Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon is the intellectual property of Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Studios.

Cover art adapted from SilverFlight.

A/N: Wait, this isn't Harry Potter! What madness is this?!

Well, this is the last of my stories that I have planned, and the only one that is not Harry Potter-related. Like the others, it will be on the back burner for now, but I fully intend to come back and continue it. Surprised? So am I, but the idea was too good to pass up. Vikings riding dragons is more than just a fun movie. It's only a matter of time before they try to take over the world.

The Berkian part of this story takes place about a year after How to Train Your Dragon 2, and will obviously not be compliant with the third movie. I have, however, seen all of the TV and Netflix episodes as well as the movies, and I am also using the online map that has the Barbaric Archipelago laid out in a rough cross in the Norwegian Sea with Berk at its center.

Please note that Jehanne will naturally be very AU compared with the historical Joan of Arc. My historical knowledge is only at a Wikipedia level, and I am also not a Catholic, but I have nonetheless endeavored to keep both her character and the theology in this story consistent, and I apologize for any mistakes.

Chapter 1

Isle of Berk, Norwegian Sea

1105

This is Berk. To us, it's a nice place—the bright center of the Barbaric Archipelago. True, it's a long flight north of an island that's named for its ice, and it's within sight of Don't Plan On Sailing Till Spring, but who cares? We have dragons, and it doesn't get any better than that.

To the rest of the world, though, Berk is a myth. Seriously, we're so far out that even Leif Erikson forgot we were here. To us, the Archipelago is practically our whole world.

This is the story of how all of that changed.

"Trader Johann is here!" the voices called, and the townsfolk rushed down to the docks. Sure, we have dragons to get us around now, but they're not great for cargo, and as isolated as Berk is, it was always exciting to see the wares Johann picked up on his journeys—well except the time he sold Mildew a basket of blue oleander that nearly killed all the dragons on the island—or the time he sold Gobber a nest of Smothering Smokebreaths that stole all our weapons right before a Berserker attack…come to think of it, Johann could be more trouble than he was worth half the time.

Toothless and I flew down to the docks to meet him. As Chief, it was my duty to greet visitors and to inspect cargo for anything that shouldn't be there, and I took that job seriously after his prior shenanigans. We landed just outside the docks because of the crowd, and I nudged my way through to the front.

"Ah, Berk, my favorite of all the islands I visit," Johann said unconvincingly as he hopped off his boat. "Good morning, Chief Hiccup."

"Good morning, Johann," I said. "Smooth seas this month?"

"Excellent weather, Chief. Fine sailing from here all the way to the end of the Archipelago. Now, if I could have just a bit of help unloading some luggage…?"

I motioned to Gobber and Spitelout to give me a hand unloading the boxes from the ship. "Unloading cargo already?" I asked. "What's the occasion?"

"This is a very special voyage," Johann said. "I've found something even rarer than gold or squid ink: paying passengers! It's been years since I've had any of them. Why, I remember—"

"Passengers?" I interrupted before he could launch into one of his stories. "Who would be paying for passage in the Archipelago? Everyone has their own boats."

"Why, a pair of Christian missionaries from Norway, Chief Hiccup. Come on out, you two. This is Brother Harold and Brother Olaf."

Two men slowly climbed out of the hold and stepped off the boat. You could tell they were religious devotees of some kind by their dress. They wore plain brown robes with hoods and had the tops of their heads shaved, leaving a ring of black hair on each of them. They also shaved their beards, which was rare in the Archipelago.

"Hail, Chief Hiccup Haddock," the first man said, and they both bowed to me. "God be with you and your tribe."

"Um, thanks. Pleased to meet you," I said. "Welcome to Berk." Toothless sniffed at the two men curiously, but he didn't seem to have a problem with them, which was a good sign. They flinched a little upon seeing a dragon up close, but they stood their ground.

"Thank you, Chief Hiccup. Brother Harold and I had heard the tales of the great Dragon Tamers of Berk," said the second man—Brother Olaf, apparently. He gazed around the village's skyline and spotted a few dragons on the rooftops and flying through the air. "We weren't sure whether to believe them, but it seems the stories were not exaggerated at all."

"Yeah, that's us: the dragon riders. So, Christians, huh?" I said, rubbing my chin. "You know, I've heard of you guys, but I don't think we've ever actually met any of you before."

"That is why we are here, Chief," Brother Olaf said. "Until recently, many of us in Norway weren't even sure that Berk existed, but when we learned that there was an unchurched people on these isles, we mounted a mission."

I heard some angry murmurs from the crowd and a few oaths to Thor and Odin, and Mom spoke up and said, "So these two want to teach us to follow their gods?"

"The One God, my Lady," Brother Harold said.

"Do you think we should let these unbelievers into the village, Chief?" Spitelout said.

"Yeah, you know what happened last time we angered Thor," Gustav piped up.

"Guys, we've been over this," I said. "I really don't think that was Thor. I think it was just something weird that happens with lightning and metal. Now, let's just take it easy. This isn't the first time we've had followers of other gods here. Remember those Baltic pagans who came through a while back?" Honestly, I didn't remember it very well myself. I was only six. "We gave them our hospitality then, and we can hear these Christians out now. I turned back to the two…monks? Was that what they were called? "Sorry about them," I said. "We don't get many outsiders here. I don't think you'll win many converts on Berk, but we do try to keep an open mind."

"We thank you for your hospitality, Chief Hiccup," Brother Olaf said.

"Well, such as it is," I said. "I'm afraid we don't have a lot of arrangements for visitors, but I'm sure we can find a place to put you up and give you what provisions you need."

"We do not wish to be a burden on any man," said Brother Harold. "We will work for our keep, just as Saint Paul did."

I didn't know who Saint Paul was, but that sounded like a pretty good deal to me. Most of their luggage was unloaded by now, but the last trunk Gobber hauled up was unusually heavy, and it hit the dock with an ominous THUD!

"Oi, what you got in this one? A pile of rocks?" Gobber said.

"No, good sir," Brother Olaf shook his head. He got out a key and opened the trunk, revealing one of the largest collections of books I'd ever seen in one place.

"Wow, what are these?" I said.

"Bibles—our holy scriptures," he replied. "We had heard that Berk was a particularly literate island, so we commissioned the Order of Saint Benedict to make extra copies for your tribe."

I picked up one of the books respectfully and opened it to find letters most unlike the Norse runes we used on Berk. I sounded out the words, and it was immediately clear that it wasn't German either, the only other language we commonly saw in trade. "That's very…nice of you," I said, "but you won't find many people here who can read this. I've only seen a few documents like this myself. It's…is this Latin?"

"Yes, Chief Hiccup. You see, His Holiness the Pope has decreed that the Latin Bible ought to be maintained in formal use in order to preserve the accuracy of the text."

"I guess that sort of makes sense, but what good does that do you Christians if no one can read it?"

"We believe it is the duty of the learned to translate and interpret the Bible for the edification of the people," Brother Harold said. "The Church does not forbid translation for the sake of teaching, of course, only that it be done within the teachings and oversight of the Church. We did bring a Norse translation for you with us."

"That's convenient," I said. I flipped to the beginning of the book in my hands to see if I could follow what it said. I tried to remember what little Latin I knew and read the first line: "In principio creavit Deus cælum et terram. Huh…Deus—only one god," I said. "That's a different perspective…But I thought Christians worshiped someone called Christ."

"We certainly do, Chief Hiccup," Brother Harold said, "only is a little more complicated than that. Perhaps tonight we can explain to you the Mystery of the Trinity."

Trinitas—that was the Latin word he used. I was pretty sure it meant three of something, which…made no sense at all in that context, but Harold seemed to have an explanation ready. I was sure then that our new contact with the outside world was going to be…interesting.

Domrémy, Bar, Eastern France

1425

This is Domrémy, in the Duchy of Bar. It's a little pocket of French loyalty surrounded by brutal Viking occupiers. Raids are as frequent as they are violent, but we have nowhere else to go. Help and escape alike are hard to find around here without safe roads in and out. It's overtaxed, under-served, and about a hundred miles from friendly territory. It's not much, but it's home.

My name's Jehanne. I've lived in Domrémy my whole life. It's a simple life: milk the cows, herd the sheep, spin the wool, sew the cloth…and pray that the Vikings raider don't steal your livestock.

The Vikings aren't anything new around here. Everyone knows the stories: Chief Hiccup Nightwing and Toothless the Night Fury, the Conquest of King Stoick II, Emperor Hiccup the Great and his Snow Furies. Basically, the Vikings spent their first three hundred years up on their frozen islands killing dragons and their next three hundred years riding them into battle. Today, they rule half of Europe, and the stories claims they have colonies all the way on the other side of the ocean. We've been lucky in France. The Dutch, Flemish, and Germans to the east of have been ruled by Vikings for generations. We're the strongest holdout in Europe still standing against them.

France would have been conquered by the Viking Empire ages ago if it weren't for a miraculous stroke of luck. A century or so back, the Mongols showed up, and they gave the Vikings their first defeat in over a hundred years. Everyone wanted to know the Great Khan's secret, and Saint Louis IX found it out: the Mongols had gunpowder. Just like that, we could fight fire with fire, and suddenly, the Vikings weren't so unstoppable anymore.

