Drogon

And I suppose that's you, is it? Her question earns a wicked grin that was not wholly genuine, her words slicing him in a way that he hadn't expected. It hadn't been what he had meant when he'd said it, nor would it have been true two weeks ago, but now? Now he might be the only wolf left in Paradise.

"No, not me." He murmurs, voice silky to cover the way the vertigo swept over him. Drogon had once competed to be Rougaru's heir, had gone to the Bay and endured Valka's imprisonment for the chance at raising himself in his father's eyes, and yet now that the opportunity was within his grasp to claim Rougaru's mantle as his own... and he felt cowed by it. Unworthy. Thankfully, Vanya's insistence on teaching him how to control his face kept this unease from showing and her offered a sly smirk, even more eager to grasp at the chance of a distraction. "Although, I suppose that is answer enough to my question."

The weight of his gaze makes her bristle and the memory of one of a she-cat's young kits rises to mind. It had barely been old enough to leave whichever den she'd chosen for it, its paws too large for its tiny body. He remembered watching it play with its siblings with clumsy leaps and bounds, only to turn into a caricature of itself the moment it was frightened; seeing the little kitten with it's hair on end, tail crooked and eyes wide with alarm had made him guffaw in laughter (a sound that had nearly cost him his life as the mother took offence to his proximity and mistook him as the possible threat). She lacked the same caroonish pose, but he half expected her to hiss at him for his audacity.

He stifled his laugh this time, but allowed the mirth to soften some of the predatory gleam in his eyes and forced his gaze to return to her pretty face. "Why would I?" He answered back, head tilting inquisitively. "I've seen plenty of mares," Drogon murmured, refusing to rise to her bait. "But mares like you?" His voice lilted suggestively, warm with admiration. "Not so much."

Drogon stretched forward languidly, taking a few telegraphed steps closer so that he could move into a more intimate speaking distance. If he told the truth, he'd love to sidle alongside her and trace the arch of her wither with his teeth, to mark her as his own whether she liked it or not, but he still had a role to play here. A game to manage. "I'm Drogon," he murmured into the reduced space, his gaze focused on her own. "And I'm supposed to be giving you the business," he tilted his head again as he proceeded to list off the metaphorical duties that Tyr had most definitely not assigned him. "What are you doing here, why'd you come, do you mean us any harm, and on and on." That same playful smirk - a sheathed knife, fingers on the clasp - appeared again. "But I have a sneaking suspicion you don't even know why you're here yet, little lamb, do you?"

Can you feel it?