Ash On The Snow

I was the winter’s unwanted son, a shadow in Winterfell’s hall, A name half-spoken, a seat half-warm, my eyes set on the Wall. Swore an oath beneath black stone, with Ghost silent at my heel, To stand where daylight thins and men learn what is real. I am the breath in the cold, the watch in the dark, A hand on a blade that forgets its own mark. Not born for crowns, nor songs that overflow— I learned to be iron, and iron learns slow. I loved a woman of wind and ash, we hunted across the pine, Arrows and thunder in our ribs; her last breath warmed mine. At Hardhome I faced the tide, dead eyes across the floe, And back at the Wall came brothers’ knives, buried under snow. I fell, I froze, I crossed that black door, They pulled me back breathing and I asked what for. Not glory, not banners in silvered moon-glow— To keep what I love from a world overthrown. Mud in my lungs where the bastards charged, I clawed toward air and sky, Sansa’s fire lit the field, while giants bled and died. We raised our home from a wolf’s long sleep; they named me lord of the north, But names are wind; I had felt the Night, and duty drove me forth. Hold the line for the child who shakes in the straw, For the nameless bones beneath winter’s law. If a crown finds my brow, let the storm be the show— I’ll trade it for lives in the valley below. Blood unbound by whispering stone—wolf-born, dragon-sown, I sailed with a queen of fire and wing, and called her heart my own. But bells became burning, ash became rain, and mercy turned to flame; In the throne room’s ruin, I chose the world, and buried my own name. If honor is steel, it cuts both ways; A father’s truth, a lover’s blaze. The past is a sword I cannot sheathe, So I carry the scar and learn to breathe. I ended the fire with a colder knife, I ended my love to spare a life. No victor’s cheer, no sunlight’s glow— Only a man and the weight of snow. Now I walk where the maps run out, with Free Folk, dogs, and crows, Ghost at my side and my footsteps light, where the last blue river flows. Not prince, not lord, not chosen of thrones—just a promise I still owe: To stand where night leans over the world, and keep watch in the snow.