Solo Leveling in Westeros

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The hall of the Red Keep was filled with the murmur of silks and armor, the subtle scrape of chairs as great lords and ladies settled into their places. The banners of a dozen houses hung above them, rippling faintly in the draft from the open high windows. The light of the late afternoon sun spilled across the Iron Throne, where Tyrion Lannister sat, legs dangling slightly, one hand wrapped around the arm of the twisted steel seat. Beside him, Lord Varys stood silent as a shadow.

Tyrion let his wine cup rest in his hand, watching the gathering before him. The Tyrells, in a bright cluster of green and gold, Olenna sitting as if she owned the Keep already.

Tyrion cleared his throat, and the murmurs dwindled.

"My lords and ladies," he began, his voice carrying through the vaulted chamber, "Now that you have seated and calmed down a bit, I'll repeat what I've said before...There is a greater reason behind you being here today…"

Silence fell. A ripple of glances passed through the room, eyes darting from face to face. Even the air felt heavier, as if the stones themselves leaned in to listen.

Petyr Baelish's voice cut through the stillness, smooth as oiled silk.

"Ho," he said, smiling faintly as his gaze settled on Tyrion, "and what could that possibly be, Lord Hand?"

Tyrion sipped his wine, slowly, before setting the cup down.

"I'm sure all of you have noticed the absence of House Stark," he said at last. "And the lack of soldiers here. No Unsullied, no Dothraki. I know most of you were expecting to see them standing guard over this hall. They are elsewhere."

He turned his head toward Catelyn Stark.

"The King and Queen are absent because they are in the North. I'm sure Lady Catelyn is aware why. Her son is the Lord of Winterfell, after all."

Catelyn inclined her head, her voice calm but edged with steel.

"Yes. I am aware of the threat in the North."

That sparked a stir among the gathered nobles.

"Wildlings?" someone muttered from the back.

"What threat?" another asked, leaning forward with narrowed eyes.

Tyrion let the rumble pass, then raised his voice.

"Death," he said, the single word ringing in the hall. "And cold. The dead is the threat."

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd short, nervous things that were quickly swallowed when Tyrion's gaze swept over them.

"Yes," he continued, his tone sharpening, "most of you would laugh, thinking it's some terrible tale told to frighten children. His Grace anticipated that reaction. Considering the looks some of you are displaying now, he was right."

Oberyn Martell leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on Tyrion.

"Tyrion Lannister," he said with a faint, dangerous smile, "what you are telling us is that the Dragon Queen and King Aeron are in the North now… fighting this terror you speak of? A king, fighting?"

Tyrion met his gaze, not flinching, his voice steady from the Iron Throne.

"Yes. That is exactly what I am saying."

Oberyn leaned back, turning to his brother with a smirk.

"Impressive. A king that fights his own battles. Even King Robert stopped being a soldier the moment he sat on that chair."

Tyrion's mouth twitched, his thoughts dry and unspoken.

'Technically… Aeron hasn't sat on it yet.'

The hall remained tense, the weight of Tyrion's words pressing down on them. Outside, the muffled sounds of the city drifted in, oblivious to the storm brewing both in the North and in the hearts of those gathered here.

Tyrion's voice cut through the chatter.

"Thankfully," he said, his fingers drumming lazily on the arm of the Iron Throne, "his Grace left me a… living proof." A wry smirk pulled at his mouth. "Though, truth be told, I'm not certain 'living' is the word for it. Still, you'll witness it regardless, and you may make up your minds after that."

A ripple of unease moved through the gathered lords and ladies. Eyes darted, whispers slithered across the hall. Petyr Baelish tilted his head in that fox-like way of his, studying Tyrion as though trying to read a hidden game in the Hand's words.

Then, the great doors at the far end of the hall creaked open.

From the shadows beyond, they emerged, tall, armored in darkness itself. The Shadow Knights. They moved without the clink of metal, without the shuffle of mortal boots, their presence cold and oppressive, as if the air itself bent away from them. Gasps and murmurs swelled; several in the hall had seen these strange warriors before, but even they sat rigid, their eyes drawn to the thing one of the knights carried.

It dangled from his gauntleted grip like a sack of grain… except this sack wore the shredded remnants of a black cloak, its skin stretched tight and grey over its bones, its lips shriveled away to reveal teeth bared in a frozen snarl.

