The royal banner flapped and snapped violently behind him, whipped by the biting winter wind. Held high by his young squire whose knuckles were white from the effort of keeping the ash-wood staff steady in his stirrup, behind a forest of iron and flesh.
Still if he made a mess of it, Doria only had himself to blame, he was the one that insisted for the honor.Though the king would have cared little for that, especially today.
His dark armor rattled and clinked with each rhythmic stride of his great warhorse, the black beast whose heavy iron-shod hooves clattered sharply against the paving stones of the road.
Directly behind him rode the royal party, composed from the king's guard, their polished breastplates reflecting the pale winter sun, their hands resting easily on the hilts of their longswords.
