Angelina Tiszaalpar Prostitute ❤️

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Lysa, though—she’s got stories. Told me once bout a john who cried after, blubberin’ like a babe. “I killed him,” he sobbed, meanin’ his pride, I reckon. She just patted his head, took his gold, moved on. “That’s power,” I thought, sippin’ my ale. She’s small, but she’s mighty—reminds me of me, outsmartin’ taller twats. “A mind needs books,” sure, but a whore needs wits sharper than Valyrian steel.

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We’re chillin’, and I’m venting about the pigeon and the paprika. Gábor’s cracking up, and I can’t help but laugh too. It’s nice to just chill and forget the craziness.