"I AM NOT READY—!"
The Tall Knight's shout tore across the field as Thunder surged forward beneath him.
The white horse moved with effortless grace. Yet, its giant of a rider did not.
He clutched the blunted lance like it had personally offended him, the shaft wobbling wildly as Thunder's stride knocked all sense of balance clean out of his body. The tip dipped, rose, dipped again—then sailed clean past the first straw target by a full arm's length.
"Dym! That's too high!" Ser Don called cheerfully from a safe distance. "Relax your shoulders!"
"Lower your grip!" the stable boy added, hand shading his eyes. "You're fighting the lance, not guiding it!"
Dymitr opened his mouth to respond—only for Thunder to jolt slightly as she passed the second target. The lance scraped uselessly along empty air, missing the hanging shield entirely.
Laughter erupted from the sidelines.
A handful of villagers had gathered near the inn, mugs in hand, enjoying the unexpected morning entertainment. A few patrons leaned out of the windows, cheering as if this were a festival event rather than a knightly exercise.
"Five coppers says he misses the next one too!" someone shouted.
"I've got silver on him dropping the lance!" another laughed.
Dymitr heard it all.
"Gods damn you all!" he roared, face burning as he struggled to steady himself. Thunder, utterly unimpressed by his suffering, kept her pace smooth and steady, ears flicking back only once in mild annoyance.
"Good! Good!" Ser Don called, clapping his hands. "You're staying in the saddle! That's progress!"
"This is progress?!" Dymitr barked as the third target rushed toward him.
He lined it up—at least, he thought he did.
The lance struck… the rope holding the straw bundle instead.
The target swung wildly, spinning in place as Dymitr thundered past it, nearly yanked sideways by the sudden resistance.
More laughter. Louder this time.
The stable boy whooped. "You almost had it, my lord!"
"Almost doesn't win tourneys!" Ser Don laughed. "Again! Circle back, relax your posture a bit!"
Dymitr groaned, hauling the lance upright as Thunder turned obediently, her hooves crunching against the grass. His arms were already shaking, his shoulders screaming in protest.
As he rode back to the starting point, he caught sight of two men near the inn door exchanging coins.
They were absolutely taking bets.
"I hate jousting," Dymitr muttered darkly.
Thunder snorted, as if agreeing—or perhaps laughing at him.
On the next turn, Thunder charged.
Not fast—mercifully not fast—but fast enough that the world narrowed to the rhythm of hooves and the whistle of air in Dymitr's ears. His breathing came in harsh, uneven pulls now, chest heaving as sweat soaked through his shirt and armor padding. His arms felt like lead. His hands burned where they clenched the lance.
"Steady—!" Ser Don called.
Dymitr tried to adjust.
Tried.
His grip slipped a fraction.
The lance dipped.
Straight down.
The tip struck earth with a violent thunk.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the momentum caught.
The shaft bit deep into the ground like a spear thrown by the gods themselves, and Dymitr's tall body was wrenched upward as Thunder surged past. The force vaulted him clean out of the saddle, his legs kicking uselessly as the lance became a lever and he became its very unfortunate weight.
"Ooooooh—!" the crowd gasped as one.
Dymitr found himself hanging.
Suspended several feet in the air.
Balanced—somehow—on a lance that was now embedded deep in the ground, swaying under his weight like a very angry, very unstable pole.
Thunder continued on without him, reins flapping as she trotted ahead, utterly unconcerned.
"Oh no," Dymitr wheezed, arms locked tight around the shaft. "Oh no no no—"
The lance wobbled.
The crowd inhaled sharply.
"Ooooooh—!"
"STOP BETTING ON ME AND HELP, YOU KURWA WY—!" Dymitr roared.
The sudden movement made the pole sway again.
He froze, hugging it tighter.
Another collective oooooh rippled through the onlookers, rising and falling with every tiny shift of his weight.
From the sidelines, Ser Don was laughing so hard he had to brace a hand on his knee. Beside him, the stable boy squinted up at Dymitr, hands on his hips.
"How?" the boy called up. "You're too big! You'll crush us if you fall on us!"
