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)
