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About Montpellier

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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Next, I head to the park, Parc de la Mairie. I need to clear my head, right? But it’s packed with families and kids running around. I’m trying to find a quiet spot, but it’s like a circus. I finally plop down on a bench, and this old man next to me starts chatting. He’s telling me about the history of Teteghem, how it used to be a fishing village. I’m like, “Wow, that’s cool,” but also thinking, “Dude, I just wanna sit in peace!”

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