The three of them returned to the stable together.
Thunder was led back into her pen first. She shook her mane once, snorted softly, and immediately buried her muzzle into the hay as if the morning's chaos had never involved her. Dym lingered a moment longer than necessary, running a hand along her neck, murmuring something low. Thunder flicked an ear back at him, then bumped his shoulder lightly, almost reproachfully.
Ser Don had already crossed to his own steed.
"Ahh, Sancho," he greeted warmly, arms spreading wide. "There you are, my girl."
He patted her ferociously, both hands ruffling her mane and neck. "Who's a good girl? Who's a good girl, hm? You are. Yes you are."
Sancho snorted playfully, stamping a hoof and pushing her head into his chest hard enough to make the old knight grunt with laughter.
Only after both horses were settled did Ser Don begin unstrapping and storing their training equipment. Dym followed suit more slowly, muscles still screaming their protests. When they were done, Ser Don pointed with his chin toward a nearby wooden box and a low mound of hay.
"Take a seat," he said. "Both of you."
His eyes flicked to Dym. "You too, big man. This concerns you as well, in the future."
The stable boy hopped onto the box without hesitation. Dym eyed the hay with open distaste, hesitated, then sighed and sat anyway. It poked at him in all the wrong places, but he let it go.
Ser Don rubbed his face with one hand, fingers dragging down his beard as if the new information physically weighed on him.
"Right," he muttered. "Training. Nearly dying on a lance. Minor details."
The stable boy bit his lip, trying—and failing—not to grin.
Ser Don exhaled slowly, then waved a hand. "Now, we talk about your possible Squirehood. Go on, lad. Your side of it. From the start."
The boy straightened at once, golden eyes bright in the dim lantern light of the stable. He cleared his throat.
"Well… Ser Don Quixote, Ser Dymitr—you're going to Rudnicka Vale, yes?"
Ser Don raised a brow. "Yes. How did you know?"
The boy glanced briefly at Dym, then shrugged. "Everyone knows. Folks talk. Carters, merchants, innkeepers—news spreads faster than horseflies this season."
He shifted on the box, gaining confidence. "There would be a big tourney. Real big. Grandest ever! Kings sending champions, Houses sending banners. Famous knights… even companies of mercenaries looking to make a name."
"Wait, wait, wait." Ser Don cut in sharply. "Kings? Knights? Famous ones?"
The boy nodded slowly. "Y....yes? What? You don't know?"
Ser Don stared at him, then shook his head, flabbergasted.
"No! What—I thought it was just a small tourney. Well, not small, but Great Lord–sized. Not an international one."
He turned to Dym. "You knew this?"
Dym stiffened on the hay. "W-well… the boy told me there'd be royalty. And many knights."
Ser Don winced. "And you didn't tell me because…?"
"We were training," Dym said defensively. "Remember?"
A pause settled over the stable.
Only the sounds of horses snorting and hooves scraping against wood filled the space.
Ser Don blinked.
"…Oh. Right."
He sighed. "I forgot."
The boy continued before the moment could stretch any longer. "And I thought—if Ser Don's going, and Ser Dym with him—then maybe…" His fingers curled against his trousers. "Maybe it's my chance."
Dym shifted slightly on the hay, resisting the urge to groan. So much for a quiet proving ground.
"I've worked stables since I could lift a bucket," the boy said. "I know horses. Tack. Armor care. I've watched jousts since I was small. I know I ain't noble-born, but—"
"That's never stopped a good squire," Ser Don cut in quietly.
The boy's ears flicked, encouraged.
"I don't want to stay here forever," he said. "I don't want to just hear stories. I want to be part of them. Even if it's just holding a shield, cleaning mail, running errands. I'll work. Gods, I'll work myself to the bone if that's what it takes."
Silence followed—thick, but not uncomfortable.
Sancho snorted nearby and bumped Ser Don's shoulder with her muzzle. He chuckled absently, scratching her between the ears before turning back, expression sobering.
"You've got ambition," he said. "And sense enough not to dress it up as heroics. That's good."
He leaned back against a post, crossing his arms. "But squirehood isn't just polishing steel and saddling horses. It's long roads, bad food, worse weather. It's watching men you respect bleed—and sometimes die."