That only made the laughter explode louder.
"Just—just pull it out!" Dymitr snapped, trying to adjust his grip without dying.
"That's what she said!" Ser Don roared, followed with another bouts of laughter from everyone.
A patron near the inn cupped his hands and shouted, "Stand tall, Ser!"
Dymitr glared down at them, veins bulging in his neck."KURWA! I AM ALREADY TALL! SKURWIELU!"
Ser Don, somehow now holding a mug he absolutely did not have a moment ago, lifted it high with a grin splitting his bearded face.
"Aye! You are!" he boomed. "Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
The crowd erupted.
"Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
"Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
"Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
The stable boy joined in gleefully, cupping his hands. "Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
Still clinging to the swaying lance, heart hammering, face redder than the sunrise, Dymitr could only groan.
This—this was never in the songs.
==========
-Timeskip
Time blurred.
At some point—Dym wasn't sure when—his legs stopped trembling and simply locked. His arms burned into a dull, distant ache, like they no longer belonged to him. The lance swayed beneath his weight, a slow, hypnotic arc, creaking softly where it bit into the earth.
His ears drooped flat against his head, fur ruffled and stiff with sweat. Every so often they twitched at a new sound—laughter, coins clinking, a shout from the crowd—before sagging again in sheer, exhausted defeat. His tail had long since gone rigid, sticking out behind him like a wooden beam, swaying only when the pole itself did.
Three—.
"THREE HOURS!" Ser Don's voice rang out cheerfully.
Cheers followed. Claps. Whistles.
Dymitr whimpered.
His jousting lesson had ceased to be a lesson sometime ago. Now it was a festival.
More people had gathered—villagers, travelers, patrons from the inn, even a few merchants who had apparently decided this was as good a place as any to stop. Someone had set up a small table selling cooked meat and bread. The smell wafted up to him mercilessly, making his stomach twist in hunger. A pair of bards sat off to the side, one plucking a lute while the other sang an improvised tune about a "giant knight skewered by his own courage."
Laughter rolled again.
"Gods save me from these fools…" Dymitr groaned weakly, forehead pressed to the shaft.
"That's the spirit!" Ser Don called. "Just a few more minutes, Dym! We'll get more funds for our journey from these—ah—generous folk!"
That earned grumbles from the betters, followed immediately by laughter.
The stable boy cupped his hands and shouted, "You're doing great, Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
Dymitr's ears snapped upright.
"Oh, I'll kill you," he snarled.
He jerked without thinking.
The lance lurched.
"WOAH— WOOOH—!"
The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
"Oooh-oooh—!"
Dymitr flailed once, panic flashing white-hot through him, then forced himself still. He clenched his jaw, breathing hard through his nose, every muscle screaming as he remembered Ser Don's voice from earlier that morning.
Control yourself. Breathe. Balance.
Slowly—painfully—he steadied.
The lance settled.
The crowd exhaled, then burst into cheers, louder than before.
Dymitr sagged against the shaft, ears drooping again. Fine, he thought bitterly. If this is training… then it's training.
And so he stayed.
Another hour passed.
By then, his mind had gone strangely calm. His body moved in tiny, instinctive adjustments—hips shifting, shoulders angling, tail counterbalancing without thought. The pain faded into the background, replaced by a quiet, stubborn focus.
When Ser Don finally shouted—
"AAAAND— TIME!"
—Dymitr barely reacted at first.
"SER DYMITR THE TALL!" Ser Don boomed, laughing as he clapped his hands together. "FOUR HOURS LONG!"
The crowd erupted.
Cheers. Claps. Coins changing hands amid groans and curses from those who had lost their bets.
Ser Don strode forward, still laughing, scooping up coins with the ease of a man who had planned this all along. The stable boy hopped about beside him, pointing up at Dymitr.
"Ser Dymitr the Tall!" he chanted.
Others joined in.
"Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
"Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
Up on the lance, ears sagging, tail stiff, arms trembling at last as the tension began to drain from him, Dymitr let out a long, exhausted groan.
If this was Ser Don's idea of knighthood—
—he was going to strangle his new mentor before they ever reached Rudnicka Vale.
