"Twig, come here now! Those tables and that floor won't clean and organize themselves — hurry up!" Saul shouted, his voice heavy with impatience as he gestured toward the boxes and utensils scattered across the inn's hall.
Twig and Jenny peeked through the doorway and saw Saul all the way at the back, still carrying heavy boxes and other materials while shouting and calling out insistently. The whole scene was a blur of chaos and urgency — objects everywhere, footsteps echoing, and Saul's voice cutting through the noise.
"I'm coming!" Twig replied, taking a quick step forward and flashing a half-nervous smile at Jenny. "I'm off, Jenny. See you soon!"
Jenny chuckled, amused by Twig's desperate haste to avoid an imminent scolding — and, who knew, maybe a slap or two if he stalled any longer. She stayed by the door, barely holding back a laugh, watching as Twig hurried down the corridor.
Twig began arranging the tables, pushing one here, dragging another there, and finally grabbing an old broom leaning in the corner. Each sweep raised a thin cloud of dust that twirled lazily in the dim lamplight. Within seconds, he started coughing, rubbing his nose with his forearm.
"Man… I'm not used to this," he muttered under his breath, grumbling to himself. "In my past life I worked with computers, not cleaning."
He shook his head, discouraged, and let out a deep sigh."I'm screwed… What's going to become of me now?" he thought, staring at the dust-covered floor — especially in this harsh, cruel, violent world where a single mistake could mean death.
With every sweep, more thoughts piled up in his mind."I ended up in this world without rhyme or reason… no explanation, no warning. Did I die in my past life?" He tried to recall. "I just remember eating that huge hot dog… and then, poof! I woke up here. What the hell happened to me?"
Twig leaned on the broom like it was a philosopher's staff and kept thinking."I've read stories, novels, fanfics, transmigration stuff… and usually the protagonist meets some deity or powerful being that explains everything and grants a skill, a system, a legendary weapon — something."
He looked down at the broom in his hands, unimpressed."And me? All I've got is an old broom and a mountain of dust."
He paused, looked up at the ceiling, and let out a humorless laugh."This is so unfair… seriously." Then he went back to sweeping, still grumbling, while the dust kept rising and fate remained silent.
"Hey, Twig! What are you doing there?" said Aron, suddenly appearing at the inn's doorway with a half-playful grin.
Twig jumped, startled by the sudden voice, and took a step back."Oh! Hey, Aron! Is that you?" he said, still a little shaken. "I didn't even see you come in."
"Of course you didn't," Aron replied, crossing his arms with mock reproach. "Daydreaming again, huh? Pay attention! If my father catches you spacing out like that, you'll get one hell of a scolding. You might even get slapped — and on top of that, go to bed without dinner. So you'd better focus."
Twig sighed, already feeling the weight of that warning, when Aron added:"Speaking of work, Jenny said you need to fetch a chicken for her. When you're done here, go to the barn and grab one. There should be a few easy ones in the henhouse. Bring it straight to her in the kitchen. Father's expecting guests tonight, and we need good food so they'll pay well."
"And now this?" Twig thought, rubbing his forehead. "As if cleaning everything wasn't enough, now I have to chase chickens? Damn it… what did I get myself into?"
He took a deep breath and shook his head, forcing a grin."Oh well… I can't give up now. Maybe this is just a dream and I'll wake up soon. Or maybe something amazing will happen — like a deity showing up and taking me out of here."
Breathing deeply, Twig decided to finish his work more carefully this time. He tidied the inn, set the tables properly, and swept the floor with full attention. It wasn't the best job in the world, but he felt oddly satisfied with the result.
When he finally stepped away from the inn's hall, he dropped the broom and took another deep breath. Now it was time to head to the farm and look for the chickens.
It wasn't hard for Twig to find the henhouse. In his mind, faint traces of memory still guided him — small, scattered details that had survived the confusion of everything that had happened.
"It wasn't that hard," he thought to himself, taking a cautious step toward the worn wooden gate.
As he approached, he noticed a few things scattered on the ground: scraps of wood, piles of straw, and even some forgotten tools. It wasn't a pretty sight; the place was messy, clearly in need of care if anyone truly wanted to improve the chickens' living conditions.
Despite the disorder, Twig studied the birds carefully. To his surprise, they didn't look thin or sick — quite the opposite. Their feathers gleamed, and their eyes were alert. They even look better fed than the innkeeper's kids, he thought, smirking faintly.
He took a few more steps, mentally preparing himself for the difficult task ahead — catching one of them. His eyes scanned the yard for a slower, more distracted bird. The henhouse might have been a mess, but those chickens were sharp and quick.
Twig's first attempts were a disaster. The birds flapped wildly, pecked at his hands, scratched his face, and even got tangled in his hair — turning a simple task into pure chaos.He stumbled, fell to the ground more than once, feeling the chill of the dirt against his skin. In one particularly unfortunate moment, he landed squarely in chicken droppings, letting out a groan of disgust and a defeated sigh.
Feathers filled the air, the chickens clucked in protest, and Twig spun about in a ridiculous dance, desperately trying to match their erratic, lightning-fast movements. Each attempt seemed useless, and he began to wonder if he'd escape the ordeal without permanent scars.
After countless struggles and a few embarrassing tumbles, he finally managed to grab the slowest, fattest one — clutching it firmly but gently, careful not to squeeze too hard. Relief and triumph mixed inside him, as if he'd just won an epic battle against creatures far faster and more cunning than he'd imagined.
With the chicken still flapping in his arms, Twig dashed back to the kitchen — every step a battle to keep the animal under control without hurting it or losing his composure. When he entered, Jenny was waiting by the stove. She looked up, and her face lit up in a relieved smile when she saw him.
"You did it!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with joy. "Thank you, Twig!"
But in the same instant, Jenny's voice softened, and she asked something that made Twig's stomach drop.
"Twig… can you help me kill this chicken?" she said quickly. "My father's not here right now. He usually does it, and… I don't have the courage. I feel bad for them."
Twig froze, staring at the bird still wriggling in his arms. Of course she wouldn't be able to — Jenny was too innocent, too kindhearted for something like that. It was obvious she didn't have the heart to do it.
He remembered fragments of memory he'd absorbed after arriving in this world — bits of rural life, flashes of how to handle and slaughter poultry. But at the same time, another image came unbidden: his old life. He'd never even been able to kill a cockroach with a slipper.
He pressed the chicken closer to his chest, feeling its warmth, its frantic heartbeat beneath his fingers. The smell of feathers, feed, and straw filled his nose."I don't think I can kill this chicken either," he muttered quietly to himself.
He paused, letting his thoughts wander, trying to separate dream from reality. "This is a dream," he whispered, clinging to the idea for comfort. If it was all a dream, would killing a chicken even matter? That strange, half-logical thought flickered through his mind.
But then, another possibility struck him cold. "Or worse… this isn't a dream."The realization hit hard and heavy. He really was in Westeros — or somewhere frighteningly similar — and the rules here weren't the same. Everything was harsher, more unforgiving, more dangerous. One small mistake could cost dearly; one wrong decision could have real, bloody consequences.
A chill ran down his spine, but with it came something else — determination. If he wanted to survive in this place, he'd have to adapt: learn tasks he never imagined doing, harden his heart when needed, and take on responsibilities he'd once avoided. Even if it started with something as simple as killing a chicken.
"Even if it's just a chicken," he repeated softly, as if reciting a mantra of resignation.
With his eyes fixed on the bird, Twig recalled the motions he'd seen before. He placed it on the workbench, gripped the cleaver tightly, and drew a slow, steady breath.
BAM!The cleaver came down — and the chicken's head separated cleanly from its body.
[TING!! FIRST BLOOD!!]