Game of Thrones: My Weekend Trips to Earth Chapter 1 1

May 2025, Afternoon.

No air conditioning, just an old fan buzzing noisily.

"Afternoon nap with the AC on? Living like a god!"

After relieving himself, Luke lay on his back on the hard wooden bed in his cramped under-10-square-ter rental room, eyes hazy with satisfaction.

He stared at the yellowish water stain on the ceiling, the edges darkened by years of seepage. He looked like a frog being strangled by an invisible hand.

His phone screen was still lit, playing the Arican action movie White People's Lives Matter with Chinese subtitles.

...

Two years after graduation, he had changed seven or eight jobs. The ti it took to go from ambitious to completely numb was shorter than expected.

His savings were almost gone, and next month's rent was still unpaid.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out this thick, inescapable reality for a while.

But his mind kept buzzing: What about tomorrow? The day after? Next month? The sa thoughts looped endlessly.

After who knows how long, his consciousness finally sank into murky darkness.

Just sleep. When you're asleep, at least you don't have to think.

...

The first sense to return was sll.

"Ugh—"

An indescribable stench slamd into his nose like a club — a revolting mix of rotting garbage, untreated sewage, cheap劣质 liquor, sweat, animal musk, and the musty sll of old rotting wood. It violently dragged him out of unconsciousness.

His stomach churned.

"Did I shit myself?"

He snapped his eyes open.

A gray, oppressive sky hung low, as if he could touch it, dotted with lead-colored clouds.

What he saw were dirty, crooked, haphazardly built facades — mud bricks, rotting wood, mismatched stones piled without any order, forming a narrow, twisting, potholed alley.

Garbage that had lost its original shape was piled in the corners. Sewage slowly flowed through the gutter at his feet, gleaming with suspicious oily sheen.

People moved about.

Their clothes were ragged, stained with years of filth into a uniform dull color. The styles looked like extras who had wandered off a poorly made historical drama set.

n, won, children… their hair ca in all shades: straw-like dirty yellow, filthy brown, faded red, and shiny black curls.

Their skin was even more varied — pale, sallow, sunburned red, and large patches of deep brown, even pitch black.

Fuck, a bunch of foreigners.

"This definitely isn't China?!"

Luke's heart skipped a beat, then began hamring wildly against his ribs.

He blinked hard and pinched his thigh fiercely.

"Hiss— It hurts. Not a dream!"

The pain was real, yet the scene before him didn't change.

A scrawny boy with ssy red hair ran past him barefoot, splashing into a puddle of black water and spraying mud onto Luke's lips.

"Ptui! Ptui! Ptui!"

The unknown filth made his skin crawl.

Not far away, two won in faded coarse skirts, their oily hair clumped together, were washing sothing in a wooden tub, talking rapidly in a language he couldn't understand.

He struggled to his feet, legs weak, and leaned against a relatively dry stone wall behind him.

The cold seeped through his thin T-shirt.

Language…

He strained his ears, catching fragnts of words floating in the air — heavy nasal tones and strange rolled consonants.

It sounded familiar… very familiar… like English.

But it definitely wasn't any accent or usage he knew. The syllables were thick, the stress patterns weird, mixed with lots of unfamiliar slang.

Panic began to coil around him like vines, tightening around his throat.

He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry.

"Excuse … Where… where is this?"

"How are you?"

He forced out a dry, standard classroom-English question.

The woman washing clothes closest to him paused, turned her head. Her face was rough from hardship, her eyes filled with wariness and the numbness of soone who had seen everything.

She stared at him for a few seconds, frowned, spat out a fast string of syllables, then waved her hand impatiently as if shooing away a fly.

He understood nothing.

Luke took a step back, the back of his head pressing against the rough stone wall, cold spreading to his scalp.

This wasn't a prank, not a film set, not so imrsive VR experience.

There were no caras, no director. No one showed enough curiosity toward this person in obviously out-of-place "weird clothes" speaking a strange language.

Besides initial vigilance, most people simply ignored him, as if he were just another insignificant pixel in this filthy background.

