She wears the wind like battlecloth,
her stones still tasting iron broth.
A crown for no one now remains—
just empty halls and rusted chains.
The stairs are cracked. The sky, too wide.
I walked alone, with ghosts for guide.
The walls don’t weep. They never did—
they hold the things the hills have hid.
No kings. No throne. Just smoke and siege.
A fortress carved in quiet griege.
Not haunted by some fanged affair,
but by the lives once buried there.
I touched the stones. They didn’t care.
No curse, no chill, no dead-eyed stare.
But still—I felt a gaze, unseen,
behind a gate where grass grew green.
She doesn’t bleed like Bran might do.
She broods. She waits. She watches you.
And when I left, I swear she sighed—
a hill that mourned the war it survived.