His gaze flicked briefly to Dym. "And more often than not, it's learning lessons in the most ridiculous ways imaginable."
Dym snorted despite himself.
Ser Don looked to him. "And you, Dym. This does concern you."
Dym frowned. "Me?"
"Aye," Ser Don said. "If you're set on walking the path of knighthood—and you are, whether you admit it or not—then one day you'll have to decide what kind of knight you'll be."
"And what kind of squire you'll teach."
The boy swallowed, suddenly nervous again.
Ser Don tapped a finger against his arm. "So before I say anything more, I'll ask you plainly, lad." His eyes sharpened, the humor fully gone. "If you ride with us, you won't be promised glory. You won't be promised survival. And you won't be promised knighthood at the end of it."
"Knowing that," Ser Don said evenly, "do you still want to be my squire?"
The stable fell quiet once more, horses shifting softly as all eyes turned to the boy.
The boy didn't hesitate. "Yes," he said at once, voice firm enough to echo faintly against the stable walls. His golden eyes burned with resolve. "I want to be your squire, Ser Don. At least until Rudnicka Vale—if you'll have me."
For a moment, Ser Don only looked at him.
Then the old knight smiled—soft, genuine, almost proud.
"…Thank you," he said quietly. "Truly. That would be an honor."
The boy's ears twitched upward.
But the smile didn't last.
Ser Don's gaze dropped, and when he looked back up, there was something tired in his eyes—something old in a way no armor or scar could hide.
"But unfortunately," he said, "I can't."
The words hit like a dropped shield.
The boy stiffened. "What?" His voice sharpened despite himself. "Wh—why?"
"Ser Don—" Dym started at the same time.
A raised hand stopped them both.
Ser Don exhaled, slow and heavy. "If I were younger," he said, "I'd take you in a heartbeat, lad. God knows I would. You've got the right spirit, I like that. And I'd make a great knight out of you—I can guarantee that."
He chuckled once, low and rueful.
"But... I'm old," he said simply. "I'm old."
The stable seemed to quiet around the words.
"I still have my strength," Ser Don went on. "Still have the spirit. Still know the lessons that I could and would impart upon you." He tapped his temple. "But my body doesn't move like it used to. I'm slower. I need longer rests. And a squire…" He shook his head. "A squire deserves someone who can run beside him, not lag behind."
His gaze softened as it returned to the boy. "You'd be better trained by someone young. Someone who'll be there when you need speed, not just wisdom."
The boy swallowed hard.
Ser Don straightened slightly. "Besides," he added, glancing sideways, "why not squire to Dym?"
The boy's ears flattened. "He already rejected me."
Ser Don blinked. "He did?"
His head turned sharply toward Dym. "Really? Why didn't you tell me?"
Dym frowned, confused. "I… did?"
"When?" Ser Don pressed.
"This morning," Dym said carefully. "When we were breaking our fast. Remember?"
Ser Don stared at him.
There was a long pause as he visibly rummaged through his memory.
Then—"Oh!" His face lit up. "Right. Right, that."
He let out a short laugh and looked back to the boy, shrugging helplessly. "Well. Example one of why I can't take you, lad."
"Memory loss," he added dryly. "Is a terrible flaw in a knight."
Despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Sorry."
The boy's shoulders slumped.
He looked down at his boots, jaw trembling, eyes glassy—just on the edge of breaking.
Ser Don saw it.
Before the silence could grow heavier, he turned to Dym.
"Why did you reject him anyway?"
Dym stiffened. His mouth opened, then closed. He felt the answer sitting in his throat—small, ugly, and petty.
"I—" he started.
Ser Don's voice cut in, sharp and sudden.
"Don't tell me," he said flatly, "it's because the boy slighted you."
The words landed true.
Dym froze.
He couldn't answer.
And in that silence, he heard it—a faint snicker. From the boy's.
Dym's cheeks burned.
Ser Don closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. "Of course you did."
He shook his head once, disappointed—not angry, but something worse.
Then he knelt, bringing himself down to the boy's level.