A corpse. But there was something wrong about it, something that prickled the skin and chilled the blood of those present in the hall.

Lady Olenna sat back in her chair, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Gods I can't get used to these creatures." she murmured, her voice more disdain than prayer. Beside her, Margaery's composure faltered for the briefest moment, though her hands stayed neatly folded in her lap.

Robin Arryn whimpered aloud, pulling closer to Yohn Royce, who stared with the hard gaze of a man who had seen battle… but not this.

Oberyn Martell leaned slightly toward his brother, his eyes gleaming not with fear, but intrigue. "I understand now," he murmured in that silken Dornish drawl. "How this king managed to bring the realm to heel so swiftly. I wondered how Tywin's head found its way into our possession so… cleanly. Now, it all makes sense."

Doran Martell gave no reply, though his gaze remained fixed on the black-armored warriors.

Across the room, Edmure Tully muttered, "Seven hells… It's them again." while Ser Brynden's jaw tightened, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to draw it, just pure instincts of a seasoned knight.

"They are harmless," Tyrion announced from the throne, his voice carrying over the restless whispers. "As much as any sword left sheathed."

As if to mock him, the corpse twitched.

Gasps erupted. A lady of a noble house clutched her husband's arm so tightly he hissed in pain. The dead thing's eyes flared open, glowing a terrible, icy blue.

With a hiss that was no sound of man or beast, it lunged from the knight's grip, faster than any rotting body had a right to move, clawed hands reaching for the nearest guest a young knight from House Arryn, who stumbled back in horror.

Steel hissed from scabbards, but the shadow knight was swifter. It moved like smoke and shadow given form, catching the thrashing corpse mid-lunge, slamming it to the marble floor with a weighty, inhuman force.

The blue-eyed abomination writhed and snapped, teeth clacking inches from the stone, until the knight's gauntlet crushed its skull against the ground, holding it still.

All around, the hall had gone dead silent save for the rasp of ragged, unnatural breathing.

Tyrion took a sip of wine from the goblet in his hand, as unhurried as if nothing had happened. "Except," he said, swallowing with a grimace, "that one."

The hall remained tense, the dead thing still pinned beneath the shadow knight's iron grip a grim reminder of what lurked beyond the wall. Finally, Oberyn Martell leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and grudging respect.

"I believe it now," he said, voice low but steady, each word measured like a blade stroke. "So… what does the King need from us? What are his orders?"

Tyrion's lips curled into a faint smile, the kind that hinted at knowing far more than he let on. He gestured broadly to the gathered lords and ladies, his tone shifting.

"For all of you to be loyal, righteous… and to fight for the good of the realm." He paused, eyes scanning the faces before him, the weight of responsibility settling on the shoulders of each noble present.

Then, with a wry tilt of his head, he added, "No, seriously. I expect you to send your soldiers north. To stand with the Northerners, should the worst come to pass."

A murmur rippled through the hall, concern, disbelief, and begrudging acceptance tangled together in the voices of lords and ladies who had long grown accustomed to civil wars, betrayals, and shifting alliances.

Tyrion's voice grew quieter, but no less sharp, as he continued, "The King has told me plainly: this… thing here," he nodded toward the corpse beneath the shadow knight's grasp "is but a pawn. It's nothing compared to what waits beyond the Wall."

His gaze darkened. "A far greater threat dwells in the frozen north, a threat only the King faces at this moment. And it is no small matter. This is not a war of swords and crowns. It is a war for survival."

Petyr's eyes narrowed. "And you expect us to believe the throne sits empty while this battle rages?"

Tyrion met her gaze steadily. "The throne sits because the King commands it. But his true fight is here, far from these stone walls. He leads not just armies, but the fate of Westeros itself. If You can't understand that then there is nothing more I can say to you littlefinger."

The Martells exchanged glances Doran's face was inscrutable, but Oberyn's lips twitched into a small, approving smile.

"Then we will send men," Doran declared with a sharp nod. "The Dragon Queen and King of Shadows must know they have true allies. The sands of Dorne will not sit idly as the darkness creeps south."

From across the room, Lord Yohn Royce took one look at the young prince and then his voice echoed, unwavering. "The Vale will answer the call. The North is not that distant from us, and this threat endangers all."

Even Petyr Baelish inclined his head, his calculating eyes gleaming with a mixture of ambition and appraisal.

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