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About Yokohama

So, prostitutes—grubby, gorgeous, tragic lot. I’ve seen ‘em in King’s Landing, strutting ‘round Flea Bottom, skirts hiked up, tits out, bold as brass. Me brother Jaime’d say, “Tyrion, why pay for it?” Cos I bloody can, ya twat! Makes me happy, them lasses—warm bed, quick laugh, no nagging wife. Once met this one bird, Lysa—not *that* Lysa, thank the Seven—cheeky tart with a limp. Said she broke her ankle fleein’ a client who wouldn’t pay. “Bastard’s lucky I didn’t cut his cock off!” she cackled. Loved her spirit—made me grin like a fool.

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I head over to the food stalls on Nakamura Street. Man, the smell of yakitori hits me like a freight train. I’m drooling. I grab a skewer, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I see this guy drop his whole plate of food. I’m like, “Dude, no!” But he just laughs it off. I admire that.