Solo Leveling in Westeros

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Theon's breath came shallow, his chest rising and falling as he stood frozen, steel cold against his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, but he dared not move-he'd seen how fast Aeron was. 

The courtyard was dead silent. All eyes were on them. 

Aeron's grip on Direfang was steady, unshaken. His voice was calm, yet it carried with it the weight of a storm. 

"You're going to send a letter," he said, his words like whips. "To your father. To your sister. To whoever the fuck will listen. Tell them Winterfell is yours now. Tell them you need men. Tell them you need an army to keep it."

Theon's eyes scanned around, his gaze searching wildly. "W-What?" he stuttered. "Why? What the fuck are you?"

Aeron did not blink. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I can still use you."

Theon's jaw clenched as his mind scrambled, rattling for a way out. Wanted to deny it, wanted to push back-but something in Aeron's eyes made him understand the truth of his words. That there was no way out. 

Aeron went on, voice low and dangerous. "You want to be a prince? Then act like one. Get your men. March to the Dreadfort. Kill the Boltons. Burn thier fucking house to the ground." 

Theon let out a sharp breath. "You want me to march on the Boltons?" He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Are you insane!? they are one of Starks most loyal bannermen!" 

Aeron's eyes flashed. "I'm doing you a favor, most of their men are with Robb right now." He pressed the blade just enough to make Theon flinch. "I want my kingdom stable. And bad weeds need to be pulled out at the root." 

Theon swallowed hard. He knew what this was. An order. A command. A death sentence. But the alternative? The alternative was death right now. His fingers curled into fists. 

Aeron cocked his head to one side. "So what's it going to be, Greyjoy? A chance to be something more?" His voice was back down to a whisper. "Or do I spill your guts right here and now?" 

Theon couldn't breathe. Everything in him screamed to run, but his legs would not obey. He saw it in Aeron's eyes. 

He meant it. 

Finally, after a long, agonizing silence, Theon exhaled sharply through his nose. His pride burned in his chest like acid, but he had no choice. "Fine. Fine!" he muttered. "I'll do it." 

Aeron studied him for a long moment, then pulled the blade away. 

Theon's knees nearly buckled from relief. 

Then, from behind them, a voice—soft, breathless, disbelieving. 

"Aeron." He turned. Raya stood there, staring at him like she couldn't believe he was real. 

"You're actually back." 

For the first time since he had come to Winterfell, Aeron allowed himself to smirk. 

***** 

The air was heavy in the Great Hall of Winterfell, and all that could be heard was the far howl of the wind beyond the castle walls. 

But already Aeron's interest had wandered elsewhere. His bright violet eyes fixed on Maester Luwin-the old man near the hearth, with years and duties marked upon his features. 

"Glad I made it here while you're still alive, Maester." Aeron's voice was steady, but there was something behind it something that ran a shiver down the old man's spine. "I know where your loyalty lies. I know you can't betray the Starks." He tilted his head to one side. "That's good. I don't want you to." Aeron added. 

Luwin's lips compressed into a thin line. "Then what is it you do want, Aeron Grim of Bear Island?" 

Aeron's smile was barely perceptible, a ghost of amusement at the corner of his mouth. 

"Ravens." 

Luwin frowned. "Ravens?" 

Aeron nodded, stepping forward. The firelight cast long shadows over his face. "You're going to send letters. To every lord. To every self-proclaimed king. To the South. To the Riverlands, where Robb Stark is waging his war." 

Luwin studied him carefully, eyes filled with quiet wisdom. "You have quite the reach for a man who once set out for the Wall." 

Aeron chuckled, a small, dry sound. "And i'm still that man. And now I'm back." His eyes seemed to darken. "And I want you to send a raven to Kingslanding." 

Luwin hesitated. "And what would you have me say?" 

Aeron exhaled, his voice dropping into something deeper, something final. 

"Tell them this: The true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms is coming. And it's not a Baratheon, not Lannister or a Stark. It's not one of the petty five kings playing at war" He took another step closer, his eyes ablaze with the power now resident within him. 

"Tell them… the Shadow Monarch is coming for them." 

Silence. 

The words hung in the air-heavy, undeniable. 

Luwin, to his credit, did not recoil. Still, there was something in his face-something half between fear and understanding. 

Even Raya, who was only a few feet away from them, stared on in wonder. 

Finally, Luwin gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I will send your ravens, Aeron Grim." 

Aeron smiled, pleased. "Good." 

The tension in the hall had not eased, and the looming presence of Aeron Grim only made the atmosphere heavier. Beside him stood Bran Stark, his young face serious, clutching at his brother Rickon, who was holding onto his older brother for support. Across from them, Ser Rodrik stood with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Aeron with a wary, calculating gaze. 

"About the Boltons," Ser Rodrik began, his voice firm. "Are you certain of what you have said Sorcerer? 

Aeron didn't flinch, didn't even blink. He glanced around him, his violet eyes flashing for a moment as he considered the question. "I am," he stated, his voice steady. "Roose Bolton is a threat-he's already under Tywin's mercy." Slightly leaning back, his posture was casual, but the weight of his words bore no possibility of misjudgment. "The man will do Tywin's bidding he is the true danger to your king." 

"Tywin Lannister is not the kind of man who'd serve anyone, but he respects power." Aeron's lips curled into the slightest of smirks, a dark glint in his eyes. "And he's no fool. so i'll make sure of that." 

The scowl deepened on Ser Rodrik's face, and he tensed visibly. He stepped closer to Aeron, and his voice turned low, cutting with a certain wariness, "And do you expect us to work for you Sorcerer?" 

Aeron stopped, peering into Ser Rodrik's eyes, he scratched the back of his head. "Northerners." he murmured, for the most part to himself and in annoyance. 'Honor and loyalty. Your fucking flaw.' 

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "No. I don't expect you to work for me." His eyes flickered to Bran and back to Ser Rodrik. "But ignore my warnings, and your precious king will die. And it won't be by my hands." 

The words seemed to hang in the air, like some dreadful promise. 

Bran, who had been listening silently, looked up at Aeron with unwavering eyes. His voice was soft, but his words were firm. "I trust him." 

Rodrik turned to Bran, the skepticism still heavy on his face. "My prince, you're—" 

But Bran didn't let him finish. His words cut through the air with the conviction of someone far older than his years. "I trust him," he repeated, stronger this time. 

There was no doubt in Bran's voice, no falter. Just a quiet confidence that seemed to seep into the room. 

Aeron's eyes softened, just a fraction, and he nodded once at Bran, accepting the young Stark's trust in him. "Smart prince." 

Aeron's head jerked back toward Maester Luwin, the old man standing by his side, hands clutched deep into the long sleeves of his robes. There was silence, an unspoken pull of tension as Aeron reached toward him, the violet eyes alight with unsettling calm. 

"Before you send the letters," Aeron began smoothly and casual, "let me see the ravens first. Especially that one you're sending to Kingslanding." 

Luwin raised an eyebrow. Curiosity and cautious wariness mixed in his face as he echoed, "Inspecting?" His tone was skeptical. "Why would you need to inspect them? The ravens are fine." 

Aeron smiled, but there was no warmth behind it, no reassurance. It was almost a dangerous, predatory smile. "Yes," he said, taking a closer step toward him-playful, yet with real menace beneath. "Just a simple inspection." 

Luwin shifted uncomfortably under Aeron's acute eyesight. "I. I see." 

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