The north wind screams, the longship’s oar
A thousand hearts pound on the shore.
With iron in his fist and fire in his eye,
The wolf of Jorvik claims his sky.
"Awake, my brothers, the tide is near—
The crowning of the storm, the fall of fear!"
The sea foam screams, the dragon标准 flies,
Ragnar’s hammer cracks the lies.

He is the king of the north, the storm born of frost!
With axe in hand, he sundered the host.
From Dublin’s wall to Paris’ pride,
No shield can stand where his wrath has tried.
The crowns will bleed, the thrones will burn—
The serpent’s heir returns to yearn!
For gold, for glory, for realms to own—
The north’s wild king demands his throne!

His banner waves where the brave fall deep,
A wolf in the feast, a wolf in the keep.
The mead-hall quakes when his war-horns sound,
The dead rise to march, to storm the ground.
"Odin’s child, with blood-stained blade,
I’ll carve my name where the gods have strayed."
The shields collapse like autumn leaves,
His laughter roars through the dying eaves.

He is the king of the north, the storm born of frost!
With axe in hand, he sundered the host.
From Dublin’s wall to Paris’ pride,
No shield can stand where his wrath has tried.
The crowns will bleed, the thrones will burn—
The serpent’s heir returns to yearn!
For gold, for glory, for realms to own—
The north’s wild king demands his throne!

The seer’s cry: "Beyond the sea, a crown awaits—
But the price is the world, and the cost—your fate."
Yet Ragnar smiles, with ash on his breath,
"Let the mead of life flow, sweet and death-defying death."
The valkyries weep for the souls he’ll take,
As the world-tree shivers on his account.

He is the king of the north, the storm born of frost!
With axe in hand, he sundered the host.
From Dublin’s wall to Paris’ pride,
No shield can stand where his wrath has tried.
The crowns will bleed, the thrones will burn—
The serpent’s heir returns to yearn!
For gold, for glory, for realms to own—
The north’s wild king demands his throne!

So sing the sagas of the tempest’s path,
Of the ravager who wore the wrath of ath.
When the stars grow cold and the oceans dry,
His name will roar where the eagles fly—
The king of the north, the never-dying flame,
Ragnar Lothbrok—conqueror of fame!


Skål to the storm! Skål to the fight!
The north’s eternal king—burning bright!