A crown once cast in shadowed, ancient flame,
from Bran the Blessed’s fall to salt and grief made known,
and silence learned to carry on a name.
No trumpet marked the rising of his throne,
no song announced the weight he had to bear,
yet iron duty settled in his bone.
He walked the coast where memory grows thin air,
where broken kings are never fully gone,
and every wave repeats a muted prayer.
The land remembered what was left undone,
how loss can shape a ruler from the dust,
how heirs are forged from what they cannot shun.
And so he stood where endings turn to trust,
a quiet strength beneath the drifting tide—
a name held fast when empires turn to rust.