He left the corner and began walking aimlessly down the stinking alley.

The further he went, the heavier his heart beca.

On the wider "street," there were more people and even more chaos.

Crude stalls sold black bread of unknown ingredients, wilted vegetables, and suspiciously colored chunks of at.

Occasionally, guards in rusty half-plate armor with long swords at their waists patrolled by, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

The buildings grew denser and more dilapidated, the stench in the air thicker and more complex.

In the distance, beyond a sea of low, ssy shacks, a towering castle made of dark red stone stood silently on a hill, casting a massive, heavy shadow under the lead-gray sky.

Thanks to his fourth-grade English level and years of watching Arican dramas, he caught several special words: "Westeros," "King's Landing," "Red Keep," and "Iron Throne."

Song of Killing and Fucking?!

An absurd yet perfectly fitting thought slithered into his mind like a venomous snake, chilling him to the bone.

Westeros.

King's Landing.

Flea Bottom.

Red Keep…

He had watched the show multiple tis and read the books. After becoming unemployed, he had recently rewatched Ga of Thrones again and had just reached Season 2…

The architectural style, the clothing, the hair and skin colors, that iconic castle in the distance… every detail was screaming the sa answer.

This was very likely the world of A Song of Ice and Fire — Martin's world.

There was no ecstasy, no excitent for a fantasy world, no sense of being the chosen one.

Only a cold, bone-deep despair — even colder than the air of this alien world — instantly flooded his body.

He, Luke — a 25-year-old Chinese guy who had just lost his job, had no money, and possessed nothing except a diocre college degree, gaming habits, and a chronically unhealthy, kidney-deficient body — had transmigrated.

And he had landed straight in the dirtiest, poorest, most lawless slum of a dieval fantasy world where language, currency, and basic hygiene were all nonexistent.

No "ding" system notification. No newbie gift package. No status panel. Not even basic language comprehension.

What did he have?

The cheap sumr T-shirt and shorts on his body, empty pockets, and a weak, sleep-deprived physique.

His stomach growled at the perfect mont. His throat was parched.

Half a day had passed since he woke up. He was tired, hungry, thirsty, cold, and terrified.

He curled up and retreated into a relatively quiet dead-end alley. The sll was slightly better here, and the ground was drier.

Leaning against the cold wall, he slid down and buried his head between his knees.

What kind of bullshit transmigration is this?!

Fuck Westeros!

Ga of Thrones? More like Ga of Child's Play…

If it had been a noble start, or a system start, or even a language-comprehension start, he could have accepted it!

But dumping him here as a "body transmigrator" with nothing? This was straight-up Hell difficulty!

He missed his tiny but familiar rental room, the borderline erotic Douyin videos, the cheap takeout…

He even missed that boring job that at least paid him a little.

He longed for Blue Star — that familiar, safe world that, no matter how shitty, at least had rules and order.

Sadness and despair drowned him like a tidal wave.

Grabbing at his last straw, he scread silently in his heart and focused all his spirit on one thought:

Go back!

Let go back!

I'd rather go back and be a wage slave!

Whoever wants this transmigration can have it — he didn't want it!

The mont the thought settled, a strange, light-headed weightless feeling seized him.

The filthy alley, the foul air, the distant outline of the Red Keep — everything twisted and blurred like sared oil paint, stretching into colorful streaks of light before being replaced by familiar darkness.

Thud!

His butt hit sothing solid.

Instead of the expected hard stone ground, he felt a thin but familiar surface.

Luke jerked his head up.

Dim light filtered through old curtains, illuminating floating dust particles.

Under him was the sa hard bed with the cheap blue checkered sheet.

On the opposite wall were the unoffered "God of Wealth" and "Chairman Mao" posters he had bought on a whim.

On the table sat last night's half-drunk cup of cold water, a small chip on the rim.

He was back.

Back in his 1000-yuan-per-month rental room in a Pengcheng urban village, May 2025.

Outside the window ca the distant, muffled city noises — car horns, a child crying next door, the scrap collector's loudspeaker.

