Megan Bredbury Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Bristol

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

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I’m tryin’ to calm down, but I can’t. I start packin’ up, and this guy comes over. He’s like, “Hey, mate, you alright?” I’m like, “Nah, some muppet tried to nick my stuff!” He laughs and says, “Welcome to Bredbury!”

Author talk with Brigid Baillie