Solo Leveling in Westeros

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WINTERFELL -

The wind that swept through Winterfell's courtyard carried the bite of the True North with it, sharp enough to make even the ravens restless. One of them circled once above the maester's tower before dropping down in a flurry of black wings. Maester Luwin was already waiting, his hands steady despite the cold, unfastening the small leather tube from the bird's leg.

He unrolled the parchment slowly, eyes narrowing at the seal of the hand of the king, the wax still fresh. Whatever words were pressed into the page made his brow furrow deeper. Without delay, he left the rookery and made his way toward the Great Hall, boots clicking softly on the stone.

Inside, Robb Stark stood near the long table, his cloak still heavy with frost from travel. Grey Wind lay sprawled at his side, head resting lazily on his paws but one eye fixed on the maester's approach.

"What is it?" Robb asked, turning from the table.

"A message from King's Landing, my lord," Luwin said, holding out the parchment. "You… will want to read it yourself."

Robb's brows knit in brief confusion before he took the letter. His eyes scanned the words, quick at first, then slower, as if weighing each line. When he finally looked up, there was something in his expression, surprise mingled with a wry sort of disbelief.

"Incredible…" he murmured. "They're sending men from all over the realm to Winterfell."

He gave a short laugh the kind that held more edge than mirth. "With these numbers, they could take the North itself, if they wished."

Luwin tilted his head slightly at the remark, but Robb continued, his tone shifting. "Truly incredible, what Aeron's done. Even Dorne is sending soldiers. Now, with their strength alongside ours and the Free Folk, the armies of the realm... we'll be ready for the worst."

"And what is the worst, my lord?" Luwin asked quietly.

Robb's gaze grew grim, his voice low. "If we see the army of the dead at our gates."

For a moment, the hall felt colder. But Robb shook the thought off, squaring his shoulders. "Though I doubt the King will fail. You know how monstrously strong he is. We'll stand against this winter as we always have..and prevail."

He turned, his boots echoing on the stone as he made for the doors.

"Where to, my lord?" Luwin asked. "You've only just returned."

"The Wall," Robb said without slowing. "I can't rest, not when the fate of the living is in the balance. I need to keep myself informed between here and Castle Black not through my soldiers or mere ravens, but myself."

The maester sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. "Very well, my lord."

Robb paused at the threshold, glancing back. "By the way… have you seen Bran? He's usually here to greet me, but I've not seen him today."

"Indeed," Luwin said, adjusting his chain. "He's been… strange, of late. Not surprising, perhaps. all of Winterfell is on edge. You'll find him by the weirwood. He is spending most of his hours there just sitting."

Robb stood in thought for a heartbeat, then allowed a faint smile. "Unusual for my little brother to stay put.. crippled or not, he's never been one to remain calm. But as long as he's safe it doesn't matter what he is doing… take care, Maester."

The Young Wolf pushed open the heavy doors, the winter air rushing in to meet him.

****

The godswood of Winterfell lay hushed beneath a veil of fresh snow. Each flake drifted lazily from the pale sky, settling on branch and stone alike until the world itself seemed carved from frost. The red leaves of the great weirwood swayed gently in the wind, their whispering almost human, their pale bark streaked with the dark, bleeding face of the Old Gods.

Beneath those crimson leaves sat Bran Stark. His chair rested in the shadow of the tree's trunk, Bran did not move. He did not shiver, though the cold gnawed at everything around him.

His eyes were white. Not pale, not clouded with frost, but empty, like the falling snow.

The boy's breathing was slow, almost not there at all. His fingers curled loosely around the wooden armrests, yet they seemed unaware of their own grip. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear.

Then, a voice.

It was not a sound that touched the ears, but a whisper that slid into the mind like water through stone. Ancient and patient, without a hint of warmth.

'You have slept long, Brandon Stark.'

Bran's lips did not move, yet his answer came quiet, steady, without the tremor of fear.

"I know this voice... How do I know this voice?"

"You do. For you are me, and I am gone."

The wind sighed through the weirwood branches, and the red leaves shivered like bloodied hands in the snow. Bran's head tilted again, his pupils still swallowed by that pure white void.

"You're gone you say..." he said softly. "What is this... I feel everything, even the roots growing…"

Bran's fingers tightened on the chair. His voice grew quieter still.

"It's overwhelming..."

Bran's breath misted in the cold air. For a moment, his white eyes seemed to flicker, the image of a black-feathered bird flashed in the snow-bound darkness of his mind, its one good eye looking at him.

"The tree remembers. The rivers remember. Now you will remember. All of it Brandon Stark."

A coldness seeped deeper into Bran's bones, not the chill of snow and ice around him, but something older, more absolute. A thousand visions stirred in the white of his eyes. Faces long dead. Kings long buried. Shadows moving beyond the Wall. Events that happened long past. And events that would unfold.

The voice faded, but its last words lingered, heavy as the falling snow.

"The sight is yours now, Bran. And the burden too."

****

The godswood got silent, and Bran Stark's breath fogged faintly in the cold air. He had not moved in hours.

Only his eyes betrayed the silence. White as fresh-fallen snow, they stared unblinking at the heart tree's carved face, its red sap tears frozen in place.

Bran's lips parted, his voice low and certain, as if the words had been waiting inside him all along.

"I see it now," he murmured. "All of it. The roads we have taken. The roads yet to come."

His gaze shifted slightly upward, to where a lone raven perched on a branch above, black feathers stark against the crimson leaves.

"I have to witness something."

The bird tilted its head in an awkward way its eyes turning pale, and then strangely nodded in a silent acknowledgment.

Bran's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair.

"Fly."

His white eyes did not blink as the change came swift and seamless. The world before him blurred, the godswood dissolving into a rush of sky and wind. His breath became the breath of the bird, his heart the beat of its wings.

With a sudden, powerful motion, the raven launched from the weirwood, black wings cutting through the air. Snow swirled violently in its wake.

It soared above Winterfell's towers, the keep shrinking beneath, the walls bristling with men at watch. Beyond lay the endless white, the wild and merciless North stretching to the horizon.

The wind screamed in its feathers as the raven climbed higher, the chill sharper now, the light dimming under a heavy sky. It flew past frozen rivers and forests heavy with snow, past lonely watchtowers standing like ghosts in the wastes.

And still, Bran's voice whispered within himself steady, resolute.

"Further. North."

The shadow of the Wall loomed.

The raven did not slow.

It passed over the Wall and entered the realm of eternal winter, flying into the heart of the storm that waited there.

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