They rode with gold on cloaks and crest
The finest blades, the boldest breast
The fleur-de-lis on field and mane
Their songs still echoed in the rain

From courtly halls to open plain
They charged as lions, proud and vain
But England knelt with strings of ash
And drew their bows in ruthless lash

Steel and silk, torn like leaves
Honor drowned beneath the eaves
Where once the sun on plate did gleam
Now blood runs red through every stream

Old Johann rode though he saw none
Blind, but loyal to his son
With chains between his knights he steered
And met the arrows — unafraid, revered

But fate cares not for chivalry
Nor eyes that burn with loyalty
The prince looked down, the storm grown still
A crown lay broken on the hill

Steel and silk, torn like leaves
The rose is trampled, the hawk still grieves
What banners wave will someday fold
No vow outlasts the evening cold

He bowed his head and found the sign
A whisper etched in blood and line
"Ich dien" — not as king, but son
A war begun, a war not won

Steel and silk, turned to dust
The past in ashes, the future thrust
Yet still he bears that silent flame
“I dien” — not for pride, but name

The fields remember what men forget
The price of honor, cold and wet