Hushed Willows my bones are headstones, darling

Drogon’s lips curl cryptically, wryly twisting as she smirks and exclaims that he’s too young to get into that much trouble in a lowered, husky tone. Sultry, even. While sexual desire may be too foreign of a concept for the tundrian to yet grasp he’s cannot help the suspicion that he’s being flirted with. “Evidently I’m not.” He offers as rejoinder with a lofty roll of his shoulders. It is truth. Drogon is a juvenile delinquent and thus has quite the penchant for trouble. For being trouble, for being in trouble. For causing trouble. A ear twitches as she answers him: offering him the name of her pack and explains that it’s a pack of kids. As Drogon’s experiences with other children are less than ideal ( his superiority complex and dominant drive probably have something to do with that ) and honestly the idea of living with more children like Neo and Vaati make his lip curl with distaste. No, he didn’t think he could harbor the same restraint this time. He knows that he wouldn’t. “How does your alpha keep a more experienced, stronger wolf from overthrowing them?” Because in Drogon’s world this makes most sense. He understands body language, he understands dominance and he knows that he who is the strongest is the one who will steal the throne; but also gives away that he has no idea how pack politics work in the process — that not every pack is dominated by well…dominance and one’s physical ability to stay at the top.

Drogon may be intelligent but he's always been more physical: he responds to it better because it's a language that cannot lie, that is not hollow; and thus he prefers it.