In Oldtown, night always fell earlier than in King's Landing.
The last traces of the orange-red sunset still lingered on the surface of the Honeywine, and the towering Hightower blazed with the bright flame of its beacon. But in Leonor Hightower's eyes, that flame was far less dazzling than Samantha's hair.
The room was in a stone building in the eastern part of Oldtown, not far from the edge of the Citadel, rented by Leonor under a false name. On Street of Spices, the ground floor housed a spice shop—more than enough to conceal any suspicious traces. The upper room was small but furnished with care. There stood a large oak bed with a canopy of dark red silk from Lys, and on the table a flagon of wine and two goblets.
At this moment, the goblets were empty, and the flagon was also empty. The window was slightly open; the evening breeze drifted in, making the dark red bed curtains flutter gently.
Leonor Hightower leaned against the headboard; his bare body glowed with youthful health in the candlelight. He had the brown hair characteristic of House Hightower.
Samantha Tarly sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting the straps of her chemise. Her fingers were very nimble, but she seemed deliberately to slow her pace, as if enjoying the process of tidying up. She had long, dark red hair that made her stand out in Oldtown's aristocratic circles. At twenty years old, she was in the prime of life, caught between the innocence of a young girl and the fullness of a mature woman.
Leonor watched her back; his gaze slid from her red hair to her bare nape, then to the faint indentation left by the chemise strap on her waist. His throat rumbled; he reached out and embraced her from behind.
"Leonor, stop fooling around." Samantha lightly patted his hand, as if in affection. "It's getting dark. We need to return before dinner. You've invited several maesters from the Citadel today; we can't be absent."
"Then let them wait." Leonor put his chin on her shoulder, his nose touching her earlobe. "I am the heir to Oldtown, and you are the countess. You have the right to be late."
Samantha chuckled softly and turned to face him. His face had not yet lost its youthful roundness, but the lines of his jaw were beginning to sharpen. In a year or two, he would become a handsome man who would draw the eyes of all the ladies in the house.
"Leonor," Samantha said with a helpless smile. "You say the same thing every day."
"Make them wait. I don't care. I only need you."
"Can't you say something new?"
"I can." Leonor held her tighter, pulling her closer. "I will marry you in this life."
"Is that an original statement?"
Samantha's smile froze for a moment, then widened—a complex smile blending sweetness, bitterness, and an indescribable sadness.
"Aren't you afraid of what the world will think?" Samantha playfully tapped his nose with her finger. "The seven hells are prepared for people like me."
Leonor took her fingers and kissed them. His lips were dry and burning, as a young man's should be.
"All the Targaryen kin marry each other," he said; his amber eyes shone with determination. "The Faith was outraged and protested, but what happened in the end? Didn't they bless those marriages? Why can't I?"
He paused, and his voice grew even softer.
"I am not afraid of how the world sees me, nor of what the nobles say about me. They never hide their feelings when they speak of the Targaryens behind their backs... But before a dragon, those people kneel faster than anyone."
Samantha silently watched the confident Leonor.
Foolish boy...
The Targaryens could do it because they had dragons; even the Faith had to compromise with them.
She could not deny that she disliked Lord Monstead. Monstead was more than twenty years older than her—already forty-seven, with grey hair and a sagging belly. In bed, he was as rough and hasty as a rutting boar. The lord had not married her for love, but for a political alliance.
Leonor was different. When Leonor looked at her, his eyes shone with light—something purer, a spark that naturally ignites when a young heart meets someone who makes it beat.
Samantha knew this was wrong. She knew that if she were exposed, she would lose everything, be sent to the Silent Sisters, and spend the rest of her life in silent prayer. But she could not stop.
"Leonor," Samantha sighed, pulling her fingers from his, stood, and walked to the window. The evening breeze stirred her red hair.
"Perhaps we should end this relationship."
Leonor's smile vanished.
"If your father finds out..." Samantha did not turn around; her voice was very soft, as if speaking to herself. "You know what the consequences will be."
Leonor rose from the bed and followed her barefoot. The floor was cold, but his body temperature was high. He reached out—not to embrace her, but to gently push aside her red hair that had fallen over her shoulder, revealing her slender neck.
"He won't find out," Leonor said with confidence. "We are very careful. This house is under a false name. I will use the secret passage; you will go by palanquin; my trusted men will be at the door. No one will know."
Samantha turned to face him.
"Sooner or later, someone will find out. Secrets are like water; even the strongest walls cannot keep them from seeping out."
"If we are caught, we will leave." Leonor grabbed her hand and pressed it to his bare chest. Samantha could feel his heartbeat—strong, powerful, and fast.
"I will marry you," Leonor said; his amber eyes were fixed on her. "Samantha, my love. Are you willing to wait?"
Lady Samantha was silent. She looked at his young, energetic face and suddenly asked.
"Are you trying to kill your own parents?"
Those words were like a knife piercing the warm atmosphere of the room.
Leonor's gaze flickered; then he lowered his head.
"I will not. But I can wait..."
He looked up and met her eyes again.
"Don't you understand my feelings?" He gripped her hand tighter, making her feel his heartbeat. "My father arranged many marriages for me: with the daughters of Rhodos, with the daughters of Redwyne, with the daughters of Tyrell... Even in the Westerlands... I refused them all. I refused every single one."
There was a strange calm in Leonor's voice, as if he were speaking of something unrelated to him.
"My refusal so angered my father that he smashed a cup." He smiled wryly. "But he did not force me."
Samantha looked at him; her fingers slowly slid across his chest, feeling his heartbeat. She was somewhat moved.
"What of the Faith?" Samantha asked again. "The Faith will not allow this. It is a curse according to the teachings of the Seven. The Faith will surely oppose it..."
"I am Hightower," Leonor interrupted in a firm voice. "The future lord of Oldtown. My family has tens of thousands of soldiers; the Hightower stands above all of Oldtown. The Faith? How many soldiers does the Faith have?"
His lips curved slightly in a smile, betraying a hint of youthful arrogance.
"Even the Faith cannot stop my resolve. I would not hesitate to break with the Faith."
Samantha looked at him and was silent for a long time. She reached out, cupped his face in her hands, and then pulled him toward her. Leonor buried his face between her soft breasts, smelling the sweet scent of rose oil and her natural body scent.
"If only my family had married me to you back then!" Samantha's voice came from above, filled with a deep sense of helplessness. "If I had married you... it would have been so wonderful."
Leonor closed his eyes and pressed his face deeper into her embrace.
"Then I will pretend to be him," Leonor murmured in a muffled voice. "When I inherit his position, I will be Lord Hightower. By then, what difference does it make whether you marry me or him?"
Samantha said nothing. She simply ran her fingers through his brown hair again and again.
The room fell utterly silent; only the faint hiss of the burning candle and the intertwined breathing of the two people could be heard.
Leonor felt that at this moment, he could never wake up.