Son of Summer,
child of flame,
bore the crown
uncouth, untamed.

Until the dark
defiled the land,
snow and prairie,
swamp and sand.

And so our prince
his foe did seek,
the Frigid Prince
(though tongue-in-cheek),
asked for his blade
and for his heart,
the age of Emroy
then did start.

In Northern halls,
dear Cas did stroll-
although his head
was set to roll.

But in his soul
was no alarm,
for our fair prince
knew well his charm.

Farewell to headsman,
“no,” to death,
refused to breathe
his final breath.

Instead he sealed it
with a kiss,
and Jasper’s heart
he did not miss.

The wicked queen
cast from her throne,
the monsters set out
far from home.

Two crossed blades
of Cas and Jas,
the age-old war
was not to last.

Unmatched by all
in song and drink,
bold in battle
tickled pink.

Son of Summer,
red and gold,
his tale shall always
true be told.

© Katherine Steffeter