Just very, very difficult to stop.

I was three when the Vikings invaded France for the third time, and this time, they pulled out all the stops. We barely beat them back the first two times, and they don't like losing.

They're Vikings. They have stubbornness issues.

Even with our gunpowder and cannons, we couldn't stop them this time. The raiders ran roughshod over half the country. By the time I was eight, they'd pushed as far south as Orléans, and King Charles the Mad surrendered to them. Guided by his traitorous nephew, the Duke of Burgundy, and a Viking vassal, he married his daughter off to the Viking Emperor Hamish V, slanderously named his own son a bastard, and worst of all, he signed away the throne to Hamish's issue.

That was totally illegal, by the way. The King of France is required by the law to be a Frenchman. I checked.

Fortunately, Le Dauphin understood that too, and he declared himself Regent and took up the cause. Today, the loyal French hail him as King Charles VII, even though he can't be properly coronated until the Vikings are driven back from Reims.

None of that really affects us personally in Domrémy, though. Our concerns are usually more provincial. My father is the doyen of the village. That's French for "he's in charge of fighting off the raiders." It would be nice if he got paid better for it, but there's not much money to go around here. We have to work our forty acres just like everyone else. It's dangerous work, too. I think I mentioned that Vikings ride dragons into battle.

"Dragons!" Father shouted as he rang the alarm bell above our house. "Man the mortars! Archers, to arms! Fire brigade at the ready!"

The shouts of scrambling peasants filled the air as men rushed to their crossbows, javelins, and mortar teams. It was nearly midday when the raid happened—a surprise raid, not at night when they usually came. The mortars were the strongest defense against dragons. We didn't have many, but the aerial bombs they fired were the only ones that could reliably get through Viking armor. We'd heard rumors that in Orléans they had hand cannons that were more versatile than crossbows, but no one in Domrémy had ever seen one.

"Pierre, Jean, help guard the granary," Father shouted. "We can't afford to lose it this time of year. Isabelle, get Jehanne and Catherine to the cellar."

"I want to help!" I cried.

"Jehanne, get in the cellar with your mother," he ordered. "You can help tend the wounded when we're not under fire."

Pierre and Jean, my brothers. They were both called to help defend the village now that Pierre was seventeen and Jean was sixteen. My eldest brother, Jacquemin, was already married with his first child on the way, so he had to defend his own home. But there wasn't much a thirteen-year-old girl could do at times like these, and there was my sister, Catherine, to think of as well. She's a year younger than I am, and we always found ourselves together in the cellar with Mother when the raids happened.

Mother rushed us into the house, but not before I got a good look at the enemy. There were about a dozen of them. Deadly Nadders: fast and agile, able to shoot deadly spines and breathe some of the hottest fire of any dragon. They were trying to pick off the defenders. Gronkles: tough, able to hover, and built for heavy lifting. They were trying to steal our grain, our livestock, and anything else they wanted. And the lead Viking rode a Monstrous Nightmare: big and mean with a nasty habit of lighting everything in its path on fire whether it was an enemy or not.

"Jehanne, get inside!" Mother cried. She pulled Catherine and me down to the cellar with her, and we braced ourselves for the attack. We knew at once that this wasn't an ordinary attack. The explosions were louder, closer. We could feel the heat of the flames through the cracks in the cellar door. There was no way for us to know if Father, Pierre, or Jean had survived the first few minutes. There was nothing we could do but wait and pray.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum," I prayed. "Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.

"Ave Maria—" BOOM! "—AH! Gratia plena—" CRASH! "—Dominus tecum—" I pleaded. The house shook to its foundations from some unknown attack. "B-b-benedicta…"

CLANNNGGG!

I screamed. That sound could only be one thing: the bell tower collapsing and the great alarm bell crashing to the earth, and with it, with a rumble and a crash, the whole house fell down around us.

"Please, God help us!"

I think I must have passed out, but it can't have been for long since the din of battle still sounded outside when I came to. We were very lucky. The cellar had only partially caved in along with the rest of the house. Mother, Catherine and I could still move, and we could see the light coming from the stairs. We couldn't stay put, though. The rest of the ceiling could cave in at any moment, and the cellar was rapidly filling with smoke. We had to crawl out through the smoke and rubble. Our house was in ruins. I couldn't see Father at all, and we could tell Mother was injured.

We made it to the garden, and I finally saw Father. I thanked God to see he was still alive, but he was flat on his back and groaning in pain. He was burned, and he had a Nadder spine driven through his leg. He was lying out in the open: easy pickings for another dragon.

