<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> I slowed Thunder to a trot as we approached the stable block, the smell of sweet hay and polished leather replacing the scent of open fields. Before my boots even touched the cobblestones, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the archway. It was Sir Roland. He wore half-plate, battered and dull from years of use, and his face was a roadmap of scars. "So, the whelp finally arrives," Roland rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He stepped forward, grabbing Thunder’s bridle with a gauntleted hand. He looked the stallion over with a critical eye before locking his gaze on me. "You ride well enough for a country boy, but riding isn't fighting. Get him stabled. Your real work begins before the sun is fully down." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the warmth of the stable lamps, a man leaned casually against the wooden fence, whittling a piece of cedar. Sir Roland looked less like the legends described and more like a weary uncle, though the broadsword strapped to his hip was no ornament. He looked up as I dismounted, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. "Good form on the approach, lad," Roland said, snapping his knife shut and tucking it away. He dusted off his tunic and offered me a rough, calloused hand. "Your father wrote ahead. Said you had a heavy foot but a steady heart. We can work with that. Hand the beast to the grooms; I’ve got a warm stew waiting and stories to tell you about what it really means to wear the crest." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The courtyard was a chaotic swirl of activity, grooms shouting and metal clashing, but one voice cut through the din. Sir Roland stood in the center of the stable yard, barking orders at a group of terrifyingly efficient squires. As I pulled Thunder up, Roland spun on his heel, his eyes sharp and calculating. He didn't smile; he merely nodded, assessing me as one would assess a new weapon to be added to the armory. "Frederick," he stated, not asking. He gestured sharply to an open stall. "Tie him up there. Quickly. We are short on time and shorter on patience. The High Council has moved the schedule up, and you are already behind. Leave your bags; bring your sword. Let’s see if you know how to hold it." </nc-section>