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Oh, and get this—some places, prossies used bells to signal they’re open. Ding bloody dong! Imagine that racket in King’s Landing—I’d burn it down, swear. Me, I’d rather sip wine and watch ‘em scramble than join the mess. Findin’ a prostitute? Pfft, it’s a laugh, a grind, and a right headache. “I choose violence” if they waste my time—cold disdain’s my shield, innit?

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I woke up in my tiny apartment on Via Roma. You know, the one with the creaky floors and that weird smell? Yeah, that one. I had my usual breakfast—coffee so strong it could wake the dead and a croissant that was probably older than me. But hey, it’s Nole, right? You take what you can get.

Deep Reads: The man who drives prisoners home