Night always came a little earlier to Oldtown than it did to King's Landing.
The last traces of an orange-red sunset still lingered across the surface of the Honeywine, while the great beacon atop the Hightower had already been lit, its flames blazing against the darkening sky.
But in Lyonel Hightower's eyes, that fire was nowhere near as dazzling as Samantha's hair.
The room was in a stone building in Oldtown's eastern district, near the outer edge of the Citadel. Lyonel had rented it under a false name.
The building stood on Stone Street. Downstairs was a spice shop, whose aromas were enough to mask any suspicious traces.
The upstairs room wasn't large, but it had been furnished with great care. A broad oak bed stood in the center, its canopy draped in deep crimson silk imported from Lys. On the table sat a wine jug and two goblets.
Now both cups were empty, and the jug had been drained to the last drop. One window stood half open, letting the evening breeze drift inside, stirring the crimson bed curtains with a gentle flutter.
Lyonel reclined against the headboard, his bare upper body gleaming with the healthy sheen of youth in the candlelight.
His hair bore the Hightower family's signature brown.
Samantha Tarly sat on the edge of the bed, retightening the laces of her corset.
Her fingers were deft, yet she seemed to be deliberately taking her time, as though savoring the slow ritual of putting herself back together.
She had a head of deep crimson hair that made her especially striking among Oldtown's noble circles.
At twenty years old, she was in the very bloom of womanhood—poised between a young girl's innocence and a mature woman's fullness.
Lyonel watched her from behind, his gaze drifting from her crimson hair to the bare nape of her neck, then lower to the faint indentation the corset laces left around her waist.
His throat bobbed.
He reached out and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"Lyonel, stop that," Samantha said, giving his hand a light slap that felt more like a caress.
"It's getting dark. We need to be back before the banquet."
"You invited several Archmaesters from the Citadel today. We can't miss it."
"Then let them wait." Lyonel rested his chin on her shoulder, the tip of his nose brushing against her earlobe.
"I'm the heir to Oldtown. You're a lord's wife. We have the right to be late."
Samantha let out a soft laugh and turned her head to look at him.
His face hadn't entirely lost the softness of youth, but his jawline was already beginning to sharpen. In another year or two, he would grow into the sort of handsome man who would turn every noblewoman's head.
"Lyonel," Samantha said with a helpless smile.
"You say the same thing every day."
"'Let them wait.'"
"'I don't care.'"
"'I only want you.'"
"Can't you come up with something new for once?"
"I can." Lyonel tightened his arms around her, pulling her even closer.
"I'll marry you one day."
"Is that new enough?"
Samantha's smile froze for a moment before growing even warmer.
It was a complicated smile, carrying sweetness, bitterness, and a melancholy too difficult to put into words.
"Aren't you afraid of what people will say?" Samantha teased, lightly tapping the tip of his nose with a finger.
"The Seven Hells were made for people like you."
Lyonel caught her finger and pressed a kiss to it.
His lips were dry, carrying the unmistakable warmth of youth.
"The Targaryens marry their own kin," he said, determination shining in his amber eyes.
"The Faith was furious. It protested."
"But what happened in the end?"
"Didn't they obediently bless those marriages anyway?"
"Why can't I do the same?"
He paused, his voice dropping lower.
"I'm not afraid of what people think of me, and I don't care what those nobles say behind my back."
"They've never spoken cleanly about the Targaryens behind closed doors either..."
"But the moment they're standing in front of a dragon, they kneel faster than anyone."
Samantha looked at the confident young man before her without saying a word.
Foolish boy...
The Targaryens could do such things because they had dragons. Even the Faith had been forced to compromise.
She had never liked Lord Ormund. There was no point pretending otherwise.
He was more than twenty years older than she was, already forty-seven. Gray streaks had begun creeping into his hair, his belly had grown soft, and in bed he was as rough and hurried as a boar in rut.
The lord hadn't married her for love, but for a political alliance.
Lyonel was different.
