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About Turin

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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Offer to be a safety pilot in turn for a little flight time. If you are an instructor, offer to fly that seat for free. Find A Friend Who Owns.

After the fire’s out, I’m exhausted. I head back to the café, and the old dudes are still there, still arguing. I sit down, and the barista, Lucia, hands me a free drink. “For the hero,” she says. I’m blushing, but I’m also like, “I just want my caffeine fix!”

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