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Hiccup's wedding went off without a hitch, or so Astrid heard. She didn't go, claiming honest fatigue and spending the night with Rolf and Arvid while Ingrid eagerly assumed position as Eret's date. No one really saw the chief or his bride the next few peaceful weeks, unless the bottom of their feet and their dragons count for anything.

Astrid doesn't see much of him after he comes out of blissful hiding either, devoting early autumn afternoons to accumulating the largest wood stack that their small house can store. Eret offers to build a larger shelter for it, but she tells him that he's done enough and that he's wonderful.

And that she made his favorite stew for dinner.

00000

Three months later, when it's snowing lightly and Arvid is a chubby, happy baby who can hurl a wooden ball clear across the room, he starts refusing milk. At first it's a strange blip in the routine, but after a few days of screaming and not much food, Astrid visits the healer to get a professional opinion. The woman listens, stirring something in a pot near her hearth before ladling a while concoction into a skin and holding it to Arvid's mouth. Astrid is impossibly relieved when the baby starts eating voraciously, chubby cheeks puffing and squelching with the effort of swallowing so quickly.

"What is that? What is he eating?" She accepts the infant and the skin, angling it carefully above his blissful face, blue eyes shut tight.

"Yak's milk," the healer grins and hands her two small bags of herbs. "You're pregnant, lassie."

"What?" Astrid's heart drops into her stomach. "But I haven't felt anything, no nausea, my clothes are looser." She shakes her head. "How far along could I be?"

"For the milk to go sour?" The woman weighs imaginary weights in her hands, "two, three months."

Three months.

Three months.

"But…but I've always had nausea by two months. With the other three I was puking my guts out!"

"This one is going easy on you then. Every baby is different," Astrid swallows hard, wondering just how different this baby could be as the woman describes Arvid's new yak milk regimen and the pouches of anti-nausea herbs.

Three months. It had to be three months, didn't it?

Of course it could still be fine. She and Eret—they—Honestly, they've been busier than normal, combined guilt and doting scratching out the memory of that night as much as she could. It's probably fine, one drop in the pot won't poison the soup.

Probably.

Unless you get a bad bite.

She didn't think her cycle was even starting again yet.

That night, Rolf and Ingrid are at their grandma's, staying for dinner after playing there for the afternoon and letting Astrid go to the healers', and the house is almost quiet. Eret asks about the yak milk as he sits down with his bowl of stew, and Astrid's pleasant smile freezes on her face, twitching before fading completely.

"What?" He presses the issue and she shrugs, biting her lip and looking down at Arvid. "Did the healer say that something is wrong? Is it—"

"I'm pregnant," she blurts, panicking at the broad grin already spreading across his face. "I slept with Hiccup."

"What?" He's not mad, he's pensive, taking in the situation before deciding how to react.

"It was a mistake—"

"When?" As if it matters, as if she could say ten years ago and fix everything.

"The night before his wedding," she admits. "He came over and he was having cold feet and saying things he shouldn't have been saying and—but it's my fault, all my fault. I shouldn't have let him in and I shouldn't have let him kiss me and—" his head drops to the table and he yanks at his thick, black braid, white knuckled fists falling against the wood. "It was a mistake and I haven't seen him since and I—I'm sorry."

She's crying again, and at least she can wholly blame this one on the hormones, her hands frozen on Arvid and the skin, wincing every time the baby's eager swallow drowns out the pained silence.

"Say something." The tears trickle down an absolutely stony face as her chest goes cold. "Just—"

"It was once?" He doesn't look at her but she nods anyway.

"And I never want to see him again, I—"

"I know how he affects you, you were half mad when I pulled you away from all of that. From him. And you just seemed happy to have your friend back but he was…," Eret stands up from the table and paces, clenching and unclenching tight fists.

"It was my fault, I'm married to you."

"And he just fell into you then? He came here to tell you about his cold feet," Eret shakes his head, staring at her and the baby like they're smoke, like they're going to float away in the wind.

"Never again," she shakes her head, setting the empty skin aside and holding Arvid up to burp him, unflinching when a dribble of frothy, warm milk dribbles down her shoulders. "And it—it's probably fine, I—No matter what, it's yours, I don't want it to be anyone's but yours."

"It will be mine," he nods, resolute and staring at her. "You're taking the blame but you don't see how you are around him. You don't know how he affects—"

"He doesn't have any effect on me at all," Astrid insists, but it sounds as weak as it feels and she backs away from the fight she can't win. "It's yours. No matter what, you don't have to forgive me, it's yours."

