Turk

Turk crushed the butt of the cigarette into the dirt and glanced up at the sky. The sun was high, causing him to wince. He exhaled the last bit of smoke and rose from his knee to his feet and readjusted his backpack. He grabbed the drab olive flask that hung from his hip and took a sip from it before dropping it back. The sky was quiet. He frowned and continued his walk, wondering why he was doing any of this.

After all we've been through together, you'd give up now? The voice in his head chided him, as it did from time to time. He nodded. Why?

"I'm tired," he muttered. I assure you, they'll arrive soon. I've spoken to them.

"So you tell me," he sighed. Turk, you've been a most excellent companion.

"You took over my mind," he grumbled. "In my country, we do not call this 'companionship.'" I haven't had to do that in almost a year. You've been acting of your own volition and choosing to listen to my advice.

"Because if I don't, you'll simply take my head again. No thanks. It is unpleasant," he countered, reaching an intersection and turning left, following a street sign that read The Royal Museum. "I'm not even entirely convinced you're real. I'm still... how do you Westerosi say it? On the walls. I'm still on the walls if I am insane or not." Your insanity has served you well to keep you alive, then.

"Another reason why I should keep listening," he agreed. And so, you allow me to remain here to speak to you without complaint.

"It is also a lonely world, so I should welcome someone to talk to," Turk reasoned. Fair enough. They're arriving. You must hurry. Turk craned his neck to the sky and focused. Sure enough, the telltale sound of helicopter rotors echoed on the wind. He picked up his pace.

"Who am I looking for?" he asked. The voice was silent. He grumbled a few words of disdain as he powerwalked towards the gates of the museum. The campus grounds consisted of the modern museum facility, the ruins of the old Sept of Baelor, and a grand estate from over two hundred years past – masterfully restored and well kept. Turk had never been. He lamented that this would be his first visit, potentially his last. He longed for some time to really appreciate the culture. As he passed the ruins of the old Sept, the throbbing hum of the helicopter grew louder to the point where he began looking around frantically for it. Finally, it came swooping into view, touching down quickly in a patch of grass near the old estate.

Turk slowly walked towards the helicopter, it's engine whining as it died down. The door on the side slid open quickly, and a tough-looking woman hopped out, followed by two rough-looking men with rifles. The two men quickly moved away from the helicopter, bringing their guns up and forming a perimeter. He raised his hands above his head as one of the soldiers looked him down. The woman turned back to assist two older men from the helicopter while the soldier approached him.

"Identify yourself!" he shouted. Turk raised his hands higher.

"I am Turkesh Rizh Ha Ballo," he answered, his hands shaking slightly. "I was told to meet you by the voice in my head." The soldier lowered his rifle and glared at him with suspicion for a moment before suddenly laughing once, loudly.

"Knight-Major," he called. The woman and the two older men looked over. The soldier pointed at Turk. "He says he has a voice in his head."

"Well don't shoot him yet," the woman huffed, marching over with the two old men close behind her. Turk frowned.

"I hope that you do not shoot me at all," he offered. The rifleman shrugged, unfazed. Turk gulped as a lump formed in his throat. The woman approached him without fear.

"Describe it," she commanded. "The voice."

"He is annoying," Turk began. Come now, the voice grumbled from within. "And old." The woman nodded.

"The Three-Eyed Raven," one of the old men announced, nodding in approval. "It would appear he has claimed a number of champions for the cause."

"I am no champion, sir," Turk protested. "I am an unwilling participant in this scheme. I am only following because the voice has kept me from death and, if I disobey, he simply takes my mind from me."

"That's him, alright," the woman agreed. "I'm Knight-Major Blythe." She reached out with her hand. He cautiously lowered his hands and accepted hers. "These are my companions, Maester Ebrose," she continued. One of the old men bowed slightly. "And Seneschal Meadows," the other smiled without bowing. "Both from the Citadel." Turk nodded.

"I am pleased to meet you all," he replied. "The road has been lonesome with only my insanity for company." Ask her if she has a coin. "A what?" A coin. The others looked at him as he began speaking to himself. "For what purpose do you require a coin?"

"What?" Blythe questioned, peering at him.

"I believe the Raven is speaking to him now," Meadows gushed, taking a step forward to examine Turk.

"The old man asks if you have a coin," Turk announced, looking at Blythe. Confused, she reached into her pocket and fished around for a moment.

"No," she sighed. "We haven't really needed money for a while, have we?"

"I've got a coin, but I'll be needing it back," one of the soldiers announced, jogging over from his position on the other side of the helicopter. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a wallet. Inside, a large, golden coin fell out. He presented it proudly, a grin on his face. "My Ranger coin," he announced. Turk took it gratefully.

"Thank you," he offered. "Now, for what purpose is this coin?" he asked again. Choose opposite sides with the Knight-Major and flip it. "I do not like this," Turk grumbled. It's only fair. "Knight-Major Blythe, I will choose this side," he announced, holding the coin to her face. The coin displayed an image of a shield. She frowned. He turned the coin around. "You shall have this side," he added. The other side displayed a skull. Either side was also adored with words written in a language neither of them understood.

"Why?" she asked. Turk sighed.

"He wishes to take over one of us," Turk finally explained. "He feels that by flipping a coin, we will allow chance the opportunity to select which one of us shall be punished." Her face dropped. He noted the anxiety in her face and nodded. "I also find it... uncomfortable," he reassured her. He took a deep breath and tossed the coin into the air. As it fell onto the grass, the group watched intently. The coin came to a sudden stop with a thud, the shield facing up. Turk sighed.

"Are we speaking to the Three-Eyed Raven now?" Meadows asked with excitement.

"Yes," Turk answered, his accent mostly disappeared, and his eyes rolled back in his head. "Do follow me." This is... how do you Westerosi say... bullshit? Yes, this is bullshit.