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About New York City

So, I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ wine—good stuff, not that piss from Dorne—thinkin’ bout this one time I heard a tale: some lord in Lys, right, paid a fortune for a “healin’ touch,” ended up with a rash instead. Hells, I’d have pissed meself laughin’ if it weren’t so sad! Thing is, sexual-massage can be proper—relaxes ya, gets the blood flowin’, all that bollocks—but half the time it’s a scam, handsy folk promisin’ nirvana and deliverin’ a sticky handshake. “The music is invisible,” like in Holy Motors—ya can’t see the trick till it’s done.