He imagines she would. It seems like Tsetseg to lay down stringent rules between the mares and studs. She has grit, like Sayana— it is the grit that keeps them alive, that has kept their people alive for thousands of miles across the uplands, and this grit that would be sought for in stallions.

Sayana proves her own next, tumbling them to the soft pasture grounds, reminding Batu neither are so young anymore. Taunt-and-vaunt was a sort of pup’s game they used to play. If children quarreled, they would wrestle out the issue, or put it to another contest. When beaten, the loser had to leave their quarrel behind; but, so does the victor. Simpler times come to mind, with her standing proud as the hunter.

Batu remains where he has fallen, staring upward a breath. “I believe you,” rowdy, grinning, he scrambles to his feet, eyes blown wide. She has proven her strength; her tact, and there is no reason to deny her nokur except for the worry in his own heart.

“I’ve learned… that I have a lot more to learn,” is the evasive answer, mostly because everything he'd learned had been taught through war, and Batu has no desire to gray the day in this rumination.

Ahead, the horses nicker a greeting, and he hopes it is enough to occupy Saya.