<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> I pulled Thunder to a halt just inside the gate, the stallion's flanks heaving and steam pluming from his nostrils. Before I could even dismount, a figure detached himself from the deep shadows of the stables. He was a mountain of a man, clad in dented steel plate, his face a roadmap of old scars. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. "You're late, boy," he growled, his voice a low rumble of shifting stone. He strode forward, his boots crunching on the gravel, and stopped before my horse. "I am Sir Roland. Your master." He didn't offer a hand to help me down. Instead, he tapped my worn leather satchel with a gauntleted finger. "Let's see what you're made of. Stable your beast. Report to the training yard. Don't keep me waiting." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder towards the familiar scent of hay and manure, a man emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He was older, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners. Though he wore the simple tunic of a knight-at-arms, the hilt of a fine sword peeked over his shoulder. "Ah, you must be Frederick," he said, his voice as warm as a hearth fire. "I am Sir Roland. We've been expecting you." He smiled, a genuine and disarming expression. "That's a fine animal you have there. A long ride from the southern fiefs, I'll wager. Let young Thomas here see to him." He gestured to a stable boy, then turned his full attention to me, offering a calloused but steady hand. "Come. You must be exhausted. We've saved you a bowl of stew and a place by the fire. Training can wait until your belly is full." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Somber Welcome" data-color="blue"> The gates groaned shut behind me, the sound echoing in the growing twilight. I rode towards the stables, where a lone knight stood watching my approach. He was tall and lean, his dark hair streaked with silver at the temples. He didn't move or speak as I dismounted, his gaze distant, as if he were looking not at me, but through me, at some trouble on the horizon. Finally, as I was gathering Thunder's reins, he spoke. "Squire Frederick." It was not a question, but a statement, his voice quiet and heavy. "I am Sir Roland." He gave a slight, formal nod. "The stable hands will care for your horse. Your quarters are in the western tower. We begin at first light." He paused, his eyes finally meeting mine, and in their depths, I saw not anger or warmth, but a profound and chilling weariness. "There is much to be done. And very little time." </nc-section>