Hushed Willows my bones are headstones, darling

Drogon is vain enough to enjoy attention when it’s given to him; though there are times when he’d much rather be left alone to his own devices. Luckily, this isn’t one of those times. The older girl gives him a half-amused smirk at his explanation and though Drogon had more or less pulled it out of his ass to cover that he was not sleeping but resting his eyes ( because there’s a world of difference ) it sounds like it might be logical and therefore he wants to try it one day though he’s unsure if he’d ever get the chance to see if it works ( or time to prepare for a potential attack, mind ). “The kind that I wouldn’t put it past.” The tundrian offers her vaguely and bluntly, refusing to go into any more detail than that. Maybe he pissed off Blackfeather Woods by leaving them, maybe they’d care enough to come hunt him down. Maybe they wouldn’t. Regardless, the future is vast and unmapped territory and Drogon, as any good warrior, strives to have thought of all the possibilities and how to counter them. “Airi,” He repeats her name back, testing it upon his tongue. “Where’re you from? I don’t recognize your pack scent.” Not that Drogon is overly up to date on pack situations in the Wilds. Typically, he tries to give them a wide berth and mostly that is because he is selfish and clings to the freedoms he’s become accustomed to.