The sun was about to set, staining the western horizon a molten, blood-red gold.
A graceful longship, unmistakably Dornish in style, glided lightly over waves steeped in the sunset.
This was neither a warship built for raiding or charging into battle nor a merchant vessel laden with cargo.
Its hull was painted a warm brown, its edges adorned with intricate gilded patterns. Silk canopies shaded the deck, and faint scents of spices and fruit wine drifted through the air. Everything spoke of comfort and pleasure.
Oberyn Nymeros Martell, the Red Viper, reclined languidly on a cushioned lounge chair, idly toying with a crystal wineglass.
Summerwine, deep red as a ruby, swirled slowly at the bottom of the glass, reflecting the sharply chiseled features of a salt Dornishman.
His eyes were half closed, his gaze seemingly fixed on the distance, yet seemingly seeing nothing.
His paramour, Ellaria Sand, sat quietly beside him. With a small, pearl-studded silver knife, she carefully peeled a sweet fruit from the Summer Isles and held its translucent flesh to his lips.
Oberyn opened his mouth to eat it, his fingertips absently stroking the smooth surface of his glass.
The ship cut through the waves, sailing northeast.
In the distance, the outline of an island lay silently across the sea, like an ancient beast risen from the depths and crouched in slumber.
Its rugged, precipitous black cliffs formed its body; its tall, pointed towers were the jagged spines along its back.
Dragonstone.
But what truly held the eye and stole the breath was the sea surrounding the island.
Ships. Countless ships.
They were not anchored haphazardly. With Dragonstone at their center, they formed an immense, orderly array, rank upon rank.
Heavy war galleys crowded the deep waters like mobile black fortresses; smaller escort ships and patrol vessels