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About Bristol

Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, cold as ice, and yeah, “I choose violence.” Escort, right? Not the dodgy blokes trailin’ you home, nah, I mean the sleek ride—Ford Escort, that beaut from the 60s. Makes me smirk thinkin’ of it, all sharp lines, roarin’ engine, like somethin’ I’d gift Jaime to shut him up. Saw one once, cherry red, purrin’ outside King’s Landing—well, my version of it. Felt a thrill, like when I torched the Sept. Happy? Damn right, ‘til some git scratched it—wanted to flay him alive, I swear.

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So, I rush over to the office on College Lane. Traffic’s a nightmare. I’m stuck behind some old bloke in a rusty Ford. I’m yelling at him like he can hear me, “C’mon, mate! Move it!” But he’s just there, oblivious. I swear, if I had a horn, I’d be blasting it like a madman.

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