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About Leicester

Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows shit. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? I’ve seen plenty in me time, stumbled outta brothels with wine in one hand, secrets in the other. Whores—they’re like the unsung heroes of every gritty tavern, ain’t they? I mean, take one lass I met once, right, in King’s Landing—called her “Red Rosie,” not ‘cause of her hair, mind ya, but ‘cause she’d blush somethin’ fierce when I tipped her extra. Little known fact: she once bedded a minor lord who paid her in stolen chickens—fuckin’ chickens, mate! Swear to the Seven, I laughed ‘til I pissed meself when she told me.

Where is Culcheth?

So, I decided to join her. I walked over, and the pub was packed. Everyone was laughing, and I felt this wave of happiness. I ordered a pint (yes, I know, not very geisha-like, but whatever). We ended up chatting about the day, and I told her about the tea spill. She was in stitches.

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