He is sipping his Chardonnay, musing about what Meera said in class then other day, when she walks in.
"Wine?" she snorts, "classy."
He stares. He does not know this woman. She is…she looks wild. Black, black hair raging over her shoulders in ringlets, unapologetic pale skin, red lips threatening to devastate, grey eyes dangerous. Very dangerous.
"I – erm – do I know you?" he stammers.
The woman looks at him sharply, "No, you don't," she says, quite serious, "What is your point?"
His point is that he doesn't like women like her. He likes blonde, silvery-haired women who looks just like him, girls who delicately agree with the things he says, who wouldn't question his choices, who doesn't paint blood over her lips. His point is that he likes women who aren't chaotic.
"Nothing," he says instead, taking another calming sip of wine.
She hums, pursing those red lips. And he feels his eyes being drawn to the movement, like a moth being drawn to light.
"You're a professor, aren't you?"
For a moment he's tempted to say no, say that he's heir to the biggest company in all of Westeros, and that enjoying a cup of wine – alone – was the only pleasure he could get at the present in his godforsaken life.
But he doesn't have to say anything, because the girl continues.
"You're a professor, probably in the arts department, given your age and style of dress," here she looks at him critically, "you probably also teach people something useful like how to play a violin, because that's what happens when rich, young people like you get a job."
"I teach the harp," he says, a little miffed, "and astronomy, actually. And I happen to enjoy teaching."
"You enjoy it, but do you really need it? It would be an employment opportunity for someone else who does."
Well, yes, he needs it. He needs it to escape from his crazy father who is crazy about money, crazy about his legacy, and crazy in lust with the wife of the CEO. He shudders, and wishes that Viserys could inherit the whole damn business; he'd be better suited anyway. Old Valyria could use a man like Viserys, a man madly in love with power already.
The woman's tequila shots arrive – when did she order them again? – and she knocks back all three in one sitting, wiping her mouth with her hand and smearing her lipstick as she does. She looks at the scarlet slashed across her palm.
"Oops," she shrugs, and glances at him, "You're not very talkative, are you?"
He doesn't give her a reply. When will this woman get it that he wants to be alone with his thoughts?
She sighs, then says, "I'm Lyanna Stark. I'm young, I'm beautiful, I have a master's degree in civil engineering, and I'm betrothed. What's your name?"
The word "betrothed" catches him off guard, "don't you mean 'engaged'?" He asks.
She grins at him, "Ah! So the stranger does talk. I was beginning to think that you were socially inept."
He flushes, shoves his hair back, and mutters a curse.
"What was that?" her grin widens, and she leans in.
He straightens, "I said, fuck you."
Lyanna laughs, the sound is low and loud and harsh, and annoyingly enchanting.
"Much as I'd like to do you, pretty boy, I can't; I told you I'm betrothed to someone."
"Don't you mean - "
"My, my, you're picky with words, but I guess with musicians and songwriters, that's hardly surprising."
"I didn't say I was a songwriter."
"You didn't?" she pauses, not surprised at all, "Are you one, though?"
He shrugs, looking away, and she is triumphant.
"But no," and her shoulders sag, "I do mean betrothed. My father has this sort of alliance with Robert's father and it involves some kind of marriage pact."
"Marriage pact?" he frowns.
"I know," she barks a laugh. It sounds forced, "It's positively medieval. But that's that."
"Can't you break it off? This is the twenty-first century."
"Nope," she pokes at one of her shot glasses sullenly, "Because Robert is in love with me, and Robert is Ned's best friend."
She sees his confused look, and clarifies, "Ned's my brother. And Robert is his best – well, only – friend, I think. He doesn't have a lot of them, Ned, I mean. And if I break off the engagement, father will probably never speak to me again, Brandon – he's my other brother – will probably suffer once he inherits the company because then our support from Robert's father's company will have gone and we can't lose the support. And Ned will lose his best friend."
"I don't understand. Robert will only be angry with you, and he loves you, so he'll forgive you soon enough," He pauses, then adds, "Surely Ned has told Robert that he wants his best friend to become his brother."
She takes his wine glass and gulps the down the remainder of the wine, "Robert's extremely jealous, he'll only think that Ned was plotting against him as well. And he won't forgive me, or my family for that matter. 'Ours is the fury' – his very own words."
"Well, he loves you. Marrying him can't be that bad."
She glares at him, "Not that bad," she mocks, "What is bad is that it is my life and I don't have a say in any of this. I'm a civil engineer and he treats me like a china doll, like a trophy wife. What's worse is that the man gets drunk every night, and when he gets hammered enough, he'll find a random girl at the bar and shag her. He shows no sign of stopping. How am I to live with a husband who doesn't respect me? I don't love him. I don't even like him, but my family's fortune depends on me and I don't want to see any of them hurt in any way. So I took the world upon my shoulders thinking that it might be nice to be a hero. But I hadn't imagined that the world would be so heavy."
He feels a stab of pity for the girl, and motions for the barman to refill their glasses.
She smiles feebly, "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"No", he says honestly.
She stretches, "I like you. What's your name, violin professor?"
Harp professor, he almost corrects but thinks better of it.
"Rhaegar Targaryen, and – "
"Targaryen!" she exclaims, and his fingers twitch at her rudeness, "I should have known!"
She reaches over and tugs at his hair to prove her point. He flicks her hand away.
"What are you doing here drinking yourself silly with this cheap wine when you have the wine of Old Valyria?"
He scowls, "Old Valyrian wine isn't as good as it sounds. It's like that Dornish stuff you folks think is in fashion now, except that it's much more expensive and much more pretentious," here Lyanna huffs a laugh and his scowl deepens, "And I was saying, until you rudely interrupted, that I know what you mean."
"What?" She says, a little unfocused.
"I'm Rhaegar Targaryen and I know what you mean."
"Yes, yes," she says, waving a hand, "And what do I mean?"
She is closer now, waiting.
"To have the world upon your shoulders. To feel caged," He doesn't know why he's telling this to her, this not-his-type-of-woman, but the words are spewing out of his mouth, "I want nothing more than to play music, watch the stars, and teach what I know to others. I want to write songs of kings, of lovers, of heroes all day, every day. I want to live in ruins, in shambles, in shatters, until I can figure out the puzzle and put myself together. I want to build. I want to create."
Lyanna is watching him very closely, her grey eyes glittering in the gloom, "Then why don't you?"
"Old Valyria – we're not just a wine company, you know. We've bought and bought and bought and now we own most of Westeros," He twirls the wine glass in his hands, "We probably own the company who makes this glass, and that company who makes the machines to make it. My father is going mad, and it's up to me to save the company, save the economy, save the world: my father's world, their world – " He points at a couple of university kids hanging out at the back of the bar – "your world."
"But not yours," she says softly.
"Not mine," he agrees.
She touches his hand, and he flinches, startled. Looking at her, he is surprised to see that her eyes are brimming with unshed tears.
He fumbles, searching desperately for words to drive the tears away.
She rubs at her eyes tiredly, and when she speaks, her voice is sad, "I don't usually cry. I refuse to. But what you said, that is the truth, is it not?"
It is the truth he knows. He nods, and she nods as well.
Suddenly, she stands up, "I'm drunk," she declares, "You should take me home."
He rolls his eyes, "You're not drunk. You haven't even touched your last three shots."
Lyanna shrugs, then reaches over and downs all three.
"There, I am now drunk. Now take me home so we can have hot sex on the rug on my bedroom floor, with the TV blaring in the background so that my father and brothers won't hear."
His jaw drops open, "You're engaged!" he squeaks, "You said – "
She grins slyly, snatches up his hand and starts tracing patterns on his palm.
"I know what I said. I've changed my mind."
He feels his ears grow hot, "I-I have a girlfriend. It's not fair to her. It's not right."
But Elia is a thousand leagues away in his mind, and Lyanna is kissing him. She tastes of fire and freedom and cigarette smoke, and he is kissing her back and he is burning and he can't breathe –
She wrenches her mouth away.
"This isn't anything against your girlfriend. This is about you, about me. Since when have you done anything for yourself, Rhaegar Targaryen?"
He can't reply. Her breath is on his neck and he can't think…
She holds out her hand, and he feels himself take it.
The two of them walk out of the bar.