Durran's pavilion tent stood near to twice as tall as the wall tents pitched in a long street that lead away from it. Stepping outside the pavilion tent's flaps would grant one quite an inspiring sight-- dozens of tents housing hundreds of knights and men-at-arms, all under what seemed to be as many banners, most the crowned stag of House Durrandon.

There were others. His friend, Ser Alyn Buckler, had ridden along: the blue-and-gold arms of House Buckler were in attendance. Lord Tarth's crescents-and-stars adorned several posts. The Toyne winged heart flew beyond that, and the green forestscape of House Fell's arms mixed in with them. Some personal arms of knights sworn to his service flapped energetically above the camp, notably a white boar on a brown field-- the unimaginatively-named Ser Davos Whiteboar had spied and killed a white boar in the Stormwood, and received his knighthood from some local lord for the feat.

In the end, the heraldry mattered less than the men riding beneath it. Stormlanders were stout, almost to a man. Stubborn, brutal fighters with a capacity for feats far greater than their "chivalrous" neighbors to the west or the Crabmen or Dusklanders to the north, as demonstrated six years ago. In the Boneway he'd seen the Dornish put their all into breaking the Stormlander host, only to be frustrated by a tenacious defense and an orderly retreat. Scarce any Kingdom could dream of such fine men.

The camp came alive in the hours after the tents went up. Cookfires sparked merrily as men fed wood to them-- they also billowed smoke, as much of the wood was wet from recent rainfall. A smith hammered shoes to horses, and another sharpened blades and pounded dents out of steel. The Toynes had set up a sparring ring, and the energetic clashing of steel sang its siren song to the Storm King. A stablemaster had strung a long rope between two trees, and had hitched half a dozen horses to it. He'd repeated this between several dozen trees, securing most of the retinue's mounts. Now the poor man heaved hay from the supply train, as the animals had already devoured the grass beneath their hooves.

"Post a guard," Ser Justin Morrigen called to one of his lieutenants, stepping through the mud with a hand on the pommel of his word. The Morrigen knight might have been young, but the Storm King had chosen him for his personal guard for a reason. "I want two men to guard the tent flaps at all hours, and two teams of men to patrol the perimeter of the tent at regular intervals. Furthermore I want pickets established outside the campsite, no travelers are to enter without being cleared of weapons."

"Yes, Ser," a voice called-- it was the Knight of the White Boar, in fact, judging by the ruddy brown surcoat over his mail.

King Durran chuckled. "When do you find the time to take a break, Ser Justin?"

"I'll find time to relax my guard when I'm in the ground," Ser Justin replied, stopping short of his King and bowing his head. "Your Grace."

"Take a moment to sit," the King replied. "Take a piss. Have a drink, even. One won't kill you, or slow your sword hand enough that it'll get me killed."

A grin appeared beneath the man's burgonet helm. "If you insist, Your Grace."

"His Grace does insist," King Durran replied, barking laughter. "Go on, then. Your boar-knight will handle things well enough for a few minutes. Isn't that right, Ser Davos?"

"Aye, Your Grace, it's right," Ser Davos responded from behind, beside the tent flaps.

The King shifted his gaze back to Ser Justin. "Make it two, perhaps. When you get back I'm going to have to welcome these noblemen into my tent."

Ser Justin grinned again, but said nothing as he trudged up the muddy street to his tent-- the first on the left side of the road, nearest to his King's. The street became silent for a few moments, and the King turned back towards Ser Davos. "Give Ser Justin time enough to finish a horn of ale and open the tent to all the well-wishers. Hell, open it to the people who want to curse my name, too."