Ser Don approached at an easy stride, the leather at his belt jingling with every step.
Dymitr stiffly lifted his head—and immediately regretted it. His neck protested, his ears twitched, and his eyes locked onto the unmistakable sight of bulging coin pouches hanging from Ser Don's person. Not one. Not two. Several. Fat and heavy, sagging with ill-gotten—no, well-earned, apparently—coin.
Dym's jaw clenched.
"…Are you entertained?" he ground out.
Ser Don's grin was shameless.
"Very."
He stepped closer to the base of the lance and looked up at Dym like a man admiring a particularly successful harvest.
"Now come on," Ser Don said lightly. "Get off there. Try to sway toward where your legs would land first. Preferably not your head."
Dym swallowed.
He tried to shift his weight.
Nothing happened.
At that moment, he heard hooves and glanced sideways to see the stable boy approaching, Thunder in tow. The white mare flicked an ear, entirely unconcerned, as if her rider hadn't just been publicly humiliated for four straight hours.
Right, Dym thought hazily. Almost forgot where she ran off to.
The stable boy grinned up at him. "Need a ladder, Ser Dymitr the Tall?"
Dym ignored him and tried again to move.
His body did not respond.
"…Uh," Dym said slowly. "Ser Don?"
"Yes, Dym?"
"I can't move."
Ser Don laughed. A warm, rolling laugh.
"Of course you can!"
"No, Ser," Dym snapped, panic creeping in now. "I can't."
Ser Don paused, finally looking a bit more closely at Dym's rigid posture. His grin softened into something amused—but attentive.
"…Ah."
He sighed. "Alright. Alright. Hold tight to the lance. I'll move you down."
He turned to the stable boy and unclipped one of the coin pouches, then another, pressing them into the lad's hands.
"Put these on the steed. Take some if you want, lad—payment from me."
The boy blinked, then beamed. "Don't mind if I do."
Ser Don turned back to the lance, planting his boots firmly in the dirt. He placed both hands on the shaft, testing its give.
Dym's ears flattened.
"W–wait, Ser Don!" he blurted. "Get some other people to help!"
Ser Don laughed again, already bracing himself.
"Don't worry, Dym! I've got this."
Then he pulled.
Not a jerk. Not a wrench. But a steady, controlled bend of wood and sinew, his arms tightening, shoulders flexing beneath worn mail and cloth. The lance bowed, groaning softly, and the crowd murmured in impressed surprise.
Dym felt the angle change.
"WOAH—!"
"Easy," Ser Don said calmly. "Trust me."
Slowly—agonizingly—Ser Don lowered the lance, guiding Dym's weight downward inch by inch. Dym clung like his life depended on it, legs trembling as blood rushed back into them in sharp, painful pins and needles.
Then—
Thump.
Dym landed flat on his back in the grass, the air punched clean out of his lungs.
"H–HKH—!"
He lay there, staring at the sky, ears splayed, tail limp, chest heaving as he gasped like a fish thrown onto land.
Ser Don let go of the lance and straightened, rolling his shoulders as if he'd just finished a mild stretch. He inspected the weapon, running a hand along its length, nodding appreciatively.
"You're lucky," Ser Don said.
Dym groaned, voice hoarse. "Lucky? I've been on that thing for hours."
Ser Don glanced down at him, amused.
"Well, at least the lance didn't break under your weight," he said pleasantly, "and gore you with its broken half when you fell."
Dym closed his eyes.
"…I hate you," he muttered.
Ser Don laughed, the crowd laughed, and nearby, the stable boy shouted—
"SER DYMITR THE TALL!"
—to a fresh round of cheers.
Ser Don propped the lance upright, its iron butt kissing the ground before he leaned it casually against his shoulder. He smiled down at Dym and extended an arm.
"So?" the old knight asked. "What did you learn from this experience?"
Dym sneered as he took the offered arm, fingers tightening around the corded muscle beneath the sleeve. "That I should never listen to you."
