There was a mild breeze at the mouth of the Wyl, where the river gurgled and rushed as the water poured into the Sea of Dorne. The outlines of Castle Wyl on the other shore were blurry, hazy lines against the bright afternoon sun, a big, formless blob sitting on the Dornish Red Mountains.
Beric wandered along the banks toward the coast, his gaze lost in the clear, blue sky over the sea. He tasted the salt in the wind, inhaled distant adventures, and with every step he took his mind drifted further back in the past.
Back when he was a boy, he often came here with his father. They had fished for crabs, though Beric never fancied the taste. Catching them was just entertaining and the closest a small boy came to hunting. Sometimes, his father brought one of the birds, Seawind the hawk or Lightning the falcon, and had them dive for fish in the river while he sat and told his stories on the banks.
Beric listened to the legends of storm kings, heard the tale of House Dondarrion's beginning, learned how the marcher lords defended the pass through the mountains from Dornish invasions. He especially loved the stories his father told of Robert's Rebellion, how he had fought side by side with the man who now sat on the throne.
It all seemed so long ago, but the memory was still as clear as the sky. Once the Wyl had been the widest and wildest river he knew, a mysterious, forbidden land of strangers and sand began behind the Red Mountains and the Sea of Dorne had marked the end of the world. How small this world had been, Beric pondered with a distant smile on his lips. If anything, this coast was the beginning.