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.

The armor itself was a garish, dyed yellow; he suspected the pigment alone costed more than the iron it covered. Ober was a man with a stained reputation, a lord of citrus and coin who was desperate to wash his name clean in a bath of blood. The lords of LemonTree were famous for their harvests, not their steel, but Ober was determined to prove that a lemon could be as lethal as a horn.

Of course the reason he was given command, was because he was one of the few willing to settle the bill required to make the host be fed.Moreover despite the leader’s soft stature, the host that followed him was anything but meager.

A thousand spears swayed in a rhythmic forest, the tips glinting under a grey sky, while dozens of knights in varying heraldry formed a colorful, clattering vanguard. The lords of the south had spent months watching their blood boil in frustration; the Great Bull had used them to feed the frontlines rather than fight on them, a slight that had soured many a noble’s temper.

Now, this expedition was the ice for that fever. There was glory to be had, and better yet, a prize: the head of the "Mad Bull" and the keys to the city he currently occupied.

Sandon, looked up at the flapping pidgeon of his ancestrol seat, Gegiodupi,one day it would be his.

He adjusted his grip on the reins and watched the mud kick up from the heels of the knights before him.

His father had granted him this command, and Sandon had no intention of returning with empty hands. He wanted the city, he wanted the renown, and he wanted to be the one to plant his boot on the rebel’s throat while Lord Ober looked on with his puffy, yellow-bearded face.

Initially the Prince’s bastard should have joined them in this war, but unfortunately, that did not come to pass, as imperceptibly all news of him was lost.

Some said he was captured , others that he was dead. And of course along with him, his host which should have guarded him never appeared either.

They waited some more days, and yet he never appeared.

Somewhere during the first week of delay some lord had suggested moving the force south to go search for him, but that was not endeared by his lordship, who after sending some scouts that rode for some days and brought nothing back, cleansed his hand of it, preferring to bring the fight to the rebels than by his words, waste time by searching for a bastard in the mud.

If the prince were here, he would have ordered the whole army to search for his son, but he was not, but instead was probably laying on a bed surrounded by servants who wiped the sweat off his meat rolls, while he left others to do the fighting for him.

Moreover lord Ober wasn’t doing this as a favor for the crown; he wanted glory, his glory and he would find none searching for the son of some tanner.

So forward against the rebels he ordered the host forth.

The road had snaked mostly northwest through the rolling lowlands, but at a sharp bend where the path hooked east, a small, weary village had sprouted to service the passing trade. Lord Ober had sent scouts ahead to squeeze the peasants for word of the rebels, but they returned with empty hands. The villagers knew nothing, or if they knew they told of nothing.

It was baffling. By all rights, the Madman should have been scouring the countryside, burning the fields and stripping the granaries to ensure the royal host found nothing but dust and starvation on their approach. Instead, he sat idle in Epietoli.

He had the food, certainly, he had seized the very stores meant to sustain the siege of the Fox until winter, but he was making no move to protect his perimeter.

Around Ser Sandon, the other lords took this as a sign of incompetence. They shared dry chuckles, belittling Merelao for his "greenness" and mocking a rebellion that seemed to have no teeth.

"I never expected the treason to ripen quite like this," the Lord of Itaurarchia muttered, his breath hitching in the cold air as his horse let out a misty cloud.

"Right?" the Lord of Presoncu replied, shifting in his saddle. "There were no signs. No hushed whispers in the courts, no slow buildup of arms. It flared up all at once, like a hayloft catching fire. Only this time, no one saw the spark."

"The rebel must have thought it the perfect hour to invite a civil war," Lord Ober interjected, eager to wedge himself into the conversation. He spoke trying to mimick some sort of authority, sensing, rightly, that the other lords viewed him as a gilded merchant rather than a commander. "With the Royal Host bogged down in the mud of Yarzat, he likely thought the Prince’s neck was exposed."

"Indeed," Ober’s eldest son and heir added, his voice steadier than his father’s. "He likely assumed we couldn’t muster a response this quickly. He thought he’d have months to entrench himself. Now, he’s trapped deep in hostile territory with no clear path home and not a single ally to hold his hand. Once we close the gates of the city, his own men will turn on him at the slightest of opportunity."

The son has a sounder mind than the father, Sandon thought, watching as Lord Ober beamed at his heir with a look of profound, unearned pride.

"What my lords say holds weight," Sandon said, pitching his voice to ensure he wasn’t ignored. "If not for one inconvenient fact: everyone knew the force the prince sent to the southern border was just a token

It would appear, to me at least, that the rebel struck not to gain an advantage for himself, but to lend his sword to another."

The air grew quiet as knights and lords turned to look at him.

"You suggest the Fox and the Rebel have made a pact, Ser?" Lord Ober asked, his puffy face contorting as if Sandon had just presented him with a puzzle box he couldn’t hope to open.

"Perhaps he just meant to strike where His Grace held the grain," suggested the Lord of Presoncu, his three-star heraldry dull and grey on a day that bore no sun nor rain. "Thinking we wouldn’t have the stomach to muster an army while our bellies were empty.It is late September soon winter will rise...he must have thought the prince wouldn’t have risked a famine by raising another army so soon...."

"But to what end?" Ober’s son pressed, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "To ignite a civil war on such a back foot is nothing short of suicide. If he has truly coupled with the Fox, he earns the enmity of the Crown without the hope of Yarzat’s walls to shield him. Why link his fate to a prince already on the precipice of ruin? There are twelve thousand swords thirsting for the Fox’s blood. What aid could he possibly hope to receive? Why would a man throw away his life and his bid for the throne simply to act as a distraction for a foreign power?"

"We must consider the loose screw,’’ the Lord of Itaurarchia noted, adjusting his heavy cloak. "Perhaps he was tricked into this madness. It would appear, as Ser Sandon suggested, that this move serves no master but the Fox, creating a festering wound in our rear while the main host is occupied elsewhere.It has no immediate benefit for the rebel lord, except starting a civil war in a weak position"

"I am certain the other princes will find ways to fill the soldiers’ bellies in our absence," Lord Ober interjected, his voice carrying a note of weary finality. He was growing tired of the strategic circling. "All that should concern us is reclaiming the city and the stores within. In truth, we should thank the ’Peasant Prince’ for his clumsiness. The civil war we all feared would leave Kakunia battered and bloodied looks to be ending with a whimper instead of a roar."

Sandon was about to retort when the rhythmic, frantic clatter of hooves shattered the conversation. Far down the road, a small cluster of riders appeared, the yellow lemon of the Ober sigil snapping on their surcoat.

"The scouts," Ober’s son noted

"And they are riding as as if the devil is at their heels." Noticed ser Sandon.

The riders swerved through the vanguard, their horses lathered in white foam and heaving with exhaustion. The lead scout pulled his mount to a skidding halt before Lord Ober, nearly falling from the saddle as he offered a hurried, desperate bow.

"My Lord..." the scout gasped, his voice breaking through ragged breaths. "Smoke... rising. It’s Ricorum."

He doubled over, clutching the pommel of his saddle, before forcing the rest of the report out in a frantic burst.

"The rebels... they haven’t hunkered down. They’re... they’re putting the granaries to the torch! The central stores, the royal silos... all of it. They’re burning the food, all of it! My Lord!’’