Though he was a wolf of routine, Viserion was also a wolf of great intrigue. Thus, while he woke at nearly the same hour each morning in the hazy predawn light, he rarely took the same avenue of departure from the den he shared with his brothers two days in a row. At six years of age perhaps still sharing a den with one's brothers was not the most mature of things, but the trio had been a cohesive unit since birth, their sister Kalseru often a welcome addition to their adventures. But the adventures had grown few and further between, Rhaegal partaking in more with Bastille while Drogon sought solitude in the more dangerous reaches of the mountain's peaks. The brothers were growing up, to be certain, but though they had their own purposes in life they still shared a deep and unyielding bond. In any case, both Rhaegal and Drogon slept on - as was typical when all three did return to the den to sleep for the night - when Viserion extricated himself from the den. The smallest and most lightly built of them, it was easy for him to maneuver around their slumbering forms without stepping on a paw or ear.
That morning he chose a the southern trail to follow, deciding to make a foray into the foothills as the sun crept closer to breeching the eastern horizon. At first the light was dull, but with each step down the mountainside it became more evident, turning the dark blue of night to a soft purple and then transitioning to pink before the brilliance of oranges and yellows heralded the true arrival of morning. Viserion took pause upon a rocky ledge and basked in the first rays of sunshine, golden eyes closed for a moment against the brightness before he opened them once more and looked out across the foothills in a way so similar to how his mother might survey her kingdom. He wondered what lesson the world might have for him to learn today, many wheels of thoughts and ideas constantly spinning in the back of his mind. Ways to recruit fresh blood to the mountain, ideas about how to encourage his generation and those younger than him to step up and take charge of their lives - there were ranks that needed filling but no wolves with the ambition to fill them. Which seemed so wrong, so backwards for a pack with such a storied history as Spirane. He was proud of his best friend, Arthfael, for attaining the rank of Mercenary, and it was a great thing to hear of Baird's success in taking up his uncle Sleekwing's mantle upon his retirement. But what about the others? Faces flashed through his mind - Visenya, Samus, Magnus, Sila, Tychon, and all the others - paired quickly with ranks he believed they were more than capable of filling - Warden, Palfrey, Vanguard, Greenseer, Justiciar. How to help them see their potential, though?
The bleat of mountain goats interrupted his thoughts, and though the ideas continued to piece themselves together in the recesses of his mind, the forefront of his attention was taken by the prey animals. What were they doing so low in the mountain range this time of year? It was strange, and he set off at once to investigate. The last thing he expected to find when he crested a hill that overlooked the small herd was a foreign wolf with her head buried in the abdomen of a juvenile goat. But he had no time to wonder who this wolf was - though the billy had at first been quick to usher his harem back up the slopes to safer ground, he apparently wanted some kind of revenge. Now he was charging back down the slope, preparing to lower his head and deal a severe blow with those long black horns.
Viserion had always been a wolf of thought and intelligence, leaving action to his brothers, but in this moment there was no question of what to do. The shewolf was young, and seemingly oblivious to the danger she'd put herself in. She was an easy target for the vengeful goat, but Viserion would not stand by and allow her to be hurt. Trespassing or not, she was within the realm of Spirane, and the mountain wolves protected their own. He was a pale golden streak as he rushed across the distance to intercept the goat's charge, white lips peeling back in a completely uncharacteristic snarl as he stationed himself between goat and shewolf.
His appearance disoriented the goat enough to make him miss a beat in his charge. And once his momentum was lost he could only swing his horned head back and forth and paw at the ground. A loud warning bark was issued from Viserion, and that was that - the goat turned and loped back towards his herd, two wolves more than he had bargained for. Rolling his shoulders and immediately shedding his aggressive stance, the white fringed golden male turned to face the tricolored shewolf, curious if she had stuck around or high tailed it in much the same fashion as the goat.