"I forgive you," he affirms without hesitation, lip curling ferociously. "But I don't forgive him."

"He's the chief."

"And he needs my fish."

"Eret," she sighs, resting a shocked, trembling hand against his chest, over the scar in that place he doesn't let anyone else touch. He stands there for a moment, almost proud enough to stay mad and shrug off the touch, but his hand floats up to cover hers, pressing her touch to him. "What do you say to naming this one Eret?"

"You don't have to do that?" He shakes his head, barely meeting her gaze.

"No, I like the name Eret. Obviously."

"What if it's a girl?" He shuffles a little closer to her and Arvid lets out a little burp, turning to wave a bobbling, chubby arm towards his dad and tracing a long blue tattoo. It feels like family, and it's right. It's terrifying and she wonders what's lurking inside of her, waiting to pounce.

"Ereta. Rhymes with Greta, it could work." He snorts and squeezes her hand.

"Ereta, daughter of Eret."

"Let's start assuming Eret, son of Eret." She nods, and his smile returns bit by bit. "Well, Eret, son of Eret, son of Eret."

Eret III.

But she doesn't mention that she knows another Third who hates it.

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Nine months isn't really long enough to prepare for something like this, but Astrid can't say she's exactly shocked when the healer hands her the wiped clean baby, bright red hair glimmering in the spring light.

Stoick red hair.

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Eret son of Eret, son of Eret is three when the chief's extra gifts finally strike a nerve. It's not fair to the older kids, it's not fair to the new heir, that baby girl with the already long brown hair, tangled and hanging to her petite shoulders. Hiccup shows up too late one night, obviously trying to catch Astrid alone, like he always does, new leather terror harness in hand like his plan of getting the boy a terror isn't at least a few years from being feasible.

Eret answers the door, already fed up from a too long day and tells the chief to leave, utterly unenamored with the prospect of saying no again.

"It's for Eret," Hiccup insists, edging his shoulder through the threshold, looking solely at Astrid as she does her best to ignore him, wiping the same clean surface with a rag until he looks back to her husband. "The Eret who's interested," he amends with a winning smile and Astrid double checks the shut door on the younger boy's bedroom, hoping that they don't wake him up. He's hard to get to sleep anyway, he won't stop chattering if his life depends on it.

"Not interested, chief."

"It's for him," Hiccup continues, holding the present out towards Astrid. She shoots him a glare, scoffing and storming back to the hearth over that bear skin rug, still soft and cushy under her feet. Mocking her every single day under Eret Junior's crafty little hands, building block towers to the sky.

"He's three," Eret Senior, steps back to close the door.

"Never too early—"

"Hiccup, stop. No dragons yet," Astrid interjects, voice pointedly hushed as she steps up beside her husband, immediately regretting the 'yet'. "If we need something, we'll commission it from Gobber like everyone else."

"It's a present," Hiccup insists, speaking only to her, and Eret's arm falls around her shoulders, tugging her into his side. Hiccup flexes his jaw and she glares back. "Astrid—"

"You can give your kids dragons whenever you want," Astrid flinches when the fire lights up behind his eyes again, chiefly and formidable.

"That is my son, Astrid," he snaps, shoving the halter into her hands and gritting his teeth. "That is our son—"

"Get out of my house," Eret grips the edge of the door so tightly it creaks in his hand and Astrid tries to hand back the halter even as Hiccup flares up red and furious.

"He's our son, it's obvious. The whole village can see it, I—"

"Get. Out. Of. My. House," Eret grits through his teeth, glaring at that single metal foot on the inside of the threshold.

"Hiccup, go." Astrid shakes her head and steps away from the door, glare fizzling into something soft and sad as he looks at her like he used to look at her, like he looked at her that night when everything changed for the worse.

"Astrid—"

Eret slams the door, leaning against it and staring straight ahead while Hiccup knocks on the other side, less and less polite until he gives up entirely with a two fisted slam. Astrid watches as her husband wipes a hand over his face, impossibly more drained. She steps up and rests a hand on his shoulder, fingers small against the breadth of his shoulder.

"Son of Eret, remember?" She nods at him carefully, sighing and leaning forward to rest her forehead against his chest, almost fitting but coming up ever so slightly short.

"Son of Eret."

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Now, can I propose something? I'm going to anyway.

I'm absolutely writing a story centered around Eret son of Eret son of Eret, the Hiccstrid lovechild. I guess it's more of an announcement than a proposal. It won't be done for a while, but if you're still with me and you're not too horribly broken to continue, it's something to look forward to.