“I thought I might find you up here.”
Magdalyn stiffened at the voice, but did not turn around. Her hands rested on the porous, rough stone of the railing before her, tapping a staccato beat. She was standing on a bridge in the sky, watching countless people mill about below, setting up the finishing touches for the festivities. Laughter and merriment filled the air.
It was… odd.
Her thumb drummed harder. Nightsong was more full of people than it had been in four years, and that felt out of place for reasons she could not completely comprehend, and so she stiffly shoved it aside, taking a deep breath. Slowly, she let it out.
Then the bells began - at the top of each of the Singing Towers, a loud GONG and then sweet, melodious ringing, signifying the five minutes until the start of the event. As the lowest pitched one thrummed across the open air, her breath stuttered, and she held back a flinch.
She could practically taste Criston’s petulant disappointment. A strong hand grasped her chin, fingers digging into her cheeks, dragging her face upward, tilting her head left and right like a prized pig on display. Her cousin loomed over her, tall and broad in ways she was not, his arms and shoulders powerful with corded muscle that shifted beneath his tunic. His sharp jaw was cleanshaven, his platinum hair cut short, and the crooked grin on his face may well have been charming to anyone else but her. It just made her feel vaguely queasy, the hot burn of her temper leaping at its heels.
“No tears,” he observed, then chuckled as she violently slapped his hand away. “There used to be a time when that bell would send you into a fit. Screaming, wailing, crying. Your favorite songs.”
Magdalyn said nothing, but her eyes narrowed and her gaze grew stormier, thick brows furrowing down.
He stepped closer, enough that she could smell the spicy scent of whatever lather the barber used to shave him, and rested his hand atop her shoulder, running his thumb back and forth over the fabric. “Why don’t you sing for me anymore, Maggie?”
Shut up. Don’t touch me.
Despair was an old friend to her, deep and well-seated; it had made its expansive home in the bounds of her chest, along with its cousins loathing and anger. The fire-red impulse to smash her fist into his face throbbed within her, and she strangled it back with sheer force of will. She needed calm. What was it Maester Unnymed said? To count? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…
Seven nights, seven nights of constant ringing, constant ringing, and by the gods why wouldn't those bells cease. On and on--
“--have you drifted off on me?” His grip tightened, the first real annoyance leaching into his tone. Magdalyn blinked, screwed her eyes shut, then cut her gaze to him.
“You’re not going to get a rise from me, Criston,” she said disdainfully.
He ‘tch’ed, withdrawing his hand. “No crying, and now no fighting. Color me amazed. You truly are trying hard to control your strange proclivities. ”
Magdalyn stared at him flintily, imagining what his face would feel like under her nails if she raked them down. Would he cry and scream? Would it scar? There would be blood. Blood.
Gorge rose in her throat, and she fought the image down. Gods of sky and tree and stone, no matter how awful he was, he was family, she could never, ever - but then she simply felt angry again, for him making her feel guilt.
One, two, three…
Whatever was burning in her chest must have shown itself on her features, because he stepped back with an amused smirk, palms raised in mock-supplication.
“Perhaps instead of hiding out up here like a coward, you should address your guests, my lady,” he suggested. “The stage is yours.”
The castle of Nightsong was done up in splashes of color. Grand paintings and old, famous tapestries hung across the outside walls of the recently-constructed stadium, removed from their original place in the harpist’s galley - the hall of poetry, instruments, and works of art created by the Carons of old - for the Singing of the Blades, as was tradition. An increased guard presence stood watch, ensuring children and adults alike looked but didn’t touch.
The stadium itself was enormous, seated just outside the boundaries of Nightsong’s godswood. Its walls ran nearly from the West Tower to the East Tower, and encapsulated Nightsong’s uncommonly large courtyard in its entirety. Inside, it was separated into four areas; the audience seating that circled its circumference-- then to the west, the melee pit where the footed and mounted melees would take place-- and to the east, a stretch of grassland and cages that held the snarling animals for the beast fights.
In the center, a raised dais of polished oak was present, more akin to a performance stage, where participants of the arts competitions would conduct their work. Later it would be removed, and the Battle of the Bladesong would take place where it once was.
It was there Lady Magdalyn Caron stood, her arms hanging loosely at her side and her trusted Captain of the Guard at her shoulder.
She peered out at the crowd, trying to suppress an uncomfortable scowl - then seemed to realize what she was doing, and wiped her expression, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin. Though only thirteen, she had already surpassed many other women in height, and promised to become taller still. Gangly, long-boned, with a slightly crooked nose, and a broad face she would grow into as she got older, Magdalyn was no great beauty, unlike her cousin the Lady Aria.
Her thick black hair was untamed, flowing over her black dress, and her eyes were such a dark grey that from a distance, her pupils became lost in them. But her voice was clarion-clear, and while young, it held within it a melodious hint of why the local smallfolk called her the Nightingale of Nightsong.
“Friends,” she called out, hushing the murmur of voices, “Lords and ladies, I thank you on behalf of House Caron for making the long, and at times arduous, trip across the Stormlands to be here with us for the first Singing of the Blades-”
Magdalyn paused for a split second, and blinked hard, before continuing, “-in four years. The Gods have imbued mankind with passion, the love of creation and destruction alike, and as passion is within us, so too must it be expressed without. There are few things that stir passion quite so much as the clash of blades or the pursuit of the arts: today, we celebrate both things.”
She took a step back, waving toward the contestants who were gathered at the side in a single line. “May the festivities commence.”
MELEE
First Place
Second Place
Third Place
MOUNTED MELEE
First Place
Second Place
Third Place
BEAST FIGHTS
First Place
Second Place
Third Place
POETRY CONTEST
Winner:
MUSIC CONTEST
Winner:
SINGING CONTEST
Winner:
Winner of Tournament:
Submitted September 08, 2018 at 01:52AM by marcherlark https://ift.tt/2O3QhGA
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