Ser Sandon rode in the shadow of the banners. Just inches below the Royal Bull, the sigil of Lord Ober, three vibrants yellow lemon, flapped in the wind.
Sandon felt a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth as his destrier trotted along the mud-slicked road to Ricorum. His own armor clinked with every rhythmic step, a martial sound he found far more comforting than the sight of a fruit-bearing tree leading them to war.
How a man could find pride in such heraldry was a mystery to him, but Lord Ober wore the lemon as if it were a dragon's head.
The Lord of LemonTree was, by any objective measure, a man built for the banquet table rather than the saddle. He was short and soft, his considerable belly squeezed into a suit of plate that looked dangerously tight. Long, flaxen hair, the exact shade of his namesake fruit, tumbled in greasy waves over his neck, and a puffy face was framed by a beard of the same yellow hue.