Ser Don barked a laugh and hauled him up with surprising ease. "A fair lesson—but not the only one." He clapped Dym on the shoulder, still grinning. "In a joust, lad, focus is everything. Your body will fail you long before your will does. Muscles burn, arms go numb, breath turns shallow—but if you let the fatigue rule you, you've already lost."
Dym steadied himself, dusting straw and grime from his clothes. "And how," he asked, genuinely curious now, "would one avoid that?"
Instead of answering at once, Ser Don pressed his ale into Dym's hand. The tall knight accepted it, took a long pull, and winced as the stiffness in his back protested.
Ser Don spoke while watching him drink. "When your jousting arm starts to fail—when you can barely keep the lance level—you hold on just a little longer." He gestured with his hands, mimicking the grip and angle. "You don't fight the weakness head-on. You work around it."
Dym frowned, following the motion. "Work around it… how?"
"When you charge," Ser Don continued, "instead of aiming for your opponent's shield or crest, you lower your point. Aim for the ground, right where his horse will plant its hooves."
The stable boy, who had been lingering nearby with Thunder's reins in hand, grinned and cut in, "Trip it and make it fall."
Dym's eyes widened slightly. "And unhorse the rider as well?"
Ser Don nodded. "Correct. Both of you, if need be."
He rested the lance against his shoulder again, voice taking on a lecturing tone. "Hitting each other cleanly with a lance—shattering it, striking true—that's the spectacle. That's what earns cheers and points. But the heart of a joust?" He tapped the air with a finger. "It's about unseating your opponent. Put him in the dirt, and you've done your job."
The stable boy chuckled. "Nothing looks finer than a knight eating mud."
Ser Don went on, "An unhorsing earns the highest score. And even if you're behind—cracked fewer lances, lost more passes—if your opponent can't continue, if he forfeits? You still win."
Dym turned that over in his mind. The logic made sense—clean, practical—but something about it gnawed at him. After a moment, he asked quietly, "Wouldn't that be… dishonorable?"
The stable boy snorted outright. "Dishonorable? So long as you win, my lord, who cares?"
Ser Don didn't laugh this time. He only smiled faintly, eyes thoughtful. "Honor," he said, "is a fine thing to carry into the lists. But it won't keep you in the saddle. Learn the rules, learn their edges—and then decide for yourself how far you're willing to lean."
Dym looked from the old knight to the stable boy, then down at his own hands, still faintly trembling. He wasn't sure he liked the answer—but he understood it.
Ser Don spoke again as he guided both Dym and the stable boy toward the stables, Thunder's hooves clopping softly behind them.
"Always keep that honor close to your heart, Dym," he said, voice low but firm. "But remember this—honor alone is worth nothing if your enemy doesn't care a bit for it."
He let out a slow sigh, the sound heavy with old weariness. "That, sadly, explains the state of knights in this Land of Knights. Good knights… no. Good men, like you," he corrected himself, glancing at Dym, "are hard to find these days. And more often than not, they're the ones easiest to find dead in some ditch, where no one even thinks to look."
The stable boy clicked his tongue. "Sad," he said, tugging Thunder along, "but true, my lord."
Ser Don hummed in agreement, then turned a grim look on Dym. "Do you remember what I taught you this morning?"
Dym answered at once, his tone just as grim, repeating the lesson without hesitation.
Ser Don nodded, satisfied. "Good. Keep that close to heart. And if you still insist on walking the honorable path," he added, "good; but always be mindful of the situation before you. Honor should guide you, not blind you."
They reached the stable doors, the warm smell of hay and horses washing over them as they stepped inside. Ser Don paused, then smiled faintly and ruffled the stable boy's head. The lad yelped in protest as his dirty-blond ears folded down, though he didn't pull away.
"And now," Ser Don said, tone shifting, "before we end today's lesson—we need to talk about you, lad."
The doors closed behind them, leaving the three in the dim, quiet shelter of the stable, Thunder and the other steeds snorting softly as if they, too, were listening.
==========
A/N:
YESSSS! FINALLY! THE FIRST EPISODE OF A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS HAS BEEN RELEASED!!! WE CAN FINALLY WATCH THE EARLY ADVENTURES OF DUNK AND EGG ON TV!!!