When Lyonel looked at her, there was a light in his eyes—a purer thing, the spark that naturally burst forth when one young heart found another that made it race.
Samantha knew it was wrong.
She knew exactly what would happen if they were discovered. She would lose everything and be sent to the Silent Sisters, spending the rest of her life in silent prayer.
But she couldn't stop.
"Lyonel..." Samantha sighed. She slipped her finger from his grasp and walked to the window, where the evening breeze stirred her crimson hair.
"Perhaps... we should end this."
Lyonel's smile vanished.
"If your father ever found out..." Samantha said without turning around, her voice so soft it sounded as though she were speaking to herself. "You know what would happen."
Lyonel climbed out of bed and walked over barefoot. The floor was cold beneath his feet, but his body still radiated heat.
He reached out but didn't embrace her. Instead, he gently brushed the loose strands of her crimson hair aside, exposing the graceful line of her neck.
"He won't find out," Lyonel said with complete certainty.
"We've been so careful. This house was rented under a false name."
"I use the secret passage. You travel by sedan chair. My trusted men are guarding the entrance."
"No one will ever know."
Samantha turned to face him.
"Someone will find out eventually."
"Secrets are like water. No wall is so tightly built that it can keep them from seeping through."
"Then if we're discovered, we'll leave." Lyonel took her hand and pressed it against his bare chest.
Samantha could feel his heart beating beneath her palm—strong, powerful, and fast.
"I'll marry you," Lyonel said, staring straight into her eyes with his amber gaze.
"Samantha... my love."
"Will you wait for me?"
Lady Samantha fell silent.
She looked at his youthful, vibrant face before suddenly asking, "Are you planning to kill your own father?"
The words sliced through the warmth of the room like a knife.
Lyonel's eyes flickered, and he lowered his head.
"I won't."
"But I can wait..."
He looked up again, meeting her eyes once more.
"Don't you understand how I feel?" He pressed her hand more firmly against his chest, letting her feel the pounding of his heart.
"My father has arranged countless marriage alliances for me. The Rowan girl, the Redwyne girl, a Tyrell..."
"Even one from the Westerlands..."
"I turned them all down."
"Every last one."
There was an unusual calmness in Lyonel's voice, as though he were speaking about something that had nothing to do with him.
"My refusal made Father so furious he smashed a goblet." He gave a bitter smile.
"But he never forced me."
Samantha looked at him, her fingers slowly tracing circles across his chest as she felt the steady beat of his heart.
She couldn't help but be moved.
"And what about the Faith?" Samantha asked again.
"The Faith will never allow it."
"This would be condemned under the teachings of the Seven."
"The Faith would oppose it without question..."
"I'm a Hightower," Lyonel interrupted, his voice firm.
"The future Lord of Oldtown."
"My house commands tens of thousands of men. The Hightower overlooks all of Oldtown."
"The Faith? How many soldiers does the Faith have?"
The corners of his mouth curled upward, revealing the bold arrogance unique to young men.
"Not even the Faith can stand in the way of my resolve."
"Even if it means breaking with the Faith entirely, I'll do it."
Samantha looked at him for a long time without speaking.
Finally, she cupped his face with both hands before pulling him into her embrace.
Lyonel buried his face between her soft breasts, breathing in the sweet scent of rose oil mingled with her natural fragrance.
"If only my family had married me to you instead," Samantha said from above him, her voice filled with deep resignation.
"If you had been the one I married... how wonderful that would have been."
Lyonel closed his eyes and buried his face even deeper against her.
"Then pretend I'm him," Lyonel muttered.
"Once I inherit his title, I'll be Lord Hightower."
"When that day comes, if you marry me instead of him... what's the difference?"
Samantha didn't answer.
She simply ran her fingers gently through his brown hair, again and again.
The room was utterly silent.
Only the faint crackle of the burning candle and the sound of their mingled breathing filled the air.
Lyonel thought that, if he could, he would never wake from this moment.