Solo Leveling in Westeros

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The great doors of the Red Keep swung inward with a low, echoing groan, the sound rolling through the vaulted entry hall. The light poured through the high windows, catching in the silver thread of Daenerys Targaryen's gown, setting her in stark contrast to the cold red stone around her. Behind her, the Kingsguard followed in a measured, disciplined march white cloaks trailing in shiny armor, hands never far from sword hilts.

Her pace was steady, unhurried, yet there was a regal weight in every step that made lesser men step aside without a word. Stewards and guards along the corridor straightened instinctively, some bowing their heads, others staring wide-eyed at the living image of the dragon queen. But Daenerys did not return their glances. Her eyes were fixed ahead, her mind already past the hall and through the winding staircases of the Hand's Tower.

Missandei was the only one to step forward from the shadows, her soft smile a rare note of warmth in the austere keep. "Your Grace, welcome back." she greeted, her voice low and musical.

"Missandei," Daenerys said, her expression easing for the briefest moment. "Walk with me."

Without breaking stride, the two women moved together. The clatter of the Kingsguard's boots echoed behind them, They ascended the winding stairs of the Hand's Tower, the muffled sound of voices growing clearer with each turn. When Daenerys reached the high chamber, Missandei stepped aside and the guards stationed at the doors pushed them open.

Inside, the light from tall, narrow windows fell across a long table scattered with maps, parchments, and goblets of wine. The chamber was already occupied.

Varys was the first to step forward, his silk robes whispering softly. "Your Grace," he said with a slight bow, his expression unreadable, eyes glimmering with that perpetual quiet calculation.

Tyrion was seated at the head of the table, a half-empty cup of wine at his elbow, looking entirely at ease. "Welcome back your Grace, you've made good time," he remarked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

Lady Olenna sat opposite him, her gnarled hands resting on her cane, her mouth twitching in something between a smirk and a frown. "About time you came to see the smallfolk you've claimed, Dragon Queen," she said dryly, though there was no venom in her voice.

Oberyn Martell leaned against the far wall, arms folded, his eyes tracing her every movement with open curiosity. Beside him, Petyr Baelish lingered in the shadows near the window, the faintest of smiles playing at his lips as though he knew a secret no one else in the room did.

Daenerys crossed the chamber without pause, her Kingsguard taking their places near the walls. She lowered herself into the chair opposite Tyrion with an elegance of a true Queen.

Her eyes moved from face to face, measuring each one in turn before her lips curved into a faint smile. "It seems," she said, "the Hand of the King has already selected his small council, and among them even the one who tried to poison me and my king."

Tyrion raised his cup in a mock salute, the corners of his mouth twitching. "What can I say, Your Grace? The realm waits for no one, not even dragons. But naturally you can make changes whenever you want. But I assure you, these are the finest the realm has to offer."

Petyr offered a courteous bow and said "Your Grace, let the past remain in the past I was but a soldier you see following orders, but I realized how foolish that was, and that the crown was on top of those who were unworthy of it."

Olenna gave a sharp sniff. "Apologies you grace but I'm not part of the small council, my son is, however I'm here for a matter that I have discussed with King Aeron."

'Matter you discussed with Aeron ?' Daenerys thought to herself. But she didn't respond to either of them.

Varys's hands folded neatly before him, his gaze unreadable. "A council is only as strong as the queen it serves."

"King it serves," Daenerys said.

The words were not loud, but they cut through the room like a sudden crack of ice on a winter lake. The correction was crisp.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Eyes widened, heads tilted. Tyrion's brows climbed in open surprise, while Olenna's cane paused mid-tap against the stone floor. Petyr Baelish's ever-present smirk faltered just enough to betray his interest. Even Oberyn straightened a fraction, the lazy tilt of his head sharpening into curiosity.

No one had expected her to say that..least of all Daenerys Targaryen, breaker of chains, the woman who had sailed across the Narrow Sea with fire and blood to claim the Iron Throne for herself.

Varys, for all his practiced composure, blinked once. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he said carefully, "Naturally it serves both."

Tyrion cut in, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, eyes narrowing as he studied her. "Forgive me as well, Your Grace, but I feel as though there's something you want to say." His voice carried that mix of curiosity and wariness that always came when he sensed a shift in the board. He took a sip of wine, never looking away from her. "Something happened… or perhaps something you saw in your travels to the North?"

Daenerys's gaze didn't waver, but her lips pressed into a thin line. it was the look in her eyes, unease, even fear that silenced the next few heartbeats.

Varys's hands folded together. "What is King Aeron's current status?" he asked, his voice calm as ever.

Daenerys turned to him, and in that moment her composure cracked, just enough for all of them to see. Her eyes, usually so steady, were clouded with worry.

"He is fine.. But beyond the Wall…" she said at last, her voice low but clear.

The words seemed to grab everyones attention. Tyrion sat back slowly, his frown deepening. Olenna's eyes narrowed to slits, her fingers tightening over her cane. Oberyn's expression lost its amusement entirely.

Varys's head inclined a fraction, his face unreadable, but his fingers tapped once against the table, a rare sign of worry from him.

Petyr's gaze flicked from her to the others, reading the shift in the air.

Daenerys did not look at any of them now. Her eyes had gone distant as though she were still looking North past the Wall, past the snows, past even the realms of the living.

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LAND OF ALWAYS WINTER -

The endless blizzard howled , carrying with it the stench of death and the cold bite of the far North. Snow whipped through the air in wild, furious flurries, scouring the frozen plain until sky and ground blurred into one endless white expanse.

And yet… the horizon moved.

A sea of death stretched as far as the eye could see an unending host of wights, their eyes pale as moonlight, their movements jerking and inhuman. Between them, the great lumbering shapes of undead giants shook the earth with each thunderous step. Farther still, twisted beasts Direwolves large enough to crush men beneath their paws, undead bears barely stitched together, prowled in restless anticipation. The air was heavy with their growls.

In front of that tide of death stood one man.

Aeron Grim.

The snow did not touch him. The wind seemed to bend around him, the shadows at his feet rippling like black water across the frozen ground. Behind him, his army waited not of flesh and blood, but of darkness given form. Shadow soldiers in jagged black armor, their helms crowned with cruel spikes, stood in rows so precise they might have been carved from obsidian. Among them, great beasts wrought of shadow snarled and shifted, their violet-lit eyes locked on the enemy ahead.

The ground beneath them seemed to rumble with power a pulse that came not from the earth, but from the man who commanded it.

Aeron's gaze swept the endless horde before him. There was no fear in his face, no hesitation in his stance. Only that slow, dangerous smile. The violet glow in his eyes flared brighter, casting ghostly light across the edges of his features, making the shadows dance higher around him.

He drew a long breath, the frost curling from his lips in the freezing air. His voice carried over the plain, sharp as his Greatsword that just emerged in his hand.

"Here I come, vermin."

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