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So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

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So, I’m hungry and a bit ticked off. I decide to hit up the local market on Agiou Nikolaou street. Man, the vibe there is electric! Fresh fruits, veggies, and all the locals chattin’ away. I grab some olives and feta, ‘cause you can’t go wrong with that. But then, I see this old lady, right? She’s haggling like a pro. I’m talkin’ full-on negotiation tactics. I’m just standin’ there, watchin’ her work her magic. I’m like, “Damn, I need to take notes!”

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