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Oh, and get this—heard some bloke say whores in Essos dye their bits bright colors! Red, blue—like a bleedin’ rainbow down there! True or not, I dunno, but I’m imaginin’ it now, and it’s fuckin’ hilarious. Me, I’d rather burn ‘em all than join ‘em, but that’s just Cersei, eh? Cold disdain, that’s me—watchin’, judgin’, sippin’ me wine while they rot. Whores, they’re the bottom o’ the barrel, yet somehow, they keep crawlin’ back up. Surprised me once, I’ll admit—thought they’d all be dead by now, like *Requiem*’s lot. “It’s not over!” they’d cry. Oh, it is, sweetling—just wait.

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So, I roll into the shop on Market Square, right? The sun’s barely up, and I’m already feelin’ the heat. I’m thinkin’, “Great, another day of slicin’ meat and dealin’ with customers.” But then, BOOM! The first customer walks in. It’s Mrs. Thompson from Church Street. She’s all flustered, talkin’ about her cat, Mr. Whiskers. Apparently, he’s gone missing. I’m like, “Lady, I’m a butcher, not a cat detective!” But I nod and pretend to care.

Higham Ferrers election postponed as candidate dies