[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/BU45oZv.png[/img]
[h3]A Lover's Quarrel[/h3]
Collab [@Vanq] [@Sini][/center]

Power was as much posturing as it was abstract. One could not hold it, yet one must be seen wielding it. Tourneys, such as Maekar now organised, came close to that, Brynden Rivers knew. An event as high profile as that required his attention, personal [i]touch[/i]. There were strings to be pulled, leashes to be tightened, and collars to be fixed. And thus, the red-eyed white dragon had alighted on Summerhall accompanied by a score of his Raven’s Teeth. They had hung back as part of Prince Baelor Breakspear’s suite, letting King Daeron’s heir and Hand soak in the plaudits and praises of the people. A star-studded assembly the tourney was – with celebrities and infamous rogues alike attending. And none were more infamous than Bloodraven.

Daemon and Aegor were built like true warriors, but Brynden was gaunt. Not that he had to be ashamed of his prowess as a swordsman, the fruit of his stubbornness not to be outdone. None could shoot as well as him. Instead of his brawn he had grown up relying on his wits and cunning, and had sharpened his mind so it had a murderous edge. Though he had spent his life working not to be put in the shadows, it was where he thrived. He even dressed in the colours of smoke and coal, forever watching with his crimson eyes. Already his half-brother the King and his Small Council depended on his particular skillset to remain informed. Things were going his way, were it not for the disappearance of his most beloved. None of his watchful ravens had reported on her whereabouts, though Bloodraven had his suspicions as to where she had gone. Thus, over the weeks his mood had grown as dark as reputation.

Black-clad, with the weirwood longbow unstrung across his back, one of his guard brought him news dreadful and cold as midwinter. Brynden had remained seated behind the desk in the room provided him, begrudgingly, by his royal cousin. There were no expletives or curses vile enough to fathom his anger and regret. Yes, Shiera was not the most loyal of lovers, nor was he especially possessive. Aware of her straying, and mindful of his own jealousy, Bloodraven had worked hard at developing a way to allow her her liberties and make peace with it. Being envious, let alone displaying it, only encouraged her appetites. But [i]this[/i]? This was no straying, no fad, no craving. This was betrayal and an insult. He spent agonising moments, which seemed to stretch out like prisoners on the rack, pondering her motivations. Why would she do this to him? In Bracken livery no less… Did she understand nothing? There were better ways of asking for attention. Had she finally taken leave of her senses? [i]I ought to have never indulged her interests into the arcane and occult.[/i]

“Fine,” he grated out with all the feeling of a millstone. His red eyes rested on covered cage. Slowly, Bloodraven stood up from the high-backed chair and made his way over to it, his guardsman staying put in the doorway. He knew better than to leave without dismissal. “She is not the only one capable of employing symbolism.” Pulling back the cloth revealed a tall construction of mahogany and ivory, and silver bars. Colourful shades flitted inside, like bursts of dye, and erupted into song. Deft movements of practiced hands unlocked the little door as Brynden uttered soothing noises. Ever so gently, he wrapped his long fingers around one of the fine-feathered creatures. There were two of them: one red and white speckled with black, the other blue and green. They represented everything Shiera loved about the Summer Islands, whence they hailed. There, they were used to harvest feathers for those famous cloaks, or erotic ceremonies which so captured his lover’s imagination. Bloodraven squeezed, and the red and white little bird popped and cracked, then dropped lifeless to the bottom of the cage. The other one, the survivor, let out a plaintive and sorrowful flurry of notes. When Brynden had removed his hand from the birdcage, it flew down to hop around the crushed corpse. The captain of the swan ship Brynden had acquired them from had told him they mated for life. “Gift this to My Lady Seastar and tell her to set the living one free.”

By the time the Raven’s Tooth had collected the cage, Brynden was already sat behind the desk again, going through reports about happenings in Sunspear and the Planky Town. “Oh,” he said, just before the longbowman shut the door, “and find the oldest most decrepit stallion to carry it. Make sure to wish joy of it. She shall be easy to find, soldier. Simply follow the smell of horse shit.”

