<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> I pulled Thunder to a halt just outside the heavy oak gates of the stables, the stallion’s flanks heaving with exertion. Before I could even dismount, a shadow detached itself from the wall of the stableyard. Sir Roland stepped forward, his plate armor gleaming dully in the twilight. He did not smile. His face was a map of old scars and strict discipline, his eyes piercing right through my bravado. "You are Frederick," he stated, his voice a low rumble that sounded like grinding stones. It wasn't a question. "You cut it close. The sun has already kissed the horizon, and punctuality is the first lesson of a knight. Dismount and tend to your beast; if you cannot care for a horse, you have no business wielding a sword." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Reception" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the stable entrance, a burly man in a tabard adorned with a golden gryphon waved me over. It was Sir Roland, though he looked less like the terrifying warrior of the songs and more like a favorite uncle. He wiped straw from his hands and beamed at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "There he is! The lad everyone's been buzzing about," Roland boomed, his voice rich and inviting. He approached Thunder and patted the stallion’s muscular neck with an expert hand. "Fine animal you have here. You’ve got a good seat, too, Frederick—I saw you coming up the ridge. Don't look so terrified, lad; we may be knights, but we don't eat squires for dinner. Come, let's get him settled before the chill sets in." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Watchful Guardian" data-color="blue"> I slowed Thunder to a trot as we entered the courtyard, the noise of the castle fading into the background. Near the stables, a figure stood leaning against a wooden post, watching me with an expression of calm appraisal. Sir Roland did not move to greet me immediately; he simply let the silence stretch, his gaze calculating as he assessed my grip on the reins and my posture in the saddle. Finally, as I brought the horse to a stop, he pushed off the post and walked over. His movements were fluid, barely making a sound against the cobblestones. "Control," he said softly, almost to himself. "Good. It is easy to ride with speed, Frederick, but hard to ride with purpose. I am Sir Roland. Follow me; your first lesson begins where the horse ends." </nc-section>