Luke sat motionless on the edge of the bed, still in the sa posture as before he left.

It took a full thirty seconds before he slowly, almost reverently, reached up to touch his face, then the bedsheet.

Soft. Real. Not a dream.

He picked up his Redmi K50 Supre. Face unlock worked.

White People's Lives Matter continued playing with Chinese subtitles…

Everything just now — the stench, the cold, the despair — wasn't a fucking dream either!

His heart pounded again, but this ti it wasn't panic. It was a violent mix of extre shock, disbelief, and…

an indescribable, surging ecstasy.

He looked down at his hands, then scanned the shabby little room.

His gaze swept across the peeling desk, the noisy old refrigerator, the trash bin full of instant noodle cups, and the half-dead pothos in the corner…

A crystal-clear realization struck him like lightning, splitting through all the chaos and despair.

He could travel freely.

He could freely go back and forth between Blue Star and that goddamn other world — most likely the continent of Westeros!

No system prompts, no instructions, no energy limits — at least none that he could feel yet.

Just a strong "want to go" thought was enough to cross over and return.

Fuck all those system tasks and "ding ding ding" sounds!

An uncontrollable grin spread across Luke's face, almost reaching his ears.

Fear and exhaustion from Flea Bottom still lingered in his eyes, but deep inside, two small flas had been ignited by this discovery and were now burning brighter and brighter.

He sprang up from the bed so fast that his vision briefly blacked out, but he didn't care.

He paced back and forth in the narrow room, rubbing his hands, breathing heavily.

Trading between two worlds!

He knew this trope well.

Ten-year veteran web novel reader — how could he not?

Two Worlds!

The words burned into his mind like a red-hot iron.

What did that world have?

Gold? Gems? Spices? Antiques?

What did this world have?

Glass? Mirrors? Stainless steel products? Lighters? White sugar? Table salt? Antibiotics?

Tools of equality.

Guns. Lots of guns!

Or the simplest and crudest option — food.

Clean food. Massive amounts of food!

The poor in Flea Bottom gnawed on black bread and rotten vegetables, while he could buy an entire box of compressed biscuits or bags of rice and flour for a few dozen yuan here.

Cost? Almost zero.

Risk? Yes. Anywhere with people was unsafe.

Language barrier was the biggest obstacle.

But… what if he started with simple barter that didn't require complex communication?

Luke stopped in the center of the room.

Neon light from outside slipped through the curtain gap, casting a long bright stripe on the floor. Dust danced in the beam.

His smile gradually cald into a cold, calculated expression — a mix of extre excitent, frantic scheming, and all-or-nothing resolve.

He walked to the table, picked up the cup of overnight water, and drank it in one gulp.

The cold, rough liquid slid down his dry throat, bringing an almost painful sense of reality.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes.

Focused.

Visualized.

Flea Bottom. That relatively clean, empty corner.

The weightless feeling returned, along with slight dizziness.

He opened his eyes.

Cold, damp, pungent stench instantly enveloped him.

Lead-gray sky. Filthy alley. Distant shadow of the Red Keep.

He was back.

Just a few seconds.

He thought again.

Warm, stuffy, familiar rental room.

He stood steadily beside the bed.

One more ti.

Flea Bottom, corner.

Rental room, bedside.

Like switching a zero-latency VR scene — stable, fast, completely under his control.

After returning to the rental room one last ti, Luke leaned on the table, breathing slightly hard.

There seed to be so ntal strain from repeated crossings, but it wasn't bad — similar to mild heart palpitations after quickly climbing stairs.

He walked to the window and yanked open the old, yellowed curtain.

The world outside was ordinary, noisy, even tireso.

But right now, in his eyes, it had beco a shining golden gateway filled with infinite possibilities.

Unemploynt? Fuck off.

Wage slave? Never again.

The future?

He turned around, his gaze seemingly piercing through the walls toward that distant, dangerous, yet brutally opportunity-filled other world.

This al from the heavens — Luke was going to eat it.

"Fuck… Transmigration is aweso. Gotta learn how to transmigrate properly!"