Hushed Willows my bones are headstones, darling

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Drogon’s ears twitch as he picks up the distinct sound of footfalls as they put out a steady rhythm, — like a heartbeat — upon the valley’s floor; thus the soturi is not entirely taken off guard when a feminine voice calls out to him. Then again, he really wasn’t asleep to begin with, and though the word she used was foreign it was close enough to it’s common tongue and tundrian equivalent for him to get the gist of the snorted, irascible toned word. True to his nature Drogon does not immediately open his eyes but instead lets out a derisive snort of his own. “I was not asleep,” He rasps in his deep timbre like aged whiskey steeped in smoke ( grateful that puberty did not deign for it to crack at the current point in time as it’s been known to do ). As he speaks, his glacial gaze is revealed as his eyelids rise and he gives a slight cant of his head to assess her. She is dark as night, he notes though there is yet too much distance between them for him to give note to any definitive features she may bear. “— if that was what you were thinking.” He finishes with a small tug of his lips into a smirk.

It was curious, he thinks, as to why she bothered to stop and call out to him at all when she could have easily kept going. Dragon does not ask it; not yet. Instead is content to lounge in his sphinx-like position and watch her from afar, curious to see if she will continue on the conversation or go about her way.