The Stormlands, ten leagues northeast of Storm's End, along the gray coastline of Shipbreaker Bay.
Lead-gray waves battered the jagged reefs, churning up murky foam.
The clouds hung oppressively low. The wind off the Narrow Sea carried a bone-chilling dampness, howling across the empty tidal flats and whipping up dead grass.
Across those flats stood a daunting brown host.
More than thirty thousand Dothraki Screamers poured off the countless broad-bellied merchant ships anchored just offshore.
Horses neighed amid a clamor of voices, while curved blades and arrowheads gleamed coldly beneath the gloomy daylight.
They wore painted leather armor and glossy braids, their eyes burning with a primal hunger for plunder and blood.
Heavy hooves trampled the muddy flats with dull squelches, throwing up filthy splashes.
Viserys Targaryen stood on a slightly elevated rock, surveying this "army" of his.
He wore brand-new leather armor embroidered with the black-and-red three-headed dragon sigil.
The sea wind blew through his newly grown silver hair, leaving his face pale.
Beside him stood the diminutive Tyrion Lannister and a trembling interpreter.
After "Varys" brought Tyrion to Viserys, Viserys had told him that these Horsemen were all a wedding gift from the Easterner for marrying Daenerys. Ever since, Tyrion had been wondering: Had that fellow Varys actually gone over to the Easterner?
He still did not know that Varys's head hung above the gatehouse of Brown Castle in Duskendale. But to stay alive, he could only offer counsel to Viserys, an enemy of House Lannister.
Astonished by Tyrion's eloquence, Viserys had promptly appointed him Hand of the King.
Bitterness filled Tyrion's heart. Seeing the savagery and bloodlust in these barbarians' eyes, he silently regretted boarding this ship of thieves while cursing Varys.
Viserys drew a deep breath, tried to straighten his back, and pointed toward the distant