Kvothe listened to the young stallion in silence, sharing in the burden of his troubles and trying to think how she might lessen them. It was not easy. Though a couple years separated the pair in age, the taller female was, perhaps, younger at heart. As a product of her upbringing and innocence - and even the inherent differences of their genders - she could not understand her prince’s thirst to prove himself. But if it was important for Ironclad to become a king, then Kvothe was determined to support him in any way that she could. Lips twisted downward as she chewed over her thoughts, trying to remember what she had learned about the rise of a monarch from the tales that she’d been told. Victory in the face of adversity was a common theme in those stories, but surely there was more to a king than the strength of his body.

“I don’t know much about becoming a king,” the Friesian mare confessed, exhaling her breath in a gentle sigh that bathed Ironclad’s dark skin in warmth. “But I know that each child must learn to walk their own path before they can be considered an adult. Perhaps that’s what your father is seeking - not a son who follows in his wake like a shadow, but one who has proven that he can carve his own way.” Kvothe didn’t really know Warsaw, of course, but she knew that Ironclad was a good stallion - his strength tempered by kindness, and his determination unquenchable even in the face of defeat. She couldn’t imagine a stallion not being proud to have sired a son like him.

In the silence that followed, the slender chestnut continued grooming down Ironclad’s back. She had nearly reached the base of his tail when the young prince began to squirm with what she assumed was discomfort or displeasure. Kvothe pulled back as quickly as if his dark skin had scalded her, feeling both upset and strangely unfulfilled. There was nothing that she wanted more than to familiarize herself with every inch of his body; the others in her birth herd had never permitted such intimacy. But she would not force her attentions on the dark stallion either. Perhaps he simply didn’t enjoy being groomed - with all this talk about proving himself, it might remind Ironclad too much of the coddling that only foals received from their dams. And so Kvothe contented herself by resting her chin on the curve of his rump, her dark eyes falling closed as well.

Without the distraction of their conversation, however, Ironclad’s scent became intoxicating. Like her prince, the auburn mare soon found it difficult to stand motionless. Her limbs began to move restively, and her red tail began to dance agitatedly through the air. Finally, with a soft squeal and an uncharacteristic flattening of her ears, Kvothe nipped the young stallion and danced away. The banner of her tail held high in the air, she invited Ironclad to chase her with the silent language of her body - not entirely understanding the reason for her game, but surrendering herself to her subconscious whims.