Stoick's Point of View
This... thing.
This beast with my son's face.
It couldn't be him.
But gods help me, it was.
I stared, frozen, as Hiccup—no, this creature—stood surrounded by wolves and a war-bear, muscles cut from battle, scars layered like armor, eyes hollowed of anything resembling the boy I once knew.
He moved like a predator.
Spoke like a king.
And looked at me like I was nothing but flesh in his way.
The words echoed still—You didn't raise me. I forged myself.
I remembered the quiet boy. The fragile one who wore clothes too big, always limping behind his peers, dreaming of being something else.
Now that same boy stood before me, the image of war itself.
The elders had warned me. Gobber. Gothi. Even Goldie. They spoke of blood and steel, of the Nadder's submission, of the arena stained in death.
And I dismissed them.
They were exaggerating. They had to be.
But now... I didn't know.
I didn't want to know.
Because the truth—that this was my son—sat in my chest like a hot stone I couldn't swallow.
My mouth opened. No words came out.
Then—
"Papa!"
The voice cut through the silence like an arrow.
High. Clear. Joyful.
I turned toward it instinctively.
A little girl ran from the corridor. Her footsteps were light, unafraid, and without hesitation she leapt toward him.
Toward Hiccup.
He stepped aside with ease, letting her nearly tumble past, then caught her gently by the back of her shirt.
"You need to work on your stealth, my little Valkyrie," he said with a faint chuckle.
The child grinned up at him.
And I—I—stood frozen in place.
Because she had called him Papa.
I blinked.
No one else in the hall dared breathe.
I found my voice, but it felt foreign on my tongue.
"Who is she to you?"
He looked at me.
And smiled.
That same mocking, cold smile that twisted in my gut like a blade.
"She?" Hiccup said casually. "She's Freya. My daughter."
My throat tightened.
He held the girl closer.
"Before you go accusing me of running off and bedding some tavern skank," he added, grin growing sharper, "don't bother."
He paused just long enough to let me think—hope—that maybe he meant blood.
Then came the second blow.
"I adopted her," he said.
"With my wife's blessing."
Wife?
I didn't even have time to speak before something stirred.
From the shadows beside the great hearth—just where the firelight didn't quite reach—movement.
No. Not movement.
A presence.
A form.
As if the darkness itself had risen and molded into flesh.
A figure stepped forward from the black, silent and fluid, like the night had birthed her.
She was tall. Graceful. Her hair like ink, her gaze sharper than any blade. Her beauty was inhuman—but her aura was terrifying.
The wolves didn't so much as glance at her.
They knew their place.
She walked to Hiccup's side with the authority of a queen and the ease of a lover.
And when she rested her hand on his shoulder, he didn't flinch.
He welcomed it.
"Stoick," Hiccup said, his voice now rich with satisfaction, "meet Luna—my wife."
Then he looked down.
"And this..." He ruffled the girl's hair. "Is our daughter, Freya."
I stared at them.
At the three of them.
A family.
His family.
Not mine.
Not anymore.
Hiccup's Point of View
For a moment, Stoick was frozen.
Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.
Watching Luna place her hand gently on my shoulder, her body naturally fitting against mine.
Watching Freya beam up at us, holding my clawed hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And just when I thought he might stay speechless forever, he snapped back—desperate for control he no longer possessed.
"What..." he muttered, then raised his voice, trying to sound like the chief he used to be, "What is the meaning of all this?"
I turned toward him, expression calm.
Amused, even.
"The meaning?" I repeated. "I just told you. But I suppose you're more senile than I thought."
I gestured lazily between Luna, Freya, and myself.
"This... is my family."
I said it louder now. Clear. Cold. Final.
"My wife. My daughter. My life."
I stepped forward.
"And let me make something very clear, Stoick—you are not my father. You never were. You're just the man whose blood I share. Nothing more."
His jaw clenched. His fists curled. But he didn't speak.
I pressed on, voice rising with venom that had waited years to be unleashed.
"I have no connection to this place. To this village. I hate it. I hate its people. I hate you—the bastard who dared to call himself my father even after neglecting me for years."
Every syllable hit him like a hammer to the ribs.
"I pretended to be weak all that time. Hiding in baggy clothes. Playing the fool. I let you think I was still that fragile boy."
I stepped closer again, claws hanging at my side.
"But as time passed, that mask became harder to wear. Because my hatred for this accursed place only grew."
I stopped just feet from him, staring up at the man who thought he still held authority.
"You could've trained me. Shaped me. Raised me to be the warrior you always wanted. Instead, you looked at me with disgust. You showed me contempt. You dismissed me. You ignored me."
My voice dropped—low, bitter, sharp enough to cut.
"I watched you love others. Watch you smile with pride at sons that weren't yours. While I—your real son—stood in the corner. Forgotten."
I didn't let the silence last.
"At the age of four, I stopped caring, I stopped crying, I started training. Alone. In secret. Fighting. Bleeding. Killing when I had to. Every scar you see—" I opened my arms, letting them all see "—was earned."
"And through that, I became this."
I turned slightly, gesturing back to Luna and Freya.
"And I only found joy—real joy—when I met Luna. The first person in my life to look at me like I mattered."
Luna smiled faintly, her gold eyes glowing.
"I found love in her. I found home in her."
Then I looked down at the girl who clung to my leg, smiling brightly up at her Papa.
"And when Freya came into my life... that was the second happiest day I've ever had."
I looked back at Stoick.
My voice dropped again—calm and final.
"Berk has only given me pain. Isolation. Hate."
I took one step closer—close enough to look him in the eyes.
"But it's funny," I said with a cold smirk. "The man who loves to preach that 'a chief protects his own'..."
My eyes narrowed.
"Couldn't even protect his own son."
And then, for the final blow, I dropped my voice to a razor's whisper.
"Or his wife. Not even for a single night."
His face paled.
And I watched his pride crack—just a little.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him finally understand—
I'm not his anymore.
I never was.