"...Nightsong has been burned to the ground."
The Red Keep, the Throne Room.
The messenger who had rushed back from the Stormlands knelt on one knee on the flagstones, his armor still coated with dust and dried mud.
His voice was hoarse, as though he had been running for days and nights without sleep.
Jon Connington sat in an oak chair below the Iron Throne. By custom, when the king was absent, the Hand of the King had the right to sit on the Iron Throne and govern the realm in his stead.
But he had not yet been formally appointed Hand of the King, and Aegon had not yet been crowned. He would not overstep.
Now he frowned deeply, staring at the messenger in the center of the Throne Room.
"The rebel Faith Militant poured into the Stormlands from the Reach," the messenger said, his head bowed. "They march in the name of the Seven, but they kill everyone they see and burn every castle they find."
"Nightsong has fallen. The entire garrison died fighting, and the castle was burned to ruins. House Caron...not one of them escaped."
Jon's frown deepened.
His fingers tapped his knee once, then stopped.
"Earl Caron, commander of the Dornish Marches, is campaigning in the north with His Highness," he said, his voice very low. "His castle has been burned, and his family is dead. He does not know yet."
The Throne Room fell silent. No one answered.
Jon remained silent for a while, then waved a hand. The messenger rose, turned, and hurried out of the Throne Room.
His footsteps faded, then vanished beyond the doors.
The hall was quiet for a moment. Jon did not move.
He remained in the oak chair, his brow furrowed, his gaze resting on the spot where