| I'm Just a Girl, the Sequel |
| Summary: | In which she who calls herself Ser Rowan Nayland comes clean about some things with Lord Jerold Terrick. |
| Date: | 20/04/289 |
| Related Logs: | Most of the Jarod/Rowan logs. I'll add links later |
| Players: |
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| Reading Room — Four Eagles Tower |
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| Books and a very sad lord. |
| Fri Apr 20, 289 |
The brave men of Terrick's Roost have been home three days when the girl called Rowan Nayland finally screws her courage to the sticking place and seeks out Lord Ser Jerold Terrick. She's still dressed as a boy — man now, really, elevated for valor in battle. All that rot. She's been down to the Rockcliff for a drink but had nothing, deciding at the last minute it might go worse for her if he smelled drink on her breath, whether she was actually drunk or not. It's a final, futile gesture, showing up stone-cold sober, nothing to ease her terror. If bravery is directly proportional to the acuity of fear overcome, there is no braver knight in Westeros than Ser Rowan Nayland when he knocks on the door of Lord Terrick's study.
"Enter," invites the steady voice from within. The efforts at organizing the reading room have slowed over the past months, as rebuilding efforts have occupied the retainers of Four Eagles Tower, leaving the chamber curiously unchanged by the events of the war. The same cannot be said of the man sitting in his familiar favorite chair beside the lead-paned window, with the fading sunlight illuminating his reading. Lord Jerold Terrick's hair is gone to salt and pepper, his countenance aged noticeably by the events of the past year. Glancing up from his reading briefly, he notes, "Ser Rowan. A good day to you."
The young knight sweeps a low bow, noticeably solemn, not a flourish in sight. "My Lord," he replies. "To you, as well." He approaches, reaching out to grasp the back of a chair as though to steady himself. He's paler than normal.
Jerold draws a ribbon across the page of the volume he peruses, closing the tome and setting it atop the nearby desk, turning his aging eyes up to regard the bowing Rowan, he bids, "Rise," before inviting with a small smile, "Sit, Ser," indicating the selfsame chair Rowan grips for stability. "I imagine you have given much thought of late to your future, Ser," the Lord of the Roost offers, guessing at the purpose of Rowan's visit.
"I have, My Lord," says Ser Jarod's former squire. He hesitates a moment, then sits, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "Yet I find that — that as it is impossible to enter knighthood without being reconciled to the Seven, I — cannot face the future without being reconciled to my past." The boy's dark eyes turn up to focus on Lord Terrick, earnest in their pain and contrition. "My Lord, I have not been honest with you. Or… anyone, really. And I pray you'll be able to forgive me — for I love you, My Lord. You, your sons and daughter — you've all been… exceedingly good to me. Beyond anything I'd hoped for — and I am so grateful."
"I have, My Lord," says Ser Jarod's former squire. He hesitates a moment, then sits, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "Yet I find that — that as it is impossible to enter knighthood without being reconciled to the Seven, I — cannot face the future without being reconciled to my past." The boy's dark eyes turn up to focus on Lord Terrick, earnest in their pain and contrition. "My Lord, I have not been honest with you. Or… anyone, really. And I pray you'll be able to forgive me — for I love you, My Lord. You, your sons and daughter — you've all been… exceedingly good to me. Beyond anything I'd hoped for — and I am so grateful."
Lord Jerold hears out that admission- or rather, the prelude to an admission- with the expected gravity. He draws a slow, steady breath and begins, "Rowan, I have known from the first day that you entered my hall that you were a Nayland, and were afflicted with the nature of your House. To hear you speak so earnestly of reconciling yourself to the Seven, I must admit a measure of gladness that while you have been my ward, you have learned this pious honesty." That said, he regards the knight opposite him for a long moment, before inviting, "Speak as your heart moves you, Rowan."
The slender young man takes a deep, deep breath. He scrubs his hands over his face, rakes his fingers through his hair, then grips the arms of his chair. He nods, swallowing audibly. "My Lord," he begins. His voice trembles and breaks. He clears his throat and begins again. "My Lord, my name is not Rowan Nayland. Rowan Nayland is my brother." Long lashes sweep down; the newly made Ser's knuckles whiten. "It's — my name is Rowenna."
