<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a broad-shouldered figure stepped out from the shadow of the gatehouse. He wore a weathered surcoat bearing the silver stag of House Aldric, and his hand rested casually on the pommel of a well-used sword. "You must be Frederick," the knight said, his voice deep and resonant like a war drum. He looked me over with sharp, calculating eyes — the kind of eyes that had seen a hundred battles and remembered every one. "I am Sir Roland. Your father wrote to me about you." I bowed hastily, nearly tripping over my own travel bag. "Yes, my lord. I've come to serve and to learn." Sir Roland's expression didn't soften, but something flickered behind his gaze — perhaps amusement, perhaps approval. He reached out and steadied Thunder's reins as the stallion snorted and stamped at the unfamiliar cobblestones. "The horse has more composure than you do, boy," he said flatly. "We'll have to fix that. Come — the stable master will see to your mount. You and I have much to discuss before nightfall." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and leather, a comforting scent that reminded me of home. I was loosening Thunder's saddle straps when a voice rang out behind me, warm and unexpectedly jovial. "Well, well! They're sending them younger every year!" I turned to find a knight leaning against the stable door, arms folded across his barrel chest, a wide grin splitting his bearded face. A jagged scar traced a line from his left temple to his jaw, yet it did nothing to diminish the mirth in his dark eyes. "Sir Roland?" I ventured, remembering the name from my father's letters. "The very same!" He strode forward and clasped my hand in a grip that could have bent iron. "And you're young Frederick. I can see your father in you — same stubborn jaw, same look of absolute terror." He laughed heartily at his own joke. "Don't worry, lad. Everyone's terrified on their first day. The ones who say they aren't are liars, and liars make poor knights." He clapped me on the shoulder so hard I stumbled forward a step, then gestured toward the castle's inner keep. "Let's get some food in you. Training begins at dawn, and you'll want a full belly before I start making your life miserable." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="blue"> I had barely led Thunder into the stable yard when I heard the slow, deliberate sound of armored boots on stone. A tall knight emerged from the far end of the stables, carrying a lantern in one hand. The dying light of the sunset caught the edge of his face — angular, stern, marked by time and duty. His silver-streaked hair was pulled back tightly, and he regarded me the way a hawk regards a mouse on an open field. "Frederick of Ashenmoor," he said. It was not a question. "Yes, sir." I straightened my back, trying to look taller than my sixteen years allowed. "I am Sir Roland, Knight Commander of the Eastern Watch." He hung the lantern on a hook beside the stable door and stepped closer, his grey eyes studying every detail — my mud-spattered boots, my travel-worn cloak, the nervous way my fingers fidgeted at my sides. "You've arrived later than expected. The road from Ashenmoor is not a forgiving one." "There was a storm in the valley, sir. The river crossing at Briar's Ford was flooded. I had to take the mountain path." For the first time, something shifted in Sir Roland's expression — a subtle nod, barely perceptible. "The mountain path," he repeated quietly. "That road has claimed riders twice your age. Perhaps there is something to you after all, Frederick of Ashenmoor." He turned on his heel and began walking toward the keep. "Follow me. And keep up — I do not slow my pace for anyone." </nc-section>