Strings of Silk / Aemond Targaryen

The Tourney: Part II

a/n: this part is long (7.5 k words) 

A host of singers roamed along the edge of field with sweet or raucous melodies, little caring if their songs clashed. Lark only narrowed their eyes at them. "They lack spirit," he said. "They sing from throat, like goose. A true song burns in belly, devours a man with heat."

"I wonder how you can know so well, when you don't sing at all," I said with a devious smile, and he smirked at me. He knew I meant to tempt him, but his songs, it seemed, were only for Queen Helaena.

We walked through the line of tents and past the commons, where it seemed the whole city was pressed against the barricade, delighting in the revels. The melee would be far briefer than the joust, and the morning was given over to mummers and bards. Jesters from across the sea cartwheeled across the field and juggled coins, occasionally tossing a silver stag to the eager crowd.

Lark told me of a scandalous Myrish dance as we took our seats. "They press their cheeks together," he said matter-of-factly. "And whisper indecent things. Magisters try to outlaw it, parents try to control children, but no luck." He looked with awe at the platform erected before us, a stage with a glittering backdrop of cloth-of gold.

"Is that-" he said, but he snapped his mouth closed and nodded reverently. A musician in massive pantaloons knelt before a foreign double harp and plucked a mournful ballad. Across the field, the more typical fare continued, mummers and fools in motley.

A slim young man minced onto the stage in black wig that tumbled to his waist. His silk gown was too large, his cheeks were heavily rouged and he looked at the audience with forlorn eyes lined with kohl.

"All pity Nymeria, princess of the Rhoyne!" he said in a sweet falsetto. "Abandoned by my love, I must take to the sea!"

The courtiers hooted, ready for a farce. The usual fare meant crude faces, a slap on the arse or a dangling rubber phallus. But it dawned on me, from the Braavosi accent and the plaintive music, that that these were not mummers, but players. In Braavos, they learned whole stories by heart, tales of long dead kings, fated lovers, and treachery.

The crowd erupted in whistles and a knight, already drunk, demanded to see Nymeria's teats. At one point Nymeria's voice cracked, which led to peals of giggles from the stands. But it did not phase her, and she continued on, joined by other players, a Rhoynish prince, a sister, a merchant and a sea captain.

It was not the story I knew, of Nymeria who fled the Valyrian Freehold and eventually found refuge in Dorne, but a convoluted love story. The villain was a scheming merchant who laid out various plots to separate Nymeria from her true love, Prince Garin.

Even I knew it was nonsense, but by the time Nymeria stepped onto her ship, a heavy contraption manned by three assistants, I had lost all my qualms. She gave her parting speech, her words rich in poetry and deflection, and tears rolled over my cheeks. I turned toward Lark, but he had vanished.

"Did you like it?" asked Aemond, who had taken his place.

I wiped my tears and nodded, embarrassed to be seen weeping. But I broke into an involuntary sob. He smiled knowingly, and taking a kerchief, dabbed the tears from my cheek. "There now, you'll make me sorry I brought them."

"You brought them?" I had not realized.

"Well, they were in the city, and my brother needed a morning's entertainment. I thought you might like to see something of Dornish history."

I stared at him, confounded. He couldn't mean I had influenced his choice.

"Of course, a few changes had to be made. The villain was a wicked Valyrian prince, which obviously couldn't be permitted, so he was replaced with a merchant."