruelly — Stoick’s voice didn’t need cruelty to sound like judgment.

Jack flinched again, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as the snow falling on rooftops. “Jack Frost, sir.”

A hush fell like a stone dropped in deep water. For a moment, all Hiccup could hear was the crackle of the torches and the storm beating its fists on the roof. He scanned the crowd. He saw Finn Hofferson’s thick eyebrows drawn together, saw Spitelout with his lip curled, a spark of ugly satisfaction dancing in his eyes. Some villagers just frowned, but a few made the sign of protection — pressing fingers to forehead and chest as if to ward off a curse.

Stoick’s brow furrowed. “And why are you here, Jack Frost?” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to something more intimate, almost dangerous in its quiet. “Did the dragons send you? The gods?”

Jack’s knees wobbled. He looked at the floorboards, then back up at Stoick. For an instant, his bright eyes flickered to Hiccup — a plea that made Hiccup’s chest ache. But there was nothing he could do. Not yet.

“I don’t know, sir,” Jack whispered, voice trembling like a candle’s flame. “I don’t remember anything. Just… just my name. And that I’m ten years old.”

The words were like pebbles thrown into a still pond — the ripples of disbelief spread fast. The murmur began with Spitelout’s harsh hiss of laughter, then grew like a nest of hornets stirring. Hiccup caught snippets:

“Lies. Cursed child, surely.”

“Look at his hair — never seen the like.”

“The boy’s touched by trolls or worse.”

Someone spat on the floor. Hiccup’s nails dug into his palms, but he stayed frozen where he was. He’d heard these same whispers about himself, once or twice. Too small, too weak, a mistake. Now they’d found a better target.

Finn Hofferson, broad-shouldered and full of his own importance, leaned toward Spitelout. His voice wasn’t exactly quiet. “Why should we trust him? Why keep a boy the dragons didn’t even want — a boy the sky threw back?”

The words crawled through the hall like a chill wind. Hiccup saw the way they hit Jack — the way he folded in on himself, arms curling around his chest as if to hide from the eyes digging holes in him. He looked like a tiny creature that knew it was cornered.

Stoick’s eyes closed, just for a heartbeat. When they opened again, the storm behind them had hardened into ice. He rose to his full height, shadows leaping up the walls as he moved. He stepped down from his seat, boots thudding on the stone platform, and crossed the short distance to stand over Jack.

Jack tilted his head back, eyes wide. Hiccup’s breath caught. Jack looked so small next to Stoick — like a single snowflake drifting next to a mountain. The hall seemed to hold its breath, the villagers leaning forward as if they might see Stoick’s judgment carved in the boy’s skin.

“Stand,” Stoick said. Just that one word, sharp as a sword edge.

Jack flinched as if struck, but he did as he was told. He scrambled forward on the chair, then slid off it entirely, landing with a muffled thump on the cold floor. Bare feet on stone. He stood straight as he could, shoulders trembling with the effort.

Stoick let the moment stretch. He turned slightly, letting the hall see the comparison — this child, shivering in thin cloth, barely tall enough to reach the tops of the Chief’s legs. Hiccup saw what his father was doing. Look how small he is, Stoick was saying without saying a word. Look how alone.

Then, finally, Stoick stepped back. He raised his voice, the bellow rumbling through every rafter. “He will stay.”

The roar of protest was immediate. Mildew’s angry croak rose above the rest — that old goat was always first to shout at anything that smelled of change. Others joined in, muttering about curses, about risk, about mouths to feed that gave nothing in return.

Jack shrank into himself, eyes darting around the sea of angry faces. For a heartbeat, Hiccup thought he might bolt for the doors, disappear into the storm that had brought him here. But he just stood there, frozen in place like his name.

Stoick’s hand slammed the pommel of his axe into the stone steps, the crack of iron on rock splitting the noise in two. Silence dropped like a blade. Stoick’s glare swept over the crowd, daring anyone to speak again.

“Look at him!” Stoick thundered, voice low but sharp enough to cut through fear. “He’s no threat — he’s the same age as your own sons and daughters, yet he’s half their size. A child, left in the snow with no memory, no family. If we turn him away, we do worse than the dragons. Are we worse than the dragons?”

No one answered. 

“Are we worse, than the dragons?!” Stoick roared. There was a general murmur from around the room of “No, Chief.” 

Hiccup could feel the room breathe again, the anger softening into a grudging, sour acceptance. Berk didn’t have much, but it had never been a place to turn away a child. Even a strange one.

Hiccup caught Jack’s eyes. The boy’s shoulders dropped, just a little, relief loosening the iron band around his chest. Hiccup let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. For a heartbeat, they shared a look that said We’ll figure it out.

Stoick’s gaze flicked back to his son, his expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight. “Hiccup. Gobber.”

They both snapped straight, Hiccup’s back going so rigid it made his bones ache.

“You’ll watch him. Gobber, you know what to do if he—” Stoick didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The unspoken threat hovered over them like an executioner’s axe.

Gobber’s jaw twitched. He put his good hand on Hiccup’s shoulder, a steady weight that said I’ll stand with you. Hiccup felt Jack’s eyes on him again, and he tried to give him the smallest smile. It felt wobbly, but Jack’s answering smile — tiny and unsure — warmed him more than the fire ever could.

“Everyone, back to your huts!” Stoick roared. “There will be no raid tonight — the sky has given us enough trouble for one day.” His eyes flicked to Jack, then away. “Get some sleep.”

The villagers began to filter out, some shooting lingering glances at the white-haired boy as if expecting him to sprout wings or fangs the moment their backs were turned. Mildew spat near the hearth before shuffling out, muttering curses that only the stone walls bothered to catch.

Hiccup watched them go, feeling the tension bleed out of the hall like heat escaping into the storm. His father’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and final.

“Hiccup, Gobber — wait,” Stoick rumbled. When the last of the villagers were gone, the doors thudded shut, and the Great Hall felt cavernous and small all at once. Stoick turned to face the three of them: his son, the blacksmith who was like a second father, and the strange boy with frost in his hair.

“He’ll stay in your room tonight, Hiccup,” Stoick said, voice low now, more tired than angry. “We’ll set up a cot. If that’s alright.”

Hiccup nodded so hard his hair flopped over his eyes. “Yes! I mean — yes, sir.”

Stoick’s eyes softened — just a flicker. Then he turned away, the giant shadow of him merging with the flame glow as he stepped back into the storm to see to the village’s stores. No more words. Just the sound of the doors opening, then closing, the wind swallowing his shape whole.

Gobber clapped his hook against his leg, the sound ringing in the empty hall. “Alright then, you wee troublemakers. Let’s get ye home. No running off, mind you.” he pointed his hook at Jack, who flinched then giggled nervously. 

Hiccup laughed, the tension dissolving at the sound. He looked at Jack, who gave him that lopsided grin again — the one that made his eyes crinkle like upside-down bowls. Together, they stepped out into the storm, three mismatched shadows swallowed up by wind and rain, the Great Hall’s doors swinging shut behind them with a final, echoing thud.

In the distance, the thunder rolled, softer now, as if the sky itself had decided to rest.

—

The storm met them like a playful slap to the face — wind sharp as a dragon’s claws, rain hissing sideways across the village paths. The Great Hall’s warmth faded behind them with every step, replaced by the earthy smell of wet thatch and churned-up mud. For a moment, the three of them — Gobber, Hiccup, and Jack — stood under the carved dragon-head eaves, bracing themselves.

Hiccup pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his narrow shoulders, the fabric already damp from where the wind had tugged it open. Beside him, Jack’s bare feet squelched in the puddles forming between the cobblestones. His toes curled instinctively against the cold, but if he felt it — if it bit into his bones like it did Hiccup’s — he didn’t show it. His eyes darted everywhere instead, taking in every flicker of torchlight, every hiss of the wind rattling window shutters against timber walls.

Gobber, all broad shoulders and practical scowls, muttered a string of curses that made Hiccup stifle a giggle. He batted Hiccup’s shoulder gently with his stump to hush him. “Come on then, you two,” he barked over the wind, his gruff voice somehow kind beneath the grumble. “Stick close now — Thor help me, if either of ye blow away, Stoick’ll have my hide nailed to the door.”

