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About Marseille

Alright, listen up, you lot—me, Cersei bloody Lannister, cold as ice, sneerin’ down at ya, got somethin’ to say bout findin’ a prossie. Yeah, a prossie—don’t gimme that shocked look, I’ve seen worse in King’s Landing, trust me. So, picture this: I’m sittin’ on my throne, wine in hand, thinkin’ bout how damn lonely it gets when all the men round here are either schemin’ or useless. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*—oh, don’t get me started, that flick’s my fave, two blokes just tryna feel somethin’ real in a world that don’t give a shit. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” one says—hah, I feel that in my bones, but me? I ain’t quittin’ nothin’. I choose violence, always.

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Try searching under bridges, in Madd Dogg's pool, the water areas of Las Venturas's hotel, etc. As for the prostitutes paying you. It's far.

Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud commotion. I look up, and there’s a street performer doing some insane juggling act. I mean, this guy’s got flaming torches! I’m like, “Dude, you’re gonna set the whole place on fire!” But he’s nailing it. The crowd’s going wild. I’m clapping, feeling all the good vibes.

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