The council chamber, like much of Storm’s End, was stuffy in the midday heat. Fortunately the weather had let up in recent days, allowing for the roads to dry up and make for easier travel. Lord Caron had arrived the previous eve, with that the Council of the Stormlands had at last fully assembled.

A window hung open, permitting a breeze into the room. Ser Robert Swygert and Maester Olyvar sat at the flanks of the big chair, thus far unoccupied. Lord-Admiral Allard Estermont and Ser Cortnay Peasebury sat further up the table, and beside them sat Lord Ben Caron. At the far end of the table were the Wardens or their representatives-- Ser Jon Dondarrion, Ser Beric Toyne, Lord Gormon Massey, and Lord Boremund Trant. Two pitchers of wine sat at the center of the oaken table surrounded by cups, none yet touched.

They had scarcely settled in before the door at the far end of the room opened. A Durrandon man-at-arms dressed down in the gold surcoat entered first, guiding the door to its stopping point. King Durran followed, the top of his head nearly brushing the doorframe.

Everyone stood.

“Sit down,” Durran said with a grin. “Seven hells, we are all friends here.”

He walked to his chair and sat heavily into it with a contented sigh. “So, my lords. Harrenhal.”

For the next several minutes he spoke, describing the chaos of the event.