The fourth of a fourth,
Born of a blood of fire,
Unlikely he was,
But never less right.
A bald boy of ten,
Groomed in dirt for his name,
He was pure as white light,
Around mischief and grief.
His stood up for his name,
As his ancestor named the same,
How long has it been,
Since a king's been the same?
A Tall tree beside him,
The sworn star above his head,
A flea that that's come to be a knight,
Raised that boy all good and right.
From hedge to hedge,
From this lord to that lord,
With Maester and the straw hat,
They rested under stars with salt beef and ale.
The Lunk swore his sword,
And with it a clout,
Until he swore again,
When the clout was needed not.
The boy became king,
And he was still the same boy,
He married for the good of love,
And so did his sons.
That's all right you say,
But the realm favored it not,
They hated the good king,
For not taking their blood as bride.
The king rose his name from ashes,
And wanted it risen even more,
He tried hatching an egg,
But all it hatched was death.
It is not certain what happened,
Whether it was the egg or the realm that got them,
Egg and Dunk met their end,
At Summerhall's flaming hand.
But, at the same place and hour,
When the hedge tales were done,
A prince was born in fire,
Later called the Last Dragon.
Time went on,
And often the prince returned,
Playing in ruins on his harp,
Songs about the dragon and the friend, and their lives.
