Moonspear you have ichor running through your veins

Drogon is so preoccupied with watching the snow that he misses the sound of approaching footfalls ( a deadly mistake for a warrior but he brushes it under the rug because he’s within the safety of Moonspear’s borders and does not think anyone would ambush him ) and is startled when her voice breaks the silence that has engulfed the world around him. He glimpses at her and for a moment his heart rises to his throat and his breath catches there as he mistook her for Hydra. It is but a first quick glimpse and he realizes his mistake with a low chuckle to himself ( trying to play it off cool, as always ) and lowers himself into a submissive posture before the mother of the Cerberus, recognizing her now. An easy mistake to make, he tells himself. The Cerberus are lovely like their mother and bear her dark pelage to boot.

Drogon offers a steady wag of his tail, dispelling the freshly lain snow that dusts the ground, stirring up a small whirlwind before he rises slowly, sure to keep his posture befitting that of his rank: submissive and unassuming. “Really?” He inquires with a contemplative hum as he peers skyward once more to watch it cascade lazily down. His ears slick back to rest at half mast atop his skull for a few heartbeats before they perk, his head turning in her direction as she asks him what he thinks of it though he is a bit unsure whether she means the snow or Moonspear as a whole ( or even both, perhaps ). “I like it.” The tundrian responds truthfully and vaguely enough to cover all potential bases, he hopes.