Solo Leveling in Westeros

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The light surged from within Aeron. 

In an instant, it was no longer a mere glow. It was a blinding blaze. Lines of divine gold etched themselves into the air around him, arcing like runes made of fire. The statues of the Seven seemed to shudder, their stony faces bathed in unnatural brilliance. Even the shadows recoiled. 

And then 

BOOM. 

The world shattered. 

A massive explosion erupted from Aeron himself, the Great Sept of Baelor reduced to rubble. A column of golden-white flame shot skyward, engulfing the dome, incinerating the glass windows, and sending stone and marble flying like missiles through the capital's skyline. 

Half the Sept gone. 

Its eastern side had been leveled, a crater now etched into the sacred ground where prayers once echoed. Statues lay broken, shattered limbs of gods sprawled like fallen giants among the debris. Smoke poured out, thick and black, mingled with ash and fire. 

The streets below screamed. 

People ran. 

Women with children clutched to their chests. Old men stumbling in the dust. Goldcloaks barking orders they barely understood. Bells rang not in celebration, but in warning. 

"What was that?!" 

"Gods, the Sept! It's gone!" 

"They've blown it up!" 

"There was light. Like the sun itself came down!" 

"Was it him? That Tyrant?! Was it the dragons?!" 

"The Seven are angry! We're all damned!" 

From a window overlooking the city, a septa fell to her knees, weeping into her palms. "The gods… the gods are leaving us…" 

And amidst the chaos, within the ruined heart of the Sept, a low rumble stirred beneath a heap of sundered stone and cracked marble. 

Something moved. 

A hand a man's hand pushed up from under a collapsed statue, fingers curling against the weight of it. 

Then, Aeron rose. 

He shoved aside the fallen statue of the Warrior like it weighed nothing more than a broken shield. Dust coated his form, trailing from the folds of his torn cloak. His once-imposing attire was ragged, burned at the edges, one shoulder bare. Blood ran from the corner of his lip, but he wiped it with the back of his hand casually, almost annoyed by the inconvenience. 

Smoke curled around him like a second shadow. 

He looked up at what remained of the Sept the broken walls, the bleeding light of fire licking the heavens. Then he looked at his hand, flexed his fingers, and exhaled slowly. 

A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth. 

"...I expected something more," he muttered. 

And he laughed. Quietly at first. Then a little louder. A chuckle of grim amusement echoing among the broken stones and shattered saints. 

Above, the statue of the Stranger teetered missing its head. 

Aeron turned his violet eyes toward the light breaking through the clouds above the ruined sept. 

"Come on then dear gods," he said under his breath. "Send the next one soon. Don't take too long." 

The fire crackled gently in the wake of the explosion. 

Aeron stood at the center of it all bare-shouldered, dust-soaked, blood-traced and then it came: 

[System Notification] 

You have defeated: Apostle of the Seven. 

You have leveled up! 

[You have vanquished 5/8 Apostles]  

New Item Acquired: 

[Gauntlets of the Warrior] 

Type: Arms / Gloves 

Effect: 

+90% to physical strength and durability. 

Can create a temporary divine shield that deflects physical and magical attacks for 10 seconds. 

Glows with light during combat, intimidating foes. 

Due to its magical nature, it harms the invulnerable creatures of magic and the unknown. 

A soft pulse flickered before him an ethereal glow coalescing into form. 

The gauntlets floated there, elegant and brutal. Forged from something not quite silver, not quite gold. Runes moved like breath along their bracers, and even the broken air around them seemed to bend in reverence. 

Aeron raised his hand, and the gauntlets drifted toward him binding themselves to his forearms with a hiss of light. For a moment, he felt warmth in them, as if the Warrior himself had cursed his strength into the steel. 

He flexed his fingers. The metal moved with flesh. 

"Not bad at all," he muttered, voice edged with dark amusement. 

Then another pulse of light blinked before his eyes. The system again. 

[AERON GRIM] 

Job: Necromancer 

Title: Kingslayer (+5 Strength, +5 Agility, +5 Sense) 

Title: All-Knowing (Instantly understand new concepts, +50% learning speed, Automatically identify items, creatures, and magic.) 

Level: 70 → 80 

Fatigue: 30 

HP: 6800 

MP: 6500 

Strength: 138 → 153 (+5) 

Health: 129 → 140 

Agility: 128 → 140 (+5) 

Intelligence: 118 → 140 

Sense: 110 → 130 (+5) 

Available Ability Points: 30 → 0 

Passive Skill: 

Tenacity (Level 1) 

Skills: 

Ruler's Authority 

Perception (+10 Sense when analyzing or strategizing.) 

Bloodlust 

Mutilation 

Chains of the Abyss 

Job-Specific Skills: 

Shadow Extraction (Level 1) 

Shadow Exchange (Level 1) 

Monarch's Domain 

??? (Unawakened Skill) 

Inventory: 

Drakaryzor 

Direfang Sword 

Silverfangs 

Abyss Drake Armor Set 

Mask of the Forgotten Faces 

Ashen Scales 

The Cannibal's Crown 

Gauntlet of the Warrior 'NEW' 

He let the numbers soak with quiet calculation. 

A gust of wind stirred his cloak, and his glowing violet gaze turned upward to the sun filtering through the broken dome. The Great Sept was half-ruined, its sacred stones now testimony to a god's failed apostle. 

His voice cut through the silence like a blade: 

"Now…" 

He turned slowly, stepping over cracked marble and spilled blood. 

"…time to go back and do what I came here for." 

**** 

BLACKWATER BAY – OFF THE COAST, SUNSET 

The sea stretched wide and still beneath a sky bruised with twilight. Waves lapped softly against the hull of the ship as it sailed eastward, its sails catching the fading light. Far behind them, like a cursed monument against the horizon, King's Landing stood in silence save for the faint black plume that rose into the sky. 

A plume that hadn't been there minutes ago. 

It curled like a black serpent, staining the heavens. 

Jaime Lