The Last Wolf of Haskaangar

Where black fens sleep beneath the snow, Old spearheads dream in mud below. The hearth burned low, the embers dim, Yet winter's voice still followed him. His axe had hung through peaceful years, Its edge grown cold with rust and tears. The scars on Throe-null's weathered hand Were roads that crossed a broken land. No skald could count the wars he'd known, Nor name the kings now dust and stone. He swore no horn would call again... The old gods smiled at foolish men. Raise every banner, sound every horn, Warriors answer though hope is torn. If this be our final stand, We'll die with steel in either hand. No rider came with royal seal, No lord proclaimed the nation's will. A raven perched on frost-bound pine, As black as fate, as old as time. Old Throe-null rose without a word, No boast was made, no prayer was heard. His waiting axe knew hand and name, Old wolves and war are much the same. The White Witch stirred beyond the fen, Where none who marched returned again. The north lay still beneath her breath, A silent kingdom dressed in death. The river remembers... Though voices fade... The pine stands watching... Where oaths were made... The snow hides bones... Not honour's flame... The north remembers... Every name... The first horn rolled through frost and pine, Its echo carried down the line. From every hall and every shore, The old wolf stood at war once more. "Walk by my side," was all he said, "The earth has room enough for dead. But while one northern heart beats free, No winter queen shall master me." Raise every banner, sound every horn, Warriors answer though hope is torn. If this be our final stand, We'll die with steel in either hand. Raise every banner, let ravens soar, Stand like the wolves who came before. Though winter swallows fire and star, The north remembers Haskangar. When halls are ash... And crowns are dust... Remember the wolf... Who kept his trust... The Last Wolf... Of Haskangar...