"Lad," Ser Don said gently, "wait outside for a bit. I'm about to speak some sense into our tall knight here."
Dym swallowed hard as he caught the edge beneath the old knight's calm tone. Sweat prickled at his neck.
The boy wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yes, my—"
Ser Don raised a finger. "None of that 'lord' business."
The boy blinked.
"I'm no lord," Ser Don said. "Just a simple knight, trying to find his way through this cursed world same as anyone else."
He patted the boy's head, firm but kind.
The boy's tail swayed despite himself.
"Yes, Ser Don," he said, voice steadier now.
He turned, walked out of the stable, and quietly pulled the door shut behind him—leaving the old knight and his tall companion alone among the horses and hanging tack.
The air felt heavier the moment the door closed.
Ser Don rose slowly.
Then he turned to Dym.
==========
Ser Don took a few slow steps, then lowered himself onto an overturned crate near Dym. The wood creaked under his weight, but he settled comfortably, forearms resting on his knees.
"So," he said at last, voice mild, almost amused, "he slighted you, eh?"
He snickered once, short and dry.
Dym winced.
"I— it wasn't like that," he started, too quickly. "Well, it was, but— Ser Don, you didn't hear the way he spoke to me. Like I was nothing. Like I was some… overgrown oaf pretending to be something I'm not." His hands clenched. "I've had enough of that. Enough of being laughed at. Enough of being—"
He stopped, breath hitching.
"I know it was wrong," he added hurriedly. "I shouldn't have let it get to me. I shouldn't have taken it out on him. I was tired, sore, embarrassed—gods, after the—" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Truly. I wasn't thinking."
Ser Don didn't interrupt. He simply listened, head tilted slightly, eyes steady.
When Dym finally ran out of words, the stable fell quiet again, filled only with the soft snorts of horses and the rustle of hay.
Then Ser Don spoke.
"Do you know why I took you in, Dym?"
Dym stiffened, then lowered his gaze.
"…Because I was at my lowest," he said quietly. "When you found me. And you judged that I needed help. So you made the decision to help me."
Ser Don nodded.
"Aye. And know this—I never regretted it."
Dym's head snapped up. "Wh—what? But—!"
Ser Don raised a hand, stopping him.
"Even knowing this," he continued calmly. "Even knowing you'd make a decision like that."
Dym frowned, confused.
"You did apply the basics of what I'm teaching you," Ser Don went on. "You judged someone. That part is good. Necessary, even."
He leaned forward slightly.
"But," he said, voice firm now, "you judged too harshly. Not because the lad was dangerous. Not because he was unfit. But because he wounded your pride."
Dym swallowed and nodded slowly.
Ser Don sighed. "Which brings us back to our next lesson: Humility."
He gestured vaguely between them. "Humility isn't about bowing your head and letting folk walk over you. It's about knowing the difference between an insult and a threat. Between a slight and a sin."
He tapped a finger against his chest. "You will be slighted, Dym. Daily, if you live long enough like me. By servants, knights, lords, and kings alike. Some will do it out of ignorance. Some out of envy. Some just to see if you'll bite."
His gaze sharpened. "If you judge every man who wounds your pride as unworthy, you'll end up very alone. And very blind."
Ser Don leaned back, voice softer now. "The harder lesson is this: when someone wrongs you, you must still judge them, not just the wound they gave you. Ask yourself—are they cruel, or careless? Malicious, or merely foolish? Do they deserve correction… or a second chance?"
He looked at Dym steadily.
"Humility is giving yourself enough distance from your own anger to answer that honestly."
The words hung in the air, heavy but not cruel.
Ser Don exhaled. "You weren't wrong to feel offended. You were wrong to let that feeling decide for you."
Dym nodded, shaky and small for a man of his size.
"…Sorry, Ser Don."
Ser Don huffed softly and reached out, patting him between the shoulders with a firm, grounding thump.
"It's alright, big man. We all make mistakes," he said easily. "But it takes a real man to stand up and admit to them."
Dym breathed out and nodded again, slower this time.
"But… I don't know if I can be a good mentor to him," he admitted. "And I don't know if he can be a good squire to me."
Ser Don didn't answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Dym as if measuring him.
