I am a throne for the weary, a place of relief, yet never royal nor grand, what am I?

I'll play a tune and step in line, with brass and drums, our rhythm's fine. In fields or streets, we make our stand, together we're the

I am soft and fluffy, and I dry what is wet, yet in my embrace, even the damp forgets.

I possess no wings, yet still fly quite high. I do not have plumage, yet still catch one's eye. I symbolize pride and a quite stable cause. While kings may possess me, I might still be yours.

In marble walls as white as milk, Behind a veil as soft as silk, Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple does appear, No doors are there to this stronghold, yet thieves break in and steal the gold.