What it was that kept Drogon rooted where he was rather than moving to carry on in his aimless wandering, the immense black wolf could not be sure. Boredom, most likely, but perhaps intrigue as well. Something about this wolf seemed...different. And though Drogon was not the investigative type - that was typically left to his brother Viserion - something about this stranger seemed to draw him in. Perhaps it was a life led always in the light, a family known for their honorable nature and regal demeanor, while all his life he had known there was a darkness within him that he'd never acknowledged. Subconsciously something about this male tugged at that part of him that he'd always kept locked away. The part of him handed down through the blood of his father.

For now, however, Drogon did not understand that part of himself, or how this male might affect him. He was simply drawn in by the difference of this male from the rest. A change from the usual. Brows furrowed at the cryptic response given to his rather simple question, and yet laid into it was something he understood. After all, who was he, other than the son of a queen? A man damned by the blood of his father. A man cursed to walk the world alone, perhaps to pay for the sins his sire had made against his mother. Born into the light, but containing a darkness to match his pelt.

Stepping down to even ground with the scarred male, the movement of his fur catching the light and causing the crimson streaked across his ribs to glean. At the moment, who he was seemed unclear. Was he still the strapping son of Daenerys, born to the mountains and forever to belong to them? Or had his home become a prison. Always having had been a man of few words, he answered much more simply than the other had. "Drogon," his deep bass tones rumbled, giving only his name....for now.