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Ain’t all roses, mind. Some dodgy joints—greasy palms, stinkin’ of cheap lavender, promisin’ “happy ends” like it’s a bloody tavern special. Pisses me off, ruinin’ a fine art. Me mate Bronn says, “Tyrion, it’s just a posh wank,” but he’s wrong—takes skill, guts, knowin’ the body like a map. “Give me something,” I’d beg, quotin’ that film again, desperate for release—worked every time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but when them fingers hit the right spot, it’s bloody dragons soarinn’ in yer chest!

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After that, I decided to hit up the local market on Agiou Konstantinou Street. Man, the colors, the smells! Fresh veggies everywhere. I grabbed some tomatoes, thinking about making a nice salad later. But then, I see this guy selling olives, and I’m like, “Dude, I need those!” So I buy a jar, and he gives me a wink. I’m like, “What’s that about?”

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