In the coldest, driest winter
A castle stands so bleak
With blustery winds lifting
Plumes of snow and ice
And passing ravens
The people of the castle are huddled within
Sitting and warming before the fires
They wait for the enemy to invade
But who would leave a warm place
For this frozen outpost of a shire
But they fear the invaders coming again
So the sentries stare out from the towers
Hiding behind the battlements from the wind
Praying to their many Gods
To be delivered from this place
Before they begin to cower
The cold leads to despairing
The ice and snow bite the skin
And the waiting drives them mad
When march the vulgar clans
Their skin covered drums begin