Hiccup did as he was told, practically glued to Gobber’s good side, while Jack flitted along on the other, steps light and unsure on the slick path. Once or twice Jack’s feet slipped on a wet patch of moss, and each time Hiccup’s hand shot out without thinking, steadying him with a warm grip on his cold wrist. They’d glance at each other then — Jack’s wide, wondering eyes, Hiccup’s shy, toothy smile — and each time the connection was like a tiny flame in the storm.

They passed the watchtowers, their braziers sputtering in the wind, sending coils of smoke skimming low over the rooftops. From the darkness came the occasional clatter of a shield knocked loose by the wind or the distant bellow of a sheep protesting the wet. Berk at night was always restless — the sea’s roar just beyond the cliffs, the dragons sometimes calling to each other far above the clouds — but tonight it felt even wilder. The villagers must have felt it too; not a single window stayed unshuttered as they passed. No curious eyes watched them from behind the thick glass panes; no whispers followed their steps. All the fear and muttering had been left in the Great Hall, but Hiccup knew it lingered like smoke, waiting to be rekindled.

When they reached Stoick’s hut, Gobber shouldered the door open with a grunt, spilling warm light out into the rain. Jack flinched back a step, blinking like he’d forgotten what warmth was. Gobber caught his shoulder with a gentle tug, guiding him in before he could second guess it.

Inside, the hearth still held the banked coals from dinner — a soft glow of orange that cast Stoick’s weapons wall in eerie shapes. The axes, swords, and shields mounted there glittered dully in the flickering light, their edges catching the shadows like teeth. Hiccup had grown up in this place; every groove in the wood, every hanging blade felt like another piece of the family he was expected to inherit one day. But seeing Jack frozen there, staring up at the biggest of Stoick’s axes — the one that was nearly three times Jack’s height — made him suddenly see it through new eyes.

Gobber noticed too. He followed Jack’s gaze and snorted. “Aye, lad, that’s the old dragon-biter. Don’t worry — it stays on the wall. Unless your head goes all spinny and you start breathin’ fire — then we might have to think about it.”

Jack’s eyes widened, darting to Hiccup as if to check whether Gobber was serious. Hiccup giggled behind his hand. “He’s joking! Gobber’s always telling scary stories to make people behave. It’s how he gets the village kids to stay out of his forge — he says he’ll turn ‘em into horseshoes if they touch his hammers.”

“Worked on you, didn’t it?” Gobber shot back with a wink. Hiccup stuck his tongue out at him, feeling brave with Jack there to share the joke.

The warmth of the hearth seeped into their damp clothes as they made their way to Hiccup’s tiny room in the back corner of the hut. It wasn’t much — a single small window, its sill lined with bits of driftwood and the odd polished stone Hiccup had found on the beach. His bed was a lumpy pile of furs pushed up against the wall, the rest of the room a happy chaos of parchment scraps, charcoal nubs, half-finished wooden carvings, and the collection of “experiments” that never seemed to work quite right.

Gobber clapped his hands together — or rather, hand and hook — sending a small shower of rain droplets onto the floor. “Right then, let’s see about this cot,” he declared, already rummaging through a nearby pile of crates. He pulled two stout ones together, stacking them with the practiced ease of a man who’d built more beds in a rush than he cared to admit. Over this makeshift frame he threw a thick wool blanket, then layered it with an old bearskin and a pillow that looked like it had seen better centuries.

“There!” Gobber said proudly, hooking a finger under the edge to test the stability. The crates didn’t budge. “A bed fit for a boy. Or at least one that won’t break his bony backside.”

Jack stepped forward, his feet silent on the packed earth floor. He touched the corner of the bearskin tentatively, as if half-expecting it to vanish under his fingertips. When he looked up, his smile was so soft it made Hiccup’s chest squeeze with something warm and protective.

“Thank you,” Jack said, his voice shy but clear. He looked at Gobber, then at Hiccup, and the smallness of him in that moment was like a fragile candle in a winter wind.

Gobber grunted, the sound suspiciously gentle. “Don’t thank me yet, lad. Wait ‘til you hear Hiccup snore. Sounds like a Gronckle choking on its own tail.”

