In Dorne, at the southernmost tip of Westeros, the air of Sunspear was dry and scorching, laden with spices and a hint of lust.
Deep within the Old Palace, in a bedchamber filled with exotic charm, heavy painted wooden lattice shutters blocked the fiercest midday sunlight, casting only dappled light and shadow across the carpet.
A suggestive scent of musk mingled with sweat lingered in the air.
Crimson gauze curtains hung from the four posts of the great ebony bed, stirring softly in the breeze.
Arianne Martell reclined languidly against a pile of silk cushions, her honey-colored skin glowing with health in the dim light. Sweat traced fine, glistening lines along her graceful collarbones and between her full breasts.
She had casually wrapped only an orange sari, thin as a cicada's wing, around her hips, leaving her long, firm thighs bare.
Her current lover, Daemon Sand, lay on his side beside her, a strong arm wrapped possessively around her waist, his bronze chest rising and falling gently with his steady breathing.
Arianne's gaze, however, was somewhat unfocused. Rather than resting on her lover's handsome face, it passed through the swaying curtains toward the courtyard outside, bleached white by the blazing sun.
A trace of gloom crept over her beautiful brows.
"Daemon, Father means to cast me aside like a piece of unwanted pottery and marry me off to men old enough to be my grandfather. The eldest princess of Sunspear has become a bargaining chip on his board, used to curry favor with decrepit old men!"
Arianne could not help complaining to her lover.
Daemon traced idle circles over the smooth skin of her waist. At her words, he merely gave a lazy murmur of acknowledgment, seemingly long accustomed to this.
Hearing Daemon's response, Arianne poured out her resentment even