Work Text:
The ruins still stand, though the ruthless time
has ravaged them. The warriors long gone,
the empty castles still echo their voices.
In the bare desert, in deadly sunlight
the hall of the victor has lost its vibrancy.
On a hoary hilltop another hall,
the wind rending its red banners,
waits for spring, but the waning winter
to the turning of the year yields not.
There shall be no spring for the Red Winter.
There on the hills and in the heat of the desert
stood and fell they, fiercely fighting.
On the field of battle, the bonds were tested
of lord and liegeman. Who stayed loyal?
And whose hearts failed in the hard trial?
The wind will tell you, at night whispering
the sorrowful tale of the terrible war,
of the crowned Hound and his faithful Hand.
How all of that troop, against the world,
the valley and the crastle and the great desert,
waged war unending, until at last
their life-blood was spilled by the enemy’s sword.
Fate claimed them, one by one felled
first Skizz the brave, spirited in battle,
then Etho the clever, by the hand of the traitor
was cruelly slaughtered. Alone in the cold,
BigB the faithful was left behind
the last to survive, gaining nothing but sorrow
as the enemy’s blades drank his blood.
In the hallowed keep, the Hound and the Hand
together were killed, never seeing
the winter’s end, nor any victory,
for there shall be no spring for the Red Winter.