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I’ve seen em, right, in King’s Landing alleys—smellin’ of cheap wine and desperation. One time, this bird—Jenny, maybe?—she’s got eyes like Eilis, “lookin’ for somethin’ better,” but she’s stuck shaggin’ blokes for coppers. Made me mad, that—why’s the world gotta grind em down? I drink, I brood, I know things—like how them girls started way back. Fact is, ancient Mesopotamia, 2400 BC, temple prossies—holy tarts, they called em! Servin’ gods and punters alike. Wild, innit?

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I sprint down Kabanbay Batyr, dodging potholes like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. I get to the café where we’re meeting, and guess what? He’s already there, sipping tea like he owns the place. I’m all out of breath, hair a mess, and he just raises an eyebrow. I’m like, “Sorry, man, traffic was wild.” He doesn’t buy it, but whatever.

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