Робин Хобб - Странствия Шута [Fool’s Quest]

With lolling tongues and eyes that gleam

They surge through snow with breath like steam.

For in the hunt there is no morrow,

Time does not wait. There is no sorrow

As blood spills black and snarls are rife.

For life is meat, and death brings life.

— «A SONG FOR NIGHTEYES AND HIS FRIEND,» HAP GLADHEART

With the Red Ships at our doors and our noble King Shrewd failing in both body and mind,

The young bastard saw his opportunity. He felled him. With magic and might of muscle,

He took from the duchies the king they needed. And from Prince Regal he stole

His father, his mentor, his rock of wisdom.

The kindness bestowed on a bastard felled him.

And the Bastard laughed. In his murderous triumph, sword bared and bloody, he soiled with murder

The keep that had sheltered his worthless life. Cared he nothing for the great hearts

That had fostered him, fed him, clothed and protected him. He loved only bloodshed.

No loyalty did the Bastard cede to king or country.

Wounded in heart, sorrowing as a son, burdened with the concerns of a country at war,

The prince, now king, stepped forward to his tasks. His brothers dead or fled, to him fell

The heavy crown. To him fell the mourning, and to him, the protecting. The last son,

The loyal son, the brave prince became the king of the racked and troubled land.

«Vengeance first!» weary King Regal cried. To his shelter flocked his dukes and nobles.

«To the dungeons with the Bastard!» they pleaded with one voice. And so King Regal

Did his duty. To cell and chains went the conniving Bastard, the Witted One, the Regicide.

To dark and cold he was sent, as befitted such a dark and cold heart.

«Discover his magic,» the king bade his loyal men. And so they tried. With questions and fists,

Clubs and iron, with cold and dark, they broke the traitor. They found no nobility, no cleverness,

Only wolf-greed and dog-selfishness. And so he died, the Traitor, the Witted One, the Bastard.

Of no use to anyone but himself had his life been. His death freed us from his shame.

— «KING REGAL’S BURDEN,» A SONG BY CELSU CLEVERHANDS, A FARROW MINSTREL

And back-to-back those brothers stood

And bade farewell their lives,

For round them pressed the Red Ship wolves,

A wall of swords and knives.

They heard a roar and striding came

The bastard Buckkeep son.

Like rubies flung, the drops of blood

That from his axe-head spun.

A path he clove, like hewing trees,

As bloody axe he wielded.

Blood to his chest, the bastard came,

And to his blade they yielded.

’Twas Chivalry’s son,

His eyes like flame,

Who shared his blood

If not his name.

A Farseer son,

But ne’er an heir

Whose bloodied locks

No crown would bear.

— «ANTLER ISLAND ANTHEM,» STARLING BIRDSONG