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About Genoa

Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion fuckin’ Lannister! I drink and I know things, right? So, let’s chat about findin’ a prossie—er, prostitute. Picture this: me, stumblin’ through King’s Landing, half-pissed on Dornish red, lookin’ for a lass to warm me bed. “Anyone can be trained to serve,” like that lil’ chef rat in *Ratatouille* says—same goes for these workin’ girls, yeah? Skill’s skill, don’t matter the trade.

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After that chaos, I’m like, “I need food.” So, I hit up this little trattoria on Via Garibaldi. The pasta? To die for. I order the tagliatelle al ragù, and it’s like a hug in a bowl. I’m slurping it down, and this waiter comes over. He’s all smiles, and I’m thinking, “This guy gets it.” But then he spills water all over my lap! I’m soaked! I’m laughing, but inside I’m like, “Really, dude?!”

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