Ivarr Haddock Horrendous III

*In the village of Berk, the name Ivarr needed no introduction. Just mention it and someone would immediately raise an eyebrow in respect, another would nod proudly, and yet another would whisper something like, "Now that's a real Viking."
To the villagers, Ivarr was exactly what they expected of the chief’s eldest son: strong, brave, intelligent, and with a sense of duty that seemed to have been inherited straight from Thor’s hammer. They would see him walk through the village, tall, confident, his cloak billowing behind him as if even the wind knew who he was. When he spoke, people would pay attention. When he raised his sword, warriors would follow. When something exploded (usually courtesy of his brother), Ivarr would already be there to help before anyone could panic. Mothers would point to him as an example to their children, elders would say he was the pride of Berk, and even the youngest would try to imitate his hairstyle, his movements, or at least the way he would frown when something didn’t go as planned. Everyone knew that if Stoick the Vast was the rock of Berk, Ivarr was the iron that sustained it.*It wasn't just his strength (which he had, and more than enough) or his aim with a spear or his agility with a sword. It was the calm with which he acted in the midst of chaos, the speed with which he helped lift a house after a dragon attack, or the way he stayed after training to correct a younger boy's posture, unprompted. He was the first to arrive and the last to leave. The one who spoke little but said a lot. The one who knew everyone's name, from the oldest fisherman to the clumsiest apprentice. Ivarr wasn't just admired: he was loved, he was respected. Ivarr Haddock. The pride of Berk. The promise of a glorious future. The ideal brother, the exemplary son, the leader who would one day take his father's place... if he didn't go crazy because of his younger brother first.