"Catherine, stay with Mother. I'll go help him," I ordered. I hurried to reach him and quickly checked him for head injuries and broken bones.

"Jehanne," he groaned, "you need to get to safety."

"So do you, Father," I said as tears welled in my eyes. When I satisfied myself that his head wasn't hurt too badly, and he perhaps had only a couple broken ribs, I began to drag him back to the shadow of what was left of the wall of the house. It was hard, but as I got closer, Catherine rushed out and helped me. When we were as safe as we could be under the circumstances, we tore off strips of his shirt to bind the wound on his leg where the Nadder spine had pierced it.

Even if they were girls or were too young to fight, every child in France—certainly every child in Bar—knew how to treat burns and bind wounds.

Unfortunately, the raid wasn't over. Fire and bombs continued to burst around us. Even as we tried to help Mother and Father, another explosion rocked the house, collapsing what remained and throwing us to the ground, covering us in dust. I knelt in the garden, my ears ringing, trying to get my bearings, and all I could do was cry out, "Please, God, save us from these raiders!" And then, I heard it.

"Jehanne. Jehanne. Jehanne."

The voice sounded like thunder, or the roar of a dragon, or the shout of a multitude, and I cringed in fear of it. But it spoke again, and this time a light came with it, seemingly from just out of my view, in the direction of the church.

"Do not be afraid, Jehanne."

I turned and saw a great light—not angry red like dragon fire, but pure and white, so bright that I had to shield my eyes.

"Fear not, daughter of God, for He is with you always and will keep you safe."

When voice spoke the third time, I knew it was the voice of an angel, and indeed. When I peered up, I could see the shape of a man, shining white, with two other figures on his right and left, and behind them were a multitude of angels. Suddenly, I felt a comfort like I had never before known, and the danger of the raiders seeming to vanish around me.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am Saint Michael, the protector of France," the angel said, "and Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret are with me. God has heard your prayers, Jehanne and has sent us to your aid. Know that He will keep you and your family safe this day."

"God be praised," I said. I never imagined I'd see and hear the answer to my prayers with my own eyes and ears. I didn't know how to answer that. What do you say to an archangel who suddenly appears before you? "Please, I ask you…um…What instruction do you have for the salvation of my soul?"

A different voice spoke, which didn't sound like a multitude, but like a kind woman, and I knew in my heart it was Saint Catherine: "You have found favor, daughter of God. Do not fear. Only be a good girl, and go to church often."

"I have done these things since I was very young," I answered, "and I have fasted and prayed for the salvation of my people. But I wish I could do more."

A third voice spoke, that of Saint Margaret: "One thing you lack. You must go to France."

I thought I had misheard for a moment. "To France?" I asked.

"God has indeed heard your prayers for your people, Jehanne," she said. "He has commanded you to go to France, to save them from the Vikings and to restore the King to his rightful throne."

"Me? But…how can I do these things? I'm only a young girl."

"God's arm will be with you. With Him, you cannot fail. And we will also be with you each day to guide you."

I could hardly believe it. God had chosen me for this? The thought was comforting, confusing, and terrifying all at the same time. "How…? How can I fight for France, St. Margaret?" I asked. "I'm not a warrior, and I certainly don't have the strength to fight dragons."

"We will guide you, and you will learn. You cannot win by fighting dragons. To save France, you must learn what the Vikings learned and fight as the Vikings fight—but not with their cruelty and destruction. You must fight instead with their weapons. You must ride dragons."

All at once, the vision vanished. The light went out, and the angels disappeared. I looked around and saw myself kneeling in the garden where I had been before. The battle had quieted, and the fires around me were dying, and I cried at the loss of something so beautiful.

I could barely think about the weight of what God had commanded me to do. No one but a Viking has ever ridden a dragon. To each other, they claim it was no different than training dogs for hunting—or so the stories go—but a dog isn't big enough to eat you for breakfast, and it can't breath fire to roast you first. No one else has ever done it, and they guard their secrets jealously. And even then, I knew it couldn't be that easy if it took them three hundred years to figure it out for themselves. How was I, thirteen-year-old Jehanne Romée, to succeed where so many others failed.

Do not fear. We will guide you, the Saints' words echoed in my mind. They were right, of course. I had to have faith, no matter how hard the task. God had ordered it and sent me three angels to help me: Saint Michael the Archangel, the vanquisher of Satan and protector of France; Saint Catherine, the patron of maidens; and Saint Margaret, who had once escaped from the very belly of a dragon by tearing at its innards with her crucifix. With them and God himself on my side, whom then would I fear?