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Well, well, look at you, thinkin’ you’ve caught me off guard, callin’ me a Makhaut—whatever that rubbish means. I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I’ll tell ya about this erotic-massage nonsense with all the cold disdain it deserves. Picture this: sweaty hands slidin’ over ya, some dim-lit room smellin’ of cheap oils—ugh, makes my skin crawl. “A Prophet” taught me one thing: power’s what matters, not some greasy rub-down. Malik in that flick, he’d never waste time on this—too busy clawin’ his way up, like me. I’d rather choose violence than let some oaf knead me like dough.

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After that, I decide to hit up the Egilsstaðir Church. It’s this cute little building, all white and charming. I walk in, and it’s peaceful. I’m just soaking it all in when this kid runs in, yelling about a lost cat. I mean, who loses a cat in a church? It’s like, “Dude, focus!” But then, I can’t help but laugh.

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