As Rowan falters for a beginning, Jerold begins to look concerned, as he briefly puzzles out what secret could be so dire. Then the answer is given, and Jerold sits back in his chair, hand raised to touch his brow over downcast eyes. For a moment he is silent, before words are managed. His exhaled breath is long and very, very weary. "I was prepared for you to say that you had spied upon my house in your youth. Perhaps that you had stolen from me, once, and wished to make amends. Any of these I would have forgiven in the same breath it were asked." He glances up, his aging eye fixing upon the Nayland seated before him. "I must seem a very great fool, not to have seen this. Tell me, Rowan. Rowenna," he corrects briefly, "Have any of my house had carnal knowledge of you while you have been my ward?"
"No, My Lord," whispers Rowenna, completely unmoving — and equally unable to look at them man across from her. "Not so great a fool. People see… what they expect to see. My own father didn't know me. Nor my brothers. How could you?" She swallows again, shaking her hear, face going from white to scarlet and back again. "No, My Lord," she says again. "Not while I was your ward."
Lord Jerold makes no comment on the first and simply nods his head twice to the second. The Lord of the Roost is briefly at a loss for words. "Then while you have struck a blow upon the honorable reputation of my house, I take some small comfort in that you have not given cause for others to assail the remnants of Terrick virtue." A breath drawn. "My son is aware." It is not a question.
The question seems to cause her pain. She winces like a man enduring the examination of deep wound. "He is, My Lord."
"My son is not the most temperate of men, however, until this moment I had always counted him an honest man," Jerold voices quietly, tone kept woodenly even. "It pains me greatly that I must ask again, but I would have the truth, before I send for him: while you have lived beneath my roof, has Jarod had knowledge of your body?"
"No, My Lord," repeats the young… woman, with quiet but distinct emphasis. She releases the arms of her chair from the death grip in which she's clutched them, lacing her fingers in her lap again. Her hands tremble faintly, despite. "Not while I was your ward. He is an honest man," she goes on, lifting her gaze finally. "No man is perfect — in honesty, in honor — you know that. But there are a few men who are, while entirely imperfect… good. Who do their best, love their families, and die in their convictions." she swallows, asserting in a low, taut voice, "Your son is the best of those men."
Lord Jerold hears out the answer, before nodding once and drawing another breath. "You are an unmarried woman, whatever else you have been, or will become. You will leave me now, and summon the first chambermaid you encounter. For whatever short time you remain within my hall, you are not to be alone with a gentleman. However many of my people you have tarnished by this deception, I will not see more damage done. Withdraw. And bid my son that I wish to see him."
Rowenna Nayland shuts her eyes and breathes out. She swallows. "I am not unmarried." She opens her eyes again, keeping her gaze on the Lord Terrick with a force of will. "Jarod and I were married last night."
That admission finally shakes his wooden composure, and for a long moment, the greying Lord of the ruined Roost looks stricken. "Am I to be told, then.. that my son is by rights now called Jarod Nayland?" Aggrieved though he is, Jerold musters the dignity to replace his mask of propriety, and bid Rowenna, "Leave me. Now. To bid your husand that I would see him."
"No!" The girl looks equally stricken. "No, My Lord, I wouldn't do that to him — or to you. I was disowned long ago — and even had I not been, do you think they'd have me now?" Tears spill over at last. She doesn't sob or make a scene, however, and quickly banishes them with the sleeve of her tunic. "I no longer carry the Nayland name to — impose upon your son. I'm a Rivers." She stands and bows before taking her leave. "The lucky wife of a lucky bastard."
"Leave me," Jerold repeats a second time. "Now. Bid your husband that I would see him." The words are more firm than the first time he had spoken them. "Take your luck and your name and leave me."
She closes her eyes and nods, bowing again. "Right away, My Lord. Forgive me." And she does, with somewhat more haste than she entered.
