Hands of Gold - L'Orchestra Cinematique/George R.R. Martin
He rode through the streets of the city
Down from his hill on high
O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobble
He rode to a woman's sigh
For she was his secret treasure
She was his shame and his bliss
And a chain and a keep are nothing
Compared to a woman's kiss
For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm
For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm
For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm