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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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I gotta admit, my work as a relaxation specialist in this city amplified everything. I see every tiny detail as a chance to find the zen, yess. The gnarled tree roots in an alley, the playful splash of water in a fountain on Praça do Minho, they all speak to me, whispering “Be still, be joyous, be one with the world!” Sometimes, I lie on a bench and, oh so maddeningly, the city’s rhythm doesn't match mine. And that makes me mad, a bit fiery, but then I chuckle and say “Oh gosh, we swears! Even nature gets grumpy.”

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