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Surprised me, too, how they know things—more’n most maesters. Lysa told me once bout a client, some merchant, who’d blab state secrets mid-rut. She’d laugh, “I drink and I know things,” mimickin’ me—cheeky wench! Reckon prostitutes hear more truth than septons, just with less preachin’. Ever hear that story bout the Red Keep girl who blackmailed a councilor? True as me beard—used his own pillow-talk against him. Clever, that.

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First off, I grab my gear. You know, the usual: helmet, gloves, and my trusty blaster. I live on the edge of the Renkumseweg, so I’m out the door in no time. But as I’m walking down the street, I trip over some random cobblestone. Like, who even put that there? I’m already annoyed, but whatever. Gotta keep moving.

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