"Tell me this, then," he said. "Were you a good squire to Ser Arlan?"
The question landed heavier than expected.
Dym opened his mouth—then closed it.
Memories surfaced unbidden: spilled oil on mail, forgotten straps, hesitation at the wrong moment, silence when he should have spoken, action when he should have waited.
"…No," he said at last, sheepish. "Not really."
Ser Don nodded once, accepting it without judgment.
"And was Ser Arlan a good knight to you?"
"Yes!" Dym blurted out instantly.
Ser Don raised a finger. "Be truthful. No man is perfect. Not even a great knight."
Dym froze.
For a heartbeat, his instinct screamed to defend Arlan's name—to shield his mentor's memory from any hint of flaw. But the truth pressed in, undeniable.
He swallowed.
"…He was," Dym said slowly, "kindly. Pragmatic. Old. Stern." His voice softened. "A true hedge knight. We lived hard—poor, nomadic. Never stayed anywhere long."
He looked down at his hands. "I loved him. I respected him deeply."
Ser Don remained silent, letting him continue.
"But he rarely spoke," Dym went on. "He taught by letting me fail. Letting me learn the hard way. He didn't explain much—just… expected me to figure it out."
A pause.
"And I saw him being cheated on," Dym added quietly. "More times than I can count. On pay. On shelter. On promises." His jaw tightened. "And he just… stayed quiet. Never complained. Never even told me why. Not before. Not after."
Dym's shoulders sagged.
"I thought that was strength," he murmured. "I thought that was honor."
Ser Don sighed, long and heavy, but not unkind.
"Sometimes it is," he said. "And sometimes it's just a man carrying too much alone."
He looked at Dym steadily. "Arlan was a good knight. I may not know him persoally, but I know men like him. Men whose conscience would not want them to let others be burdened by such things. But he failed you in some ways too. Both can be true."
Dym absorbed that in silence.
Ser Don leaned forward slightly. "You don't need to be perfect to be a mentor. God knows none of us are, even I am not a good mentor for you—even you pointed that out this morning. What you need is honesty—about your limits, your mistakes, and your intent."
He gestured toward the stable door, where the boy waited outside. "That lad doesn't need a flawless knight. He needs someone who remembers what it's like to stumble, and teach him to rise again."
A faint smile tugged at Ser Don's mouth. "And judging by the state I found you in when we met… you've got plenty of experience with that."
Dym huffed weakly, somewhere between a laugh and a breath.
Ser Don clapped his knee and stood. "Now then. Let's see whether you can take what you've learned—and choose better this time." He straightened and drew in a breath.
"Lad! Come in now!"
His booming voice echoed through the stable, rattling the beams. Dym winced and cupped one ear as he stood, hissing under his breath.
Ser Don noticed and snickered. "Ah-ha. Sorry."
The stable door creaked open.
The bald stable boy stepped inside, dirty-blond ears perking up atop his head, thin tail flicking behind him as his golden eyes darted between the two knights.
"Yes, Ser Don?" he asked eagerly. "How did it go?! Did you manage to speak sense into his thick skull?!"
Dym rolled his eyes.
Ser Don burst out laughing.
"Well," the old knight said, leaning back against a nearby wooden beam, folding his arms comfortably, "Ser Dymitr the Tall here has something to say to you."
He gestured with an open palm toward Dym."Go on. The floor's yours, Ser Dymitr."
Dym swallowed, nodded once, and cleared his throat.
"Well…"He shifted his weight, ears twitching. "I— I rejected your request because you slighted me. And because I let my pride get in the way." He exhaled. "That was petty. And wrong."
The boy went quiet, fidgeting with his hands.
"I shouldn't have judged you so harshly," Dym continued. "Especially when you were only asking for a chance. I'm… sorry."
A pause.
Then the boy rubbed the back of his neck. "…I was rude too. I shouldn't have mouthed off. I'm sorry, Ser—Dym."
Dym glanced to Ser Don.
The old knight gave a slow, approving nod.
Dym drew in a breath. "After talking with Ser Don Quixote… if you're still willing—" he hesitated, then finished firmly, "—I'll take you as my squire."
