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Hiccup’s mind is still reeling from his father’s death, so much so that he’s barely processed the current situation he’s in.
Barely, but he has processed it.
Drago won; and now he has Hiccup standing in a room, surrounded by guards, with his hands bound behind him.
Drago’s not looking at him when he’s quite literally dragged into the room; no, instead, he’s facing the fire, holding something—Hiccup can’t see what—in the flames. He doesn’t turn to face Hiccup even as he begins speaking.
“Stoick’s heir, all at my mercy. I’ve heard what they say about you; ‘soul of a dragon.’ I alone control the dragons, and now I’ll control you, too, ‘dragon master.’”
“No one controls me,” Hiccup growls. “Certainly not you.”
“You’ve already lost, boy. There’s no point in fighting. Your village is mine, your dragons are mine, and you are mine now too.” Drago scoffs, still with his back turned to Hiccup.
“I don’t belong to anyone.” Hiccup frowns, trying to slip out of the chains binding his hands to no avail. The slight rattle of the metal merely catches the attention of the guards watching him, and one pulls out his sword; an obvious threat.
“You’ll belong to me soon, pet.” Drago turns his head and points at one of the guards, “You, get a muzzle on him. I’m tired of hearing him talk. Maybe he’ll learn his place a bit quicker with one on.”
Hiccup does what he can to fight it, but with his hands bound and so many guards holding him still as the one guard forces the muzzle gag onto him, there isn’t much he can do to prevent it from happening. He does manage to get in a good bite, and the guard who put the muzzle on him now has a very bloody hand to deal with.
Finally, Drago turns to face him, and Hiccup gets his first look at the thing Drago was holding in the fire; a branding iron.
Hiccup struggles against the guards still holding him in place, shouting incomprehensible, muffled insults through the muzzle as Drago brings the red-hot metal towards him. The man simply laughs—laughs—at his struggling, the same way someone amused at a cat chasing its own tail might laugh.
He snarls as the man instructs his guards to cut away Hiccup’s armor and shirt, leaving his chest open to be branded.
The heated metal is pressed into his skin, and Hiccup screams, the sound drowned out by the muzzle. He writhes in the tight hold the guards have on him, and Drago just laughs again at the sight of his pain and presses the brand harder against his chest.
When it’s over, his skin looks mottled and angry, but the scarring is distinct; Drago’s brand, present and unmistakable on his chest.
Drago roughly yanks at his hair, making Hiccup look up at him, “There we go, pet. Like I told you, you’re mine.”