Drogon's had the vague wish of being somewhere else before, but usually he'd just shift and go. On his own wings. Not...whatever magic had brought him (and the others) here and trapped him. He'll adjust...grudgingly.

Finding himself almost run into another - a female-not-his-mother - staring so intently at him would have his hackles raise. Instead, he takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders, head lifting - making all the impression of unfurling magnificent wings...if only he weren't trapped in the much smaller form.

He's still learning what weather suits clothes best, but the heavy cloak feels odd to him - is it really so cold for others? He studies her, listening to accent and finding it a challenge to place. She doesn't smell quite as human as others, but it could just be his limited scenting.

"How can you tell, when others miss it?"