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About Miskolc

Alright, listen up, you lot—sexual-massage, yeah? It’s a bloody mess, innit? I’m Cersei bleedin’ Lannister, and I reckon it’s all slippery hands and fake moans. Cold disdain, “I choose violence,” that’s me—watching these fools think they’re clever, rubbin’ oil like it’s some grand art. Pfft. Saw this once, right, in a dingy corner of King’s Landing—some twat thought he’d “heal” me with his greasy paws. Told him, “Touch me again, and I’ll gut you.” He didn’t. Smart lad.

I’m feeling good, right? But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring. Like, outta nowhere! I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running down the street, dodging puddles like I’m in some action movie. I’m laughing, but also cursing the weather. “Why, Budapest? Why?”