For all that he's the king son's, and for all the lessons and arms masters and tavern tales of deeds he's had or heard, Hal is little more prepared and vastly more overwhelmed than he could have planned. He is long since unhorsed, he's taken wounds all over, his hands can barely keep their hold on sword and shield, and somehow, despite their lean numbers, Percy and his men keep claiming the advantage.

It is ages and ages since Hal and Harry met, and longer still since they had civil words between each other. For all his own plans, his father's words weigh heavy on him: even as I was then, so now is Percy. Hal thinks he's caught glimpses of him, snatches of his voice, but there is something demonic about Hotspur on a battlefield, more so even than the stories convey, and Hal's only comfort is that Percy is too honorable to slay him unannounced.

The cold air is shredding his lungs, but he gasps for it all the same in the briefest pause he allows himself, hunched over his knees close to a clearing.