The song of Bran’s head: cut it off, fuckers… Now

You think I’m gone? Good. Now all the winds are still

And night is lapping at the shore. Now

Troublesome forces are quiet, you say?

The hills are black, birds sleep in penumbral trees,

The mountain grass holds whispers of what there was

And what thereof remains in this land:

Somewhere and silently, something dark moves…

My name is James and I gather the winds

And ride the ox in pursuit of the hare

And swim against the raging tides