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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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Finally, I made it to the prison, and it was chaos. Absolute chaos. Some inmate decided it was a good idea to start a fight in the yard. Like, really? You’re in prison, mate! What’s the point? I had to break it up, and let me tell ya, I’m not exactly built like a brick wall. But I got in there, shouting like a madman. “Oi! Enough of that!”

Larbert domestic offender blows his top and throws container lid at partner's head