He rises bloodless from dust,

with dead eyes that are pits

twin reaches to eternal pain.

He is the lodestone

to the gathering clan,

made anew and dream-racked.

The standard a rotted hide,

the throne a bone cage, the king

a ghost from dark fields of battle.

And now the horn moans

on this grey clad dawn

drawing the disparate host

To war, to war,

and the charging frenzy

of unbidden memories of ice.

Lay of the First Sword

Irig Thann Delusa (b. 1091)

(MoI, UK Trade, p.122)