In the tenth year of the long summer, a trace of chill that had no place in the warmth could already be scented in the air.
Milky mist veiled the sea like flowing gauze, blurring the boundary between sea and sky.
The sun struggled behind the fog, revealing only a pallid halo.
Old Ham cast his last net of the day, his rough hands deftly sorting the wet ropes.
The net was heavy, laden with hope.
A long winter always followed a long summer, or so the old folk said. This summer had lasted an unnaturally long time, yet lately the wind had grown colder and colder.
He needed more fish to dry and sell for a few copper pennies, enough to buy his granddaughter a thick wool coat.
He ought to lay in more firewood for the hearth at home, too.
He straightened his aching back, thumped it a few times, and narrowed his dim old eyes, looking toward the horizon out of habit.
The fog was thick. He could see only the waves rising and falling nearby.
At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Where the gray sea met the sky, there seemed to be a darker, deeper smudge, like ink dropped into water, slowly spreading and swelling.
He rubbed his eyes hard, leaned over the side of his little boat, and shaded his brow with one hand, straining to see.
His eyes were not deceiving him.
That black patch was expanding, taking shape, changing from a blurred shadow into distinct, tightly packed... sails!
Ship sails! Countless sails, like a black forest of steel growing out of the seabed, were cutting through the fog and bearing down silently on Dragonstone!
Old Ham froze, the hand rubbing his eyes suspended in midair, his mouth falling