[hr]


Shiera was alone in the tent, or near enough to being alone. Aegor, much as he had since they arrived, was at their brother's beck and call. She knew to not expect him until well after she would crawl into their bed, alone. She would surely wake to him already gone again. This had not been what she had planned when she first went to Stone Hedge. She had thought to travel with Aegor, yes, but she had planned to leave his side immediately. She had expected to be received differently. 

Arriving with Aegor, in his family’s sigil, she had felt the eyes on her - eyes who recognized her on sight or by rumor. There had been desire from men who thought themselves worthy of her for a night, judgment from men and women alike, hatred and distrust. She had been at court long to know how others viewed her, or at least she had known it when she had been by Brynden’s side. This was markedly different. With great disappointment she was again forced to face the truth that her value was dependent on whose bed she claimed.  

Yet it was not the return to solitude nor depressing truths that overwhelmed her now.  Pathetic cries had filled the tent for the past hour. Her gift from Brynden. Shiera stood in front of the cage, arms folded across her chest, her gaze flickering between anger and despair. This was not what she had anticipated. Her poor little bird flung itself against the cage, its song full of sorrow for its dead mate. She had avoided looking at the crumpled body, yet her eyes could not help but dart towards before she again turned her head away. A cruel fate, and yet it was Brynden's bird that lay dead while hers cried for its passing. How much easier it would have been to fully turn on her love had it been hers that lay unmoving on the bottom of the cage. 

Had she wounded him so much? Did he think his own pain would hurt her, as if hers hurt him? She hugged herself, uncertain of her own response. Part of her desired nothing but to take to Summerhall immediately, throw herself before him in an act of absolution, beg to feel his suffocating embrace again. Perhaps she would even promise to never leave him again, to make herself his wife at last. But she stood unmoving instead, the bird’s cries dimmed from exhaustion. She recalled telling Brynden of the first time Aegor had stated his desire for her. [I]It is only his jealousy that desires you.[/I] She had believed it at the time, had rejected Aegor cruelly. Yet their journey together, born of her own despair, had shown a glimmer of more. Had that been an outright lie, or had Brynden been blinded by his own hatred? It clouded her mind with uncertainty.  

They hated each other equally, perhaps the only thing they could both agree on other than a love for her. Could they not learn to accept the other for that alone? Foolish thoughts, she chided herself. It was an impossible situation and yet, she realized with panic rising in her throat, the first time she had recognized what was always there. She would have both or she would have neither. Perhaps it would be better to abandon them both before fate forced her hand, for they would never choose to set aside hatred over love. 

The tent was suddenly silent, the din outside as if it was miles away. Her ears rang with the sound of blood rushing through her veins, she gasped for a breath, her fingers dug into her arms seeking a steadiness she did not have. Her mismatched eyes darted back to the cage, the silence was complete. Her little bird had given all it had and joined its mate; two lifeless forms huddled in death. 

Their hatred was greater than their love. 

At last her resolve broke and she fell to her knees, her hands steadied her for a moment before she had no choice but to cup her face behind them as tears welled up and spilled over. Her shoulders shook with each despairing sob that wracked her body. She had not intended to need them both, Brynden had been her world, though one she had needed to stray from. How long had she avoided Aegor? Perhaps she had always known it was a line once crossed she could never return from again. 

She knew, in the end, she would have to abandon both of them. She felt hollow at the thought. Though it was the only course left for her, in a moment of pure denial, Shiera dried her tears. Perhaps after the tourney she could flee to Lys. Maybe she would be wrong and they would join her. Maybe she was wrong about herself and she did not need them both. It was tenuous hope, but it was hope. She could confront the truth again, when all of this was over. 

Jeyne had entered to find Shiera still on the ground, staring emptily at the quiet cage. Before the maid could ask any questions, her lady was ready with instructions. "Burn the birds and have the cage returned empty to Summerhall. Have a message delivered with it. [I]One could not live without the other.[/I]" She was not sure what he would make of it, but she hoped she was wrong about her own fate. 


[hider=tl;dr]
Bloodraven finds out that Shiera has arrived and sends a message/sad gift to his lover. Shiera responds in typical dramatic fashion.
[/hider]