Gather round, ye smallfolk and Lord,
Sit ye a while and unto me pay attention,
I will tell you the tale of a knight who deserves lamentation,
The finest man to ever swing a sword.
Raised in Winterfell grand,
His size apparent as soon as he could stand,
He tended the horses within the stable,
And trained with the young Starks whenever able.
His skill in combat quickly grew,
Though young Wylis never knew,
That to read a fighter's tells,
Would make the Kingsguard's pride swell.
When the Dragon King burned his Lord,
Wylis took up the sword,
With the Stark banner he marched south,
Cries of rage spewing from his mouth.
At the Trident, whenever he came near,
Targaryen soldiers trembled in fear,
A giant had marched south, they were convinced,
To wreak vengeance on a wayward Prince.
Through lines of foot, he did crash,
Emboldened by winning every clash,
He crossed swords with the Bold,
Convinced his skill was oversold.
When the battle was done,
A Baratheon crown was won,
Soldiers of Wolf and Stag stood tall,
And Wylis among them had withstood all.
The royal sword on his shoulders alighted,
And for his bravery was he knighted,
He rose from his knees in the mud,
As Ser Wylis the Giantsblood.
He returned to Winterfell proud,
Adored by the cheering crowd,
Though part of him mourned,
For Lyanna's rescue could not be borne.
Many years passed with him as guard,
And in that time he was held in high regard,
Until he marched south once more,
For pirate raids called the Kingdoms to war.
He stormed the breach at Pyke,
Felling Ironborn with many a strike,
For his service he was lorded,
The Barony of Wintertown awarded.
As a Baron, he was noted for his reign,
And many a criminal he did detain,
And his liege took careful mark,
Of his loyal service to the Starks.
Then the Lannisters staged a coup,
The noble Stag King they slew,
A call for Stark fealty was given,
But the Lannister crimes were not forgiven.
The Stark's called the banners,
Offended at the lack of Southern manners,
And Ser Wylis marched again,
To once more see the Southern glens.
He might have died at the Red Wedding,
Or saved his King from a beheading,
But this part of the tale matters not,
Because the North faced a foe they had forgot.
Raging down from beyond the Wall,
Crow and Free Folk to their blades did fall,
Down came the Army of the Dead,
To catch the land of the living abed.
To the North, the Raven did fight,
On mental wings he took flight,
But the Night King came for him,
And his final fate was grim.
But the Raven had more tricks up his sleeve,
And more great works he could achieve,
So he called a certain knight from the war,
Because he needed a man to hold a door.
Through time, the knight's mind whirled,
As his deeds were forgotten by the world,
He lost his respect, his lands, his fame,
Even taken from him was his name.
Hodor was what he became,
To hold a door against wights,
All the things he gave that night,
And was never given proper acclaim.
AN: I very much do not normally write in a poetic style. This story idea has been floating around my head since the episode with Hodor's origin and death first aired. Yesterday, I was pondering it while driving and fuck me it started rhyming.
Constructive comments only please.