The eau de sulphur, as it were, intrigues him. It layers underneath the scent of the woman that Meg is inhabiting — underneath, through, above. He's never smelled anything like it before. But it only takes him a moment to get the scent down — it'll be a memorable one — before lifting his head again, just in time to hear her question.

An owner?

How insulting.

Toothless makes a mildly grumpy, offended noise, expressive face shifting. No one owns him. Not even Hiccup. Hiccup is his friend. And he might like to call him a pet, but dragons aren't exactly domesticated. Not even Toothless, who is, these days, as gentle as can be with Vikings.