Sir Carwyn sat nervously on his borrowed horse, wreathed in a cloud of steam from his own breath as he fought to project an aura of confidence. He wanted to pull his woolen cloak tight around him to keep warm in the fierce winter chill, but he'd thrown the cloak back to ensure that his tabard and the Belvin family crest upon it were in clear view to the men in the watch towers.
The minutes slipped by with an agonizing slowness, and only the occasional shifting of his horse broke the frozen silence of the morning. Occasionally, he could faintly hear the sounds of raised voices and frenzied activity from the village, but they were still too distant to make anything out.
Eventually, the heavy wooden gate opened to reveal an armored figure wearing the same Belvin family crest on his faded tabard, sitting astride an aging warhorse and followed by nearly a dozen villagers as he rode out under an improvised white banner that looked like it had begun life as a bedsheet.