Hiccup squawked. “Do not! Do I, Jack?” He turned to his new friend, eyes wide and hopeful.

Jack giggled — a bright, crystalline sound that made the storm outside seem to hush, listening. “I dunno. I guess I’ll find out tonight!”

Gobber gave them both an exaggerated glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned over, ruffling Hiccup’s hair with his real hand and giving Jack a careful pat on the shoulder. “Alright, you two. Try to get some sleep — no plotting to run off with my tools, you hear?” He pointed his hook at them both in mock warning, then lumbered out the door, mumbling something about putting the forge embers to bed. The front door clunked shut behind him, the storm’s roar muffled once more by thick timber and iron hinges.

Just like that, they were alone.

For a moment, neither boy moved. Hiccup watched Jack poke experimentally at the blankets, testing the bounce — if you could call it that — and then crawl up onto the crates as if climbing a hill. Jack settled onto the makeshift cot, knees tucked up to his chest. He looked around the small room, eyes catching on Hiccup’s messy piles of sketches and little inventions.

“You made all these?” Jack asked, voice soft but bright with wonder.

Hiccup flushed. He never minded showing his scribbles to Gobber — or even his father when Stoick was in a good mood — but other kids? They usually laughed. But Jack’s eyes were wide, curious, not cruel at all.

“Yeah,” Hiccup said, ducking his head, hair falling into his eyes. He shuffled over to his battered desk and picked up one of his favorite bits — a rough drawing of a crossbow that could fold into a satchel. “Most of them are just ideas. Stuff I think might help with… you know. Dragons.”

Jack perked up at the word. “Dragons? Do you… fight them?”

Hiccup shrugged, flopping onto his own bed with an exhale. “Well… I don’t. Not yet. The other kids all train to, though. But my dad — Stoick, the Chief — he says I’m not ready. Too small. Too… well, me.”

Jack tilted his head. His hair glowed silver in the firelight, like frost rimmed with embers. “I think your ideas are brilliant,” he said, as if that settled it. He crawled closer, peering over Hiccup’s shoulder at another parchment — a wild, half-finished sketch of a blade with flames drawn all along its edge. “What’s this one?”

“Oh! That’s my flaming sword idea.” Hiccup’s eyes lit up despite himself. “I thought maybe if you could light a blade, you could scare dragons away. Or maybe fight them with their own fire.”

Jack’s brow scrunched, and he tapped the drawing with a cold fingertip. “You could use monstrous nightmare gel!”

Hiccup blinked. “Monstrous Nightmare what-now?”

“You know — the stuff they ooze when they want to set themselves on fire?” Jack said, like it was obvious. “You could get some, put it in here—” he pointed at the hilt drawn on the parchment “—and then ignite it when you swing.”

Hiccup stared at him, mouth open. “Jack… how do you know that?”

Jack froze. He sat back on his heels, blinking rapidly. “I… I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, hair falling forward like a snowy curtain. “It’s just in my head, I guess.” He fidgetted with his fingers, as if something was supposed to be there but wasn’t. 

Hiccup didn’t press. Instead, he clapped Jack’s shoulder, feeling the odd chill seep through his palm. “Well, it’s a great idea. Maybe we can try it sometime. You know… when the dragons aren’t trying to kill us.”

Jack’s answering grin was all crooked teeth and starlit mischief. “Deal.”

They stayed up longer than they should have. Hiccup pointed out every lopsided diagram and half-carved wooden model. Jack asked endless questions, his voice a whisper under the crackle of the hearth. Each answer made his eyes sparkle like ice catching dawn light.

When the fire burned low and their eyelids began to droop, Hiccup burrowed under his pile of furs. Jack curled up on his crates, the old bearskin pulled up to his chin. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, but in their little corner of the world, the storm was held at bay.

“Hey, Jack?” Hiccup’s voice was sleepy, drifting between one breath and the next.

“Yeah?” came the soft reply, muffled by blankets.

“Do you… do you wanna be friends?”

The silence stretched, warm and safe. Then: “Yeah. I’d like that, Hiccup.”

The wind howled, the waves crashed, and two small boys drifted off — one with dreams of fire and flight, the other with snowflakes melting into moonlight — wrapped up together in the quiet promise of something new.