The biting, icy wind whipped through his long, silver hair, but Grimmel didn't flinch. From the command bridge of his flagship, towering over the fleet, he watched as dozens of ships sliced through the boundless ocean, steadily approaching his secret lair. In the holds and on the decks of this new prize were hundreds of captured dragons. The roars, the hisses, the desperate beating of wings against the bars—all of it was music to Grimmel's ears. Another testament to his unwavering will.

He ran a hand over his thin goatee, a faint, arrogant smile playing on his lips. Hiccup and his naive Vikings were still clinging to their foolish ideals, trying to "befriend" these beasts. They didn't understand that befriending a predator was an invitation to one's own demise. Grimmel, on the other hand, offered the world true salvation. Only he saw the truth: dragons were a plague that needed to be rooted out. And he, Grimmel the Grisly, was the surgeon.

One of his Deathgrippers, a large one with lilac-colored scales, stretched its long neck and rubbed its venomous snout against his leg, purring softly. Grimmel gave it a subtle pat on the head. "Soon, my loyal friend," he whispered, "soon they will all be gone. And we will feast upon their bones."

His lair, disguised among rocks and mist, was almost in sight. It was the perfect place to process his "haul," to experiment with new poisons, to strengthen his army. The world would soon tremble at his name. He was invincible; his plan was flawless. No one could stop him.