In my many winters upon this wet & windswept coast
I've seen kinsmen live and die
So to those left I raise a toast
As we drink by torchlight
In high-gabled hallowed halls
The boasts of fallen men still echo round these oaken walls
Though our tribes diminish
Though our numbers fade
Our helms still dark, our mail bright, our fists alive with blades
Follow the path of eagles
As they fly to worlds on high
So the souls of fallen men will travel when they die
The oaths of Northern folk are borne upon the gale
They do not die away but rise by fellows' hail!
A pathway between the realms
So the web is spun
Time, place, mortality and deeds that have been done
In the glare of sunset
As my time draws near
A will of graven stone remains
Though earthly forms may disappear
Grim-faced men in iron helms
Through their gritted teeth deny
When strength is drawn from other realms
Their creed could ever die
Embers burn within our souls
Standards hefted to the sky
Elements no-one controls…
The darkest bird is yet to fly
