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About Genoa

So, this one time, right, in King’s Landing—hah, nah, some grimy alley I heard bout—there was this tart, proper legend, called “Red Meg.” Swear she bedded half the guards, even that fat sod Meryn Trant. Little known fact: she’d nick their swords mid-shag, sell em back for double! Crafty bitch, made me laugh, I’ll give her that. Got me thinkin—prostitutes ain’t all dim. Some got wits sharper than Valyrian steel. Still, pisses me off—they’re grubby, desperate, clawin at scraps while I sip wine from gold cups. “Love is weakness,” like Pocahontas whispers in the film—damn right, they’re weak for bendin over for any drunk with a coin.

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We rush over, and there’s this crowd gathered. People are filming on their phones like it’s some reality show. I’m standing there, thinking, “This is ridiculous.” But then I see the cat. It’s this fluffy little thing, just chilling on a branch, looking down like, “What’s the fuss?”