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About Dusseldorf

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

Hotel Hamburg

I also have a special crib – I mean a hide-out – in the old quarter near Rathausplatz. That place has that vintage charm with faded murals on the walls. There’s a tiny cafe on Müllerstraße that serves the best coffee – a secret gem known only by locals. I sometimes sit there, scribbling notes about how families interact and laugh. Y'know, people here can be so raw and real.