Half a year had passed since his birth, but despite his young age, he had an old soul. The winter cold had made his fur thicker, giving him a sort of fluffy look with a small beard under his chin. As he moved, he saw his breath as little clouds, turning into droplets hanging from the hairs on his muzzle, before kneeling in front of the shrine with his eyes turned downward. “Mighty Goddess, I seek an audience,” he spoke in a grave voice, much too severe for someone of his young age.
Ahriman hoped to get some sort of magic, so that he could help protect his dam, as she had protected him when he had been an infant. She needed someone to look out for her; the young colt often worried for her, even if she told him not to. Beign the first child of a single parent called for maturity, and even though Daenerys had tried to shelter him, Ahriman was born a worrier; it was in his blood.
[Especially seeking the ability to summon spirits of the dead to haunt others or provide council.]