For a heartbeat, the boy simply stared.
Then—
He lit up.
Not figuratively. Not just emotionally. The boy all but shone, tail flicking wildly, ears standing straight as if struck by sunlight itself.
Dym blinked and immediately looked away. "…Huh."
From behind him, Ser Don murmured quietly, almost to himself:
"Interesting…"
Dym turned. "Ser Don—?"
"Oooff—!" The tall knight staggered back a half step under the sudden impact, the breath knocked clean out of him. The boy had wrapped both arms around his middle with surprising strength for someone so lean, tail flicking wildly behind him as if it might lift him off the ground.
"Thank you! Thank you, Ser—no—Dym!" he blurted, voice muffled against Dym's chest. "I swear it, I'll be a good squire. I won't shame you, or your name, or your horse, or—"
"Alright, alright—" Dym wheezed, patting the boy awkwardly on the back. "I believe you. Gods above—let go before you crack a rib."
The boy released him at once, stepping back with a sheepish grin, ears drooping in embarrassment now that the rush had passed. "S-sorry."
Dym sucked in a breath and straightened, rubbing his side. "…You're strong for a stable lad."
"Ha! Comes with the work," the boy said proudly, then seemed to remember himself and snapped into something resembling posture. "I mean—yes. Thank you. Truly."
From his place against the beam, Ser Don watched the exchange with open amusement, one brow raised. "Well," the old knight said, clapping his hands together once. "That settles that."
He pushed off the beam and stepped closer, his expression turning more serious—but not stern.
"Now, listen carefully, both of you," Ser Don said. "This isn't a ceremony. No vows sworn before any Lateran Saints or Gods, no banners raised from any great houses." He glanced pointedly at the boy. "You're a squire, not a knight. You'll learn to clean his armor, tend to his horses, carry messages, and learn when to keep your mouth shut."
The boy nodded rapidly. "Yes, Ser Don."
Ser Don turned to Dym. "And you—" he jabbed a finger lightly into Dym's chest "—you're not his master in the way lords would fancy themselves as. You're to be his example. Every mistake you make, he'll learn twice as fast. Every kindness you show, he'll remember longer than you expect. Remember your experiences with Ser Arlan, and learn to not make the same mistakes he did."
Dym swallowed and nodded. "…I understand, Ser Don."
"Good." Ser Don's mouth twitched. "Because if either of you forgets that—" he spread his hands "—you'll answer to me."
The boy straightened further at that, eyes wide. "Y-yes, Ser Don!"
Dym couldn't help a faint smile.
Ser Don chuckled and shook his head. "Heavens help me. One tall fool, one eager fool, and one old fool. Your old mentor would've had a field day with this."
At the mention of the name, Dym's smile softened.
Ser Don clapped Dym once more on the shoulder. "You did well today. Not on the lance—gods no—but where it counts."
Then he looked to the boy again. "And by the way, lad. What's your name? I don't take kindly to shouting 'boy' all across the countryside."
The boy blinked, then grinned. "It's—"
He hesitated, glancing between the two knights, ears flicking nervously.
"…It's your business now, isn't it?"
The two knights nodded in agreement.
"Well," Dym said, glancing down at the boy, "I agree with the old man. I can't keep calling you boy every time I need you. I might end up drawing the attention of some other confused children instead of my squire."
Ser Don chuckled, the sound deep and warm. The stable boy laughed too, tail swishing behind him.
Dym shifted, then straightened. "Our introductions may have been a poor start," he said, more gently now, "but I believe it isn't too late for a better reintroduction."
He extended his hand.
"As you know, I'm Ser Dymitr… the Tall, as you and everyone else seem determined to call me." A faint huff escaped him. "From this day onward, I'll be your mentor. Or—if you wish—until we reach Rudnicka Vale."
He paused, then asked, "And yours?"
The boy chuckled, stepped forward, and clasped Dym's hand firmly, shaking it with bright enthusiasm.
"Soap," he said. "You can call me Soap."
++++++++++
A/N:
When I watched the first episode of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, I kinda expected to hear the Game of Thrones' theme at some point, but I did not expect for it to cut to a scene of Dunk shitting, lol.