Companion Chapter for A Convenient Ruin
⚠️ Spoilers for the ongoing fic! ⚠️
This little scene happens riiiiiight after Chapter 28, when Mira storms off and Ser Roland Crakehall very sensibly decides chasing after her is a good idea.
If you’d rather avoid spoilers, consider this your polite warning to flee.
Otherwise: welcome to Mira’s POV.
She gave Roland one last look and swept down the corridor without another word, her steps sharp on the stone. Let him stare. Let him feel the cut of being dismissed like some inconvenient shadow. Her blood was still boiling from the memory of his silence when it mattered most.
Behind her, she heard Ser Donnel’s low murmur and then the heavy tread of boots. Of course he was following. The stubborn ox.
She didn’t slow. If anything, she lengthened her stride, skirts snapping around her legs. The corridor narrowed ahead, turning toward the servants’ passages. Good. Fewer eyes.
“Mira.” His voice rolled after her, low and urgent. “Mira, damn it - wait!”
She ignored him.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a messy tangle of fury and hurt.
That was the worst of it. She knew what it felt like to spar with a man, to read the weight of him through crossed steel, to feel the moment his body committed before his mind did - and she knew, without wanting to know it, that Roland Crakehall moved like a man who never did anything carelessly. Even his pursuit of her was deliberate. Measured.
It made her even more furious.
A large hand caught her wrist and pulled her sideways into a dim alcove just off the passage. The torchlight here was thin, little more than a flicker. Stone walls pressed close on either side, and Roland’s broad frame filled the rest of the space, white cloak brushing her skirts as he guided her back against the warm wall.
He didn’t let go of her wrist right away. “Now you’ll listen,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve had your dramatic exit. My turn.”
Mira yanked her arm free and stepped into the space he had given her, chin tilting up, eyes flashing. “Your turn? That’s rich, comin’ from the man who couldn’t find his tongue. ‘The trainin’ yard has its rules,’” she mimicked, pitching her voice low and mocking. “Seven hells, Ser. I’ve heard more spine from limping dogs.”
His jaw tightened. “You think I wanted to stand there and let Aerion speak to you like that? He’s a prince. One cruel word and I lose the cloak, or my head if he’s feeling spiteful. You know what this white means.”
“Aye, I know exactly what it means,” she shot back, stepping closer until the tips of her boots brushed his. “It means you get to flirt with me in dark corners and laugh at my jokes and look at me like I matter. But when it counts? When some silver-haired prick tries to make me into a joke in front of the whole yard? Suddenly I’m just a servin’ girl who forgot her place, and you choose silence.”
Roland’s breath came heavier. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to grab her and shake her.
Or pull her closer.
“You are not a serving girl to me. You never have been. You’re the most infuriating, sharp-tongued, impossible woman I’ve ever met, and you’ve been—” He stopped. Pushed the words out past what sounded like genuine reluctance. “You’ve been driving me half-mad since the first time you called me handsome in that corridor.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “And yet you let him reduce me to nothin’. I saw your face, Roland. You hesitated. You stepped back. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” he growled. The admission seemed to cost him. “And it tasted like shit. But I couldn’t risk—”
“Risk what?” She jabbed a finger into his chestplate. “Risk choosin’ me for half a second? Gods, I know what you are. Kingsguard. Sworn. Celibate. All that noble rot. I’ve told myself a hundred times this is stupid, that nothin’ can happen, that I should laugh it off and find some hedge knight who can actually touch me without committin’ treason. But then you chase after me like this, corner me in the dark, and look at me like you want to take me apart, and I lose the thread of it entirely.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
The air between them thickened, crackling. Mira’s pulse thundered in her ears. She was angry, still so angry, but the want was worse. It burned low in her belly, undeniable and foolish.
Roland cursed, low and filthy.
Then his mouth crashed down on hers.
The kiss was hungry - weeks of bitten-back words and stolen glances exploding all at once and when his tongue swept into her mouth, bold and claiming, she met it with equal fury. She felt the roughness of an unshaved jaw against her skin, the slight chap of a mouth that had been pressed into a hard line all afternoon, and she kissed him harder just to feel it again.
His hand slid from her back to her hip, fingers spreading wide, dragging her closer by inches, and the armor at his hip pressed into her stomach, steel and leather, and she did not care even slightly, because the rest of him was heat and weight and the solid undeniable reality of being wanted by someone who had been very carefully, very deliberately not wanting her.
She went up onto her toes without meaning to.
He made that sound again.
For one dizzy, breathless heartbeat Mira gave in completely. She kissed him back like a woman starving, her hands fisting desperately in the white cloak as she arched into him. The low, guttural groan he made vibrated through her body and straight down between her legs, making her ache.
Then the training yard crashed back into her mind - his silence, the way he had stepped back, the humiliation while Aerion sneered.
Mira wrenched her mouth away and slapped him hard across the face.
The crack rang in the narrow space between the stones. Her palm stung. He reeled back half a step, more from shock than force.
They stared at each other, breathing hard. A red mark bloomed on his weathered face. His eyes were dark, wild, stunned.
Her lips still tingled. Her chest ached with everything she shouldn’t feel for a man bound by vows.
This is madness.
“Feel better?” he rasped.
“Not nearly.” She shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “Get out of my way, Ser. I’m done with half-measures and half-men.”
She tried to push past him, but Roland’s arm shot out, bracing across the alcove and blocking her escape. The movement brought them chest to chest again. Heat rolled off him in waves.
“You’re not walking away from this,” he said, low and dangerous. “Not until we finish it.”
“Finish what?” Mira laughed, sharp and furious, even as her body traitorously flushed at the closeness. “You’ve already made your choice and I don’t need your scraps.”
“My scraps?” His laugh was dark, edged. He leaned in, towering over her, voice dropping. “Woman, you’ve been tormenting me for weeks. Every smile, every wicked comment about my ‘form,’ every time you lean over that rail like you’re daring me to forget every oath I ever took. You think this is easy for me?”
Mira’s breath hitched. The words hit low and hot. She hated how much she loved hearing them.
“Then do something about it instead of hiding behind your precious vows like a craven!” she hissed, shoving him again. This time he caught her wrists, pinning them firmly against the wall above her head. The position arched her back, pressing her body flush to his armor.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he growled. “Chasing you like a fool. Risking everything. You want me to throw away my honor for you, Mira? Say it plain.”
She twisted against his grip, not to escape but to feel the strength in his hands. Her blood sang with it.
"Don't," she said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended. "Don't say that. I don't want that. I am not— " She pressed her lips together. Tried again. "I didn't grow up soft, Roland. I know what a thing costs before I ask for it. I wouldn't ask you for that. The cloak is yours. Your oaths are yours. I'm not goin’ to be the one who takes that from you." She held his eyes. "But I need you to see me. When it counts. Not just in alcoves."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he released her wrists and his hands found her face - careful, this time, his thumbs brushing her jaw, and she let him, which was perhaps answer enough.
"I see you," he said quietly, only to haul her against him with both hands.
Mira met him halfway.
The second kiss was slower - deliberate. She bit his lip sweet enough to draw a growl from deep in his chest. He answered by lifting her slightly, pressing her back against the stone with his hips, thigh wedging between hers. The friction dragged a broken sound from her throat.
Mira tangled her fingers in his hair and yanked, earning a hiss that turned into another hungry kiss. His gauntleted hand slid down her side, gripping her hip hard and possessive. She could feel how much he wanted her, steel and flesh and raw need.
They broke apart gasping.
“This is madness,” Roland rasped, voice wrecked.
“Aye, I know.”
"Nothing can come of it."
"I know that too." She laughed, shaky and raw, even as frustrated tears stung the corners of her eyes. Her thumb brushed the mark she’d left on his cheek, surprisingly gentle.
His mouth curved.
God, he had a terrible smile. Too warm for someone who worked so hard at being iron.
Mira lingered a heartbeat longer than she should have, feeling the warmth of him, the dangerous ease of it. Then she pressed her palm briefly to his chest and stepped back, breaking the spell before it could tighten any further.
The torchlight moved again. The world outside the alcove waited.
Mira straightened. Squared her shoulders. Put the familiar shape of herself back on - easy, steady and unbothered.
"Ser Roland.“
"Mira."
"If you choose silence over me again," she said, "I won't stop at a slap."
The smile was slow and a little pained and far too handsome. “Noted.”
She gave him one last look and swept back out into the corridor, steps sharp and purposeful against the stone.
Behind her, she heard him breathe out slowly, like a man who had been holding it.
She didn't look back.