Tyrion Lannister, dwarf and exile, stood resolute upon the prow of the majestic vessel, the Wind’s Grace, its timeworn planks creaking beneath his weight. His mismatched eyes, one green as the emerald depths of the Whispering Wood, the other a glimmering pale amethyst, stared out into the boundless expanse of the Narrow Sea. As the ship cut through the frothing waves, the wind, bearing the salty tang of the ocean, lashed at his face, sending raven-black locks of hair spiraling across his brow. It was a gusty tempest, much like the swirling turmoil that had beset his life ever since he had been forced to flee the shores of Westeros. The crimson light of the setting sun cast an ethereal glow upon Tyrion’s countenance, accentuating the shadows that danced upon his visage, mirroring the darkness that had shadowed his soul for far too long. His lips, full and pursed in contemplation, were tinged with a touch of melancholy, the weight of his troubled past etched upon his face like the lines of a map charting the arduous journey he had undertaken.

I would summarize it as wordy.