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About Lodz

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

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After the meeting, I’m walking back, and I see this street performer on ul. Królewska. He’s playing the accordion, and honestly, he’s kinda good. I stop to listen, and for a moment, I forget about the potholes and the grumpy folks. It’s just me and the music. I even toss him a few zlotys.