Solo Leveling in Westeros

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The bells of King's Landing tolled low and steady, echoing across the narrow streets as a long column of banners wound its way toward the Red Keep. The gates had been thrown wide, and the cobblestones thrummed with the rhythmic tramp of boots and the snorting of destriers draped in the colors of The Great Houses of Westeros.

From the Vale, the falcon of Arryn fluttered proudly in the late morning wind, from Riverrun, the silver trout of House Tully shimmered upon blue and red, from the Reach came the golden rose of Tyrell, its bearers riding in polished armor bright as summer fields, and from the far, sun-scorched South, the burning spear and sunburst of Martell swayed above spearmen in orange and crimson.

Other banners were absent by choice, by war, or by duty.

High above the pageant, on one of the Red Keep's marble balconies, Tyrion Lannister leaned his elbows upon the stone balustrade, a goblet of wine resting in his hand, the sunlight setting the dark red liquid aglow. Beside him stood Varys, his plump hands folded together as if in prayer, though his eyes missed nothing below.

The air smelled faintly of the sea, but beneath it was the musk of the city sweat, horse, and anticipation.

"A fine sight, is it not?" Tyrion mused, swirling his wine. "The cream of Westeros, trotting dutifully into the lion's den. Or should I say… the dragon's den now, or maybe the shadow's.. I don't know really."

Varys's lips curved faintly. "Indeed. Though I wonder how sweet their tempers will remain when they discover that both the King and Queen-to-be are… conspicuously absent."

Tyrion took a measured sip before replying, his mismatched eyes still fixed on the movement of the procession below. "Ah, yes. The ever-awkward matter of explaining why our conquering monarchs are nowhere in sight. Some may take it poorly. Some may take it as insult. And others…" He smiled thinly. "Others will smell opportunity and conspiracy."

The Spider's voice was soft, but it cut through the noise below. "It is dangerous to leave the vipers unattended, my lord. The moment they believe the throne is empty, they will slither closer with their fangs bared."

"True enough," Tyrion said, setting down his goblet upon the stone. He straightened, a spark of amusement lighting his features. "Fortunately for us, it won't be like that anymore and I have something they do not."

Varys arched one smooth brow. "And what might that be?"

"A silver tongue," Tyrion replied, with the air of a man stating a fact rather than boasting. "I am quite good with words, Lord Varys. Good enough, perhaps, to keep our honored guests from tearing each other's throats out at least until Daenerys and our… shadowy king return from their northern amusements."

"Let us hope so," Varys murmured, gaze drifting back to the sea of banners. "For the game begins the moment they set foot in the throne room."

Tyrion smirked, lifting his goblet once more. "Then let's make sure we deal the first hand."

The cheers of the crowd swelled below, the sound of the great Houses of Westeros marching to meet a crown they had yet to truly see. Above them, the two men stood like quiet conspirators, the weight of the realm pressing down in the absence of its rulers.

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THE RED KEEP – THRONE ROOM

The Red Keep had not seen such a gathering in many years.

The echo of booted feet on stone, the rustle of silks, and the low murmur of voices filled the Great Hall as the banners of the great houses hung from the high rafters, crimson, gold, silver, green, and black swaying gently in the warm air. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, dancing on the blades of the Kingsguard flanking the Iron Throne.

Tyrion Lannister sat upon it, not as king, but as the mouthpiece of one. His small frame was swallowed by the throne's twisted metal, but the way he leaned forward, elbows on knees, a half-smile playing on his lips, made it clear he was not overwhelmed. Beside him stood Varys, serene as a still pond, his hands folded in the sleeves of his robes, eyes sweeping the crowd with quiet calculation.

Lord Doran Martell entered first, supported by a carved wooden cane, his steps deliberate. At his side, strode Prince Oberyn his eyes darting about the hall with a predatory ease, his mouth already curling in mischief.

"Lord Tyrion," Doran said, his voice smooth as Dornish wine. "It is not every day the Red Keep welcomes those who have long been unwelcome."

"Nor is it every day that Dorne decides to grace us with such… radiant company," Tyrion replied, eyes flicking briefly to Oberyn. "I trust the journey was pleasant?"

"As pleasant as one can be when traveling north," Oberyn smirked. "I hear much of your new king. I should like to meet him… before I die of boredom, after all we received a wonderful gift from him."

"You may yet have that chance," Tyrion said, raising his goblet in mock solemnity.

From the west doors came the Tullys, Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, stern and silent, alongside a somewhat uncomfortable Edmure, who adjusted his collar like a man walking into a trap. But the murmur that followed their arrival was for the woman at their side Catelyn Stark, her face pale but composed, the grey direwolf of her son's banner and the trout of her birth displayed together on her gown.

"Lady Catelyn," Varys said with a polite bow. "A rare sight indeed."

"Can't say it's nice to see you too, Lord Varys," she replied, her eyes sweeping the hall as though weighing every man and woman within it. "If this… king means to bring peace to the realm, then both my houses have reason to hear him."

From the eastern entrance came House Arryn, young Lord Robin perched awkwardly in his ceremonial armor, already shifting under its weight, flanked by the unflinching Lord Yohn Royce. Walking just behind them, like a fox strolling into a henhouse, was Lord Petyr Baelish.

"Lord Baelish..." Tyrion said without warmth. "I see the Vale sends both its steel and its… tongue."

Littlefinger smiled that thin, secret smile of his. "I would not miss such a gathering. It's not often one gets to see the future of the realm take shape. Though…" he let his eyes drift around the hall, "I find myself wondering where the future in question is. Where is His Grace or...Her Grace? Should not the king himself greet such esteemed guests? Or is it the Dragon Queen that would be the ruler?"

Tyrion took a slow sip from his cup. "His Grace is… indisposed. But I am quite capable of extending his welcome."

"That may be," Baelish said softly, "but whispers have a way of growing teeth when the man they whisper about is nowhere to be seen."

Before Tyrion could respond, the Tyrells swept in with the perfumed air of Highgarden Lady Olenna, her sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk's, followed by her son Mace in all his puffed-up pomp, and the young Margaery, all grace and sweet smiles.

"Lord Tyrion," Olenna said without bowing, her voice carrying like a bell, "I trust the promises made to my house have not been… misplaced?"

Tyrion cocked an eyebrow. "Promises are like fine wine, my lady, best kept sealed until the right occasion. Whatever arrangement you had with His Grace, you'll find him far better at discussing it than I."

"I should hope so," Olenna said dryly. "I dislike dealing with middlemen. Too much room for spillage."

The Martells had lingered near, Oberyn folding his arms with an amused look. "If the king is half as intriguing as his choice of Hand, I expect a lively meeting."

"Patience, Prince Oberyn," Varys murmured, his voice as soft as silk. "His Grace will return in time. And when he does, I suspect none of us will leave unchanged."

Tyrion leaned back in the Iron Throne, gaze sweeping the nobles, the hawks, the foxes, the snakes, and the roses. "Until that time, my lords and ladies, you will have to make do with me. And I am, if nothing else… very good with words."

A ripple of laughter passed through the hall, though not all mouths smiled.

Tyrion then continued "My lords and ladies, this gathering is not just talks of peace, there is a greater reason behind it..."

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