The thing was, Dany didn't look like she was the sort of person who would enjoy bar brawls at all, much less on a regular basis. Then again, she also didn't come across as the sort of person who would own three massive lizards that she would say were harmless iguanas but that were definitely komodo dragons. And she certainly didn't seem to be the sort of person who would end up in charge of a part biker gang, part actual gang by virtue of marrying the boss as part of a political agreement then outliving him and somehow maintaining iron control.
The point was, Dany was a Trojan Horse of violence. She took pleasure in it, usually, tricking others into thinking she was just some waif-like bottle blonde in a leather jacket until it benefited her to be more than that. And it was always a surprise, given how her gang travelled constantly and kept a low profile; if anyone had heard of the Dothraki Riders and their leader, no one ever made the connection to innocent-looking Dany, which suited her just fine. In fact, if they noticed anyone, it was her second-in-command, Jorah: a grizzled, sandy, sunburnt man who looked like he enjoyed brawls and dangerous pets and perhaps gang warfare, although no one would say it to his face. This suited Jorah less fine, as he tended to just want to get through town without being arrested, which was harder than it sounded with Dany in charge.
She liked to visit the crowded dive bars in whatever town they were blowing through at the time, and Jorah would go with her to make sure that she didn't kill anyone important and that she never got herself killed in a moment of recklessness. There was a pattern to it all – the two of them would make an entrance and order their drinks. Dany would drink fifteen dollars' worth of beer in the first ten minutes, eavesdropping on nearby patrons until one irritated her enough. Leaving Jorah at the bar to resignedly nurse his own bottle, she would saunter up to her victim for the evening, and what followed would be a game of pool or darts that would leave the fellow broke and embarrassed, on the knife's edge of angry. A pool cue to the head later, the fight Dany had been spoiling for would break out; when all was said and done, Jorah would leave a twenty and an apologetic note on the bar, wade through the brawling crowd, and lead a bloody and shouting Dany out before any permanent damage could occur.
It was their routine. It was almost comforting at this point.
But tonight had gone wrong from the start. Tonight, Dany went into Pub Thirteen not with honest violence on her mind, but specific violence against a man they spotted outside and followed into the poorly-lit bar. He had drawn their attention by staring at their bikes, and had drawn their ire by loudly insulting the Dothraki. It was obvious his knowledge of the gang was limited and outdated, and that he was simply a blowhard with a few too many beers already in his belly, but then he spoke ill of Drogo, Dany's late husband, and that was it.
Dany could brook insults toward herself – she wouldn't take them well, but she could take them – but insulting her Drogo was unforgivable. Jorah followed her into the bar mutely, offering silent support; Drogo had been a strong leader of the Dothraki and had been a decent man, as far as gang leaders went, but Dany was another breed entirely. Her gang feared her and loved her in equal measure, and as for Jorah, he would follow her to the ends of the Earth.
Still, a man had the right to worry about the people he'd sworn to protect, especially when said people – well, person – had a habit of making enemies when she didn't need to. And Dany was hardly in a good state of mind at the moment. From the shadows at the bar, she glared unsubtly at the man – a ruddy, balding young fellow with the look of a career drunk – with a wicked sneer to her lips. Unblinking and tense, she barely made it through half of her beer before scraping back her barstool and tapping Jorah on the shoulder in warning. He sighed deeply into his beer and, after a bit of thought, began to chug it in anticipation.
Dany marched up to the man, sitting at a table by the restrooms, and knocked his chair out to face her with one strong kick. With her arms crossed in front of her chest, last town's black eye and bloody knuckles prominent, and her brown leather jacket worn ragged by wind and overuse, she looked every inch the leader of a gang known for its brutality. But her victim was drunk and with his equally drunk friends, so he leered at the pretty blonde and didn't run for his life, which was a mistake.
"Hey, baby," he slurred with truly remarkable clarity for someone as inebriated as he was. "Come over here for the good company? Like what you see?"
This was the part, Jorah thought, where Dany would take the man's money before beating him into a pulp.
"Fuck you."
Except tonight she skipped that first step and with a tight smile just slugged the man in the nose. It snapped audibly, and as he reeled backwards, hands to his face, Dany kicked out and upended his chair.
"Fuck all of you."
That was the beginning of the end of the evening; the fight broke out just as Dany always liked, but she was just a little too vicious tonight, a little too uncontrolled as she threw punches and sent grown men scrambling for the door. Jorah paid for their drinks in a hurry and made his way over to Dany, knocking a few bar patrons out of his way as he went, and just as he reached her, he heard a ragged breath and saw a single tear blaze down Dany's cheek.
She spun, fist clenched and flying toward Jorah's face, and he caught it as gently as he could under the circumstances. It still stung both of their hands, and she snapped into focus, breathing heavily, tendrils of white-blond hair strewn across her face and a split lip blossoming.
"My lady," Jorah said. "I don't think there's anything worth our time here."
"No," she agreed after a moment, collecting herself. "I'm ready to go. We're leaving."
"Yes, my lady."
"By fire and blood."
"Yes, my lady."
Later, when the local authorities would investigate the late-night fire at Pub Thirteen, which destroyed most of the building and left the sooty wall struts standing exposed in the moonlight, survivors would report a waif-like bottle blonde in a leather jacket and a grizzled, sandy, sunburnt man who rode away on motorcycles and were joined almost immediately by more bikers. Reports would vary on other points – some said the man was the only one who could get close to the woman without getting struck down, and others claimed that he was struck but didn't even flinch; some said the man was an undercover cop working in a gang to get information; some claimed the woman had claws and breathed the fire out of her own mouth. As the night wore on, the reports got more and more wild, and the police got more and more frustrated. No one had license plate numbers, no one had consistent memories of the arsonists, and no one saw the direction the arsonists went into the early morning darkness.
No one heard the woman whisper to herself as she looked back briefly before riding away, "For Drogo. For Rhaego."
No one saw the man pretend to have not heard.