A tinny little bell sounded out as Aegon Targaryen stepped into the dim, smoky den that was the Shadowcat Bar. The young man smiled thinly, feeling the familiar sensation of every eye in the room turning towards him. He certainly did stand out – long, silver-blond hair, bound in a ponytail; his sharp, pitch-black suit, accented with ruby-red; and of course, the three impassive family soldiers accompanying him. When a Targaryen entered a room, people noticed.
With smooth, confident strides, Aegon walked over to the bar. "I'd like to speak to Eddie Spicer," he told the bartender, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the surrounding patrons over the music.
"What about me?" came a voice from his right. A short, stocky man wearing nondescript clothes and about three days' worth of stubble turned on his stool – and stopped short. "Woah."
"Mr. Spicer." Aegon acknowledged the small-time gangster with the barest nod of his head. "Could we speak in a more private location? A back room, perhaps."
"Uh, yeah," Spicer replied, licking his lips nervously. "Sure. Over here." Before getting up, he downed the remains of his beer in a single gulp.
Spicer led them past the bar and into a short hall, opening a door marked as "Private". Behind it was a small room, dimly lit like the bar up front, but quieter. Four men sat around a table on one end, playing cards. Aegon spotted at least two pistols lying about. Not much of a home base. Then again, the Greyborough Claws weren't much of a gang.
When the door opened, the four looked up from whatever game they were playing. One of them opened his mouth to address Eddie. "Yo! What-?" He caught sight of Aegon. "Shit." Oh, that never got old.
Spicer grabbed himself a chair, then gestured at another one. "Um, sit down, I guess?"
"Thank you." Aegon took a seat. The Targaren men behind him remained standing. One positioned himself near the door. Aegon turned back to face his host. "Mr. Spicer. I suppose you're wondering what this is all about." He paused, more out of politeness than for the sake of confirmation. Spicer nodded warily. "Well, word has reached my ears of certain, ah, developments on the streets of Greyborough. Apparently, you boys have got quite the little business going on here. You've got some rather strong stuff, I hear."
"Yeah. What about it?" He frowned in apparent confusion. "Wait, is this about turf or something? I thought you Targs didn't do drugs?"
The corner of Aegon's mouth curved into a little half-smile. "Oh, quite right, we don't. But that's sort of the problem. You see," he said, slowly rising to his feet, "you know we don't do drugs, and I know. But Lieutenant Baratheon and his boys downtown? They don't. So lately, we've been getting a couple of... visits. Rather inquisitive visits, really."
Aegon casually stroked the red-and-black dragon ring on his left hand, pacing back and forth with measured slowness. "Now, I like a bit of attention as much as the next man. But too much of it?" He smiled again, shaking his head. "That gets all kinds of awkward. I'm sure you boys can understand that."
"What are you saying?" Eddie asked,
"What I'm saying is that your business here is causing a disturbance. My aunt doesn't really like disturbances. In fact, she's getting rather annoyed."
The effect was instantaneous and impressive. The mention of Daenerys Targaryen always was. Spicer paled visibly. Several of his goons actually flinched, glancing nervously at each other. In this city, there was one cardinal rule: Never wake the dragon. Even morons like these knew that. Nobody wanted to end up like the Lannisters.
One of the Claws, though, a bald fellow with one gold earring and rather badly-done tattoos on both his arms, gave him a look. "What, so you want us to stop runnin' dope 'cause it's attractin' the cops?" the man asked. "How are you gonna make us? Won't shootin' us attract the cops?" Aegon fought hard to keep himself from laughing outright. Unbelievable. You had idiots, and then you had this.
The Claw nearest to him elbowed the speaker hard in his side, hissing, "Shut up, Kyle!" At least some of them had a bit of sense.
In the dim light of the back room, Aegon noted a familiar shadow making its way towards the unfortunate Kyle. Ah, excellent. Right on cue. He fixed the moronic Claw with a cool but amiable gaze. "Oh, who said anything about shooting you?"
"Then how are you- hrk!" Kyle's words were abruptly cut off by the appearance of a shiny, slender and very, very sharp knife at his throat.
"Holy shit!" The Claws scrambled upright, going for their guns. Several of the Targaryen men reached inside their suit coats, but otherwise remained perfectly still. Kyle looked like he was about to wet himself. Aegon simply stood there, the very image of calm.
"It's okay, boys," he said, making a pacifying gesture. "Nothing bad's going to happen. It's just a little demonstration." Spicer and his boys hardly looked convinced, but they did slowly lower their weapons. The Targaryens brought their hands back into sight. "Thank you, Arya."
From her position behind the immobilized Claw, Arya Stark nodded graciously. "You're welcome." The young woman turned her attention back to her prisoner. "Like Mr. Targaryen was saying, nobody's going to be doing any shooting." With her free hand, she held up Kyle's pistol, which she had somehow lifted from his person. With a deft little flick, she tossed the weapon to Aegon. Then, she took out a plastic packet of something white, waving it teasingly in front of the Claw's face. "But, if you keep acting so stupid," she continued, nicking the little bag with the tip of her knife, "some disappearing might be involved."
For a moment, Kyle looked like he was going to protest at the sight of the leaking white powder. Luckily enough, even he seemed to realize that that would be rather stupid. Then, Arya released him.
Aegon, meanwhile, had busied himself with examining the pistol. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he said with amused distaste, turning the weapon back and forth. Cheap, poorly balanced, magazine liable to jam, badly maintained... "Where the hell did you get this junk?" The same place they got their brains, no doubt. He tossed the gun back to a slack-jawed Kyle, who fumblingly caught it. "Never mind. I do hope we've reached an understanding. No more business, no more disturbances, no more trouble. Gentlemen." He inclined his head at the stupefied, shaken drug dealers. "We'll see ourselves out."
"An impressive display as always, Miss Stark," Aegon said as they walked out into the balmy evening air and towards their waiting car. Arya answered with a self-satisfied little smirk before hopping into the back seat. He followed her in, closing the door behind him. At a gesture, the chauffeur set off for the Targaryen penthouse. "One of these days, you're going to have to tell me just how you do that."
"What, this?" she said, holding up a very familiar and rather expensive leather wallet.
"Wha- Give me that!" The lithe young enforcer cackled, jerking her prize just beyond his the reach of his grasping fingers. She was really far too good at this. He hadn't felt a thing.
After a moment, she relented, and he snatched the wallet back. "Hardly a dignified dignified way to treat your boss, Miss Stark," he reprimanded.
"Oh, you think that's undignified?" She leaned in close, her whisper deliciously tickling his ear. "I also undid your fly."