“Today, I have with me a bard who shall so carry us four hundred years past.” He took a sip and his eyes alighted upon a singer who stood upon a small stage, lyre in hand. One could see the fear in the bard’s face as the assembly watched, some with excitement, most with reluctant anticipation.
                The singer strummed once and instantly his tight muscles loosened as if he had let out a most uncomfortable stool.
                “A Rose of Two Colours,” the bard called out.

                “Twin flowers in a field of roses,
Doth sit in the sun too long,
As the owl swoops ‘mongst posies ,
To the sound of winter’s song.

                For the blizzard is her fanfare sharp,
Decay, a slow sounding drum,
And death is her discordant harp,
That together sounds so glum .

                The King of night woke to this lay,
And with his ruffled feathers,
Did most solemnly and sadly say,
“There art thorns ‘mongst the heathers.”

                For the owl did know within his heart,
That Winter’s Song bodes ill,
But he knew he ought to make a start,
On his kingly duties still.

                So on this day he went to hunt,
And ate his meaty fill,
Until a loud and ghastly grunt,
Whittled away his will.

                He perched upon a branch and saw,
The eagle hatch a scheme,
expelled a cry of pain so raw,
This had haunted his dream.

                On this most inauspicious day,
His nestling came a flutter,
And all his fears came his way,
With treasons in his mutter...”

Damyen hated this song. Anything that reminded him of the black spot in his family’s history was never a good thing. This was, if nothing else, an insult upon his House, even if it was more directly connected with the Dray boy’s House. Yet this was the reason for the tournament, thus he could say nothing, just drink more of his wine. It always irked him that they focused on the death of the Prince than the actual treasonous dogs that tried to kill the King in the first place.
He swilled the wine in his cup and started a loud conversation with his companions as the bard harped on with his damned instrument but the high singing rose above his own voice.

                “...Fighting at the foot of the nest,
Owl and Eagle worn,
The nestling fell down to rest,
Upon a roses thorn.

When the flower’s too big for the stem,
We long to lop the head away,
To be crowned in winter’s diadem,
And keep our doom at bay.

Twin flowers in a field of roses,
Doth sit in the sun too long,
As the owl swoops ‘mongst posies ,
To the sound of winter’s song.”

He sat in moody silence, then took a long draught of his wine and poured another glass from the decanter. Dawnrosé, he noted, mostly sour with only a small trace of sweet, or so it is at the moment.
As he watched the merrymaking he felt himself sway slightly in his seat, and with the Lords of the Kingdom falling more and more into drunkenness that he did not care for, he could only think of the next few days. He was losing confidence in the chance of his son Astor winning, more and more he wondered if the Dray boy might do it, as the people talked, it seemed as if he were the favourite. And if he does win, then I will carry out the plan I made with Eldin. If we lose, I will send the message to my son; The other Dray whelps. Dalaena and Edaran, will be held hostage and if necessary, I will have them killed. I will not have my House's legacy lost to upstarts. I will weed them out

The End

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