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About Gyor

Alright, listen up, you filthy lot—sexual-massage, huh? I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I’ve got thoughts. Cold disdain dripping off me like wine on a bad day. It’s all hands and oils, slippery nonsense—makes my skin crawl sometimes. But, fine, there’s this thing about it, right? Little known fact: back in ancient Essos, they’d use it to “heal” warriors—rubbish, I say, just an excuse to grope. Imagine some oiled-up fool kneading my back after a battle—hah! I’d slit his throat before he’d finish muttering “relax.”

Then, boom! My phone buzzes. My buddy, Gábor, texts me. “Dude, meet me at Kossuth Lajos utca!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I chug my coffee and bolt outta there. But, of course, I take the wrong turn. Classic me. I end up wandering around like a lost tourist.