Page 100: Congratulations
Summary: Rowan crashes in Jarod's chambers, wherein they celebrate her triumph, and discuss not her problems.
Date: 23/10/2011
Related Logs: Takes place after Ladies and Champions
Jarod Rowan 
Jarod's Chambers — Four Eagles Tower
The bar is open.
October 23, 288

Rowenna Rose Nayland has had a day rife with triumph and tragedy, topped off with quite a bit of alcohol. That can really take it out of a body. After conversing with Jack and Annie on the roof, she's made her maudlin and heartachey way back into the tower, uncertain where to go. When her feet finally take her there, it makes perfect sense. She stands before the door to Jarod's room, resting her forehead against the wood, sighing as though a weight's been lifted. Clever feet. Comfort is certainly what she's in need of, and they've brought her to it.

The door is unlocked, but alas — it appears no one's home when the slender, dark-haired squire slips inside. Nevertheless, even without Jarod in it, there's a… Jarod-ness about the space. It has character. It smells like him. So she stumbles over to the bed, managing to inelegantly ungird her belt and kick off her boots, before collapsing into it and curling herself up with a pillow in her arms.

The knight is indeed not at home, and it's some time before Ser Jarod Rivers returns to his chambers. The pre-melee days have him busy, from extra time spent grueling on the practice field, to catching up (read, drinking) with Mallister men he knew back as a squire in Seagard, to getting to know those Banefort sworn that may be taking up more permanent residence in the castle now that Anais is the young lord's lady. Still, he finds his way back eventually, whistling some Westerlands marching song to himself as he enters his room. Though the whistling stops abruptly when he notices it's occupied. "What in seven hells…Rowenna?" There's evident relief as he recognizes the shape curled up on his bed. And grins, shutting his door and locking it behind him.

Only half asleep, really, she lifts her head a little at the sound of the door. "Guilty," she raises a hand to claim her identity. It drops back to the bed with a thud. Her head does the same. "I hope you weren't expecting anyone else in your bed. I'd hate to have to hurt you tomorrow." She smirks.

Jarod laughs, shaking his head firmly and bounding over to hop onto the bed with her. "Not a chance! Gods, Rowenna, sorry I didn't get a chance to talk to you after the joust. But that was…you were brilliant!" He beams that big, boyish grin of his, then pulls her close so he can kiss her properly. With feeling.

She laughs at the bounding, squealing girlishly and curling up into a ball in anticipation of being thoroughly pounced. She peeks out once he's alighted, blushing and laughing again with delight at the praise. Suddenly there are tears in her eyes again — but they must be those happy tears for when he's done something perfectly right, or something, because she returns that kiss. With feeling. Lots and lots of feeling, arms twining around his neck and fingers in his hair. "I was carrying your favor," she breathes between kissing, lightly nipping his bottom lip and dragging her nails down the nape of his neck. "How could I have been anything but brilliant?"

Jarod's laugh is a rueful sound this time, for more than just the nip to his lip. "I doubt that. That's all bollocks, you know. Lucky charms and favors and such. Out there, it's all about what you can do with your arm. Or your lance. And you earn it, however it goes, at the end of the day. Still…I'm glad you kept it. I hope you don't mind I was wearing the Lady Nommy token. I should've asked, maybe. I just…I don't know…"

"No, no," Rose shakes her head. "I loved that you wore it. It was — " She smiles, rueful in turn. "I don't know. I felt… as though maybe you'd begun to forgive me a little. I mean… it was from me. To you. For you. Because I loved you even then — even when I didn't think we could ever be… this." She sighs sweetly and kisses him again. And again. Then just peppers his face with an attack of little kisses, forehead and temples and eyebrows and eyelids and nods — all the way down to his chin. "I knew you'd be proud of me. I knew you would."

"Of course I forgive you," Jarod says, all of sincerity even as he's laughing while she kisses his face. "If you've forgiven me for what an ass I was to you after I found out. I mean, I wish it'd been different but…nobody'd ever given me a favor before. Even when I was pissed off about it I wanted to keep it because it'd felt…good to wear it and think somebody was thinking about me, you know?" He tickles her, to keep from getting overly maudlin. "Of course I'm proud of you. You were *brilliant* Rowenna Rose Nayland. You unhorsed Ser Rymar Fucking Frey. And you saved Lady Anais from embarrassment of…whatever in seven hells the Naylands would've found funny to do to her at her own tourney. It was…" He just kisses her again, unable to find the proper descriptor.

Laughing again, she squirms away from his tickling fingers, launching counter attacks whenever she's able. And then she's being kissed again, after such a glowing account of her deeds — even without the alcohol, she'd surely be light-headed. Her fingers curl into his tunic to keep from toppling over. "You get it," she whispers against his lips. "You get me…" She's floored, in awe and wonder and at a loss for words. Except, "I love you." And she kisses him once more, removing any obligation — or opportunity — to say it back.

There's a beat where it seems like Jarod might say it back. He takes a deep breath like he's winding himself up to say *something* declarative. But he gets caught up in - or perhaps takes the excuse of - kissing her again, and the moment passes. He does not attempt to backtrack and declare anything. He's perfectly happy just to fool around with her.

And Rose seems perfectly happy to do the same. Nothing complicated tonight. The less talking the better, in fact. Just bodies and breath, hungry mouths and tangled limbs, marking one another with bruises and scratches far sweeter than the ones collected on the field. The words, for the moment are irrelevant — Jarod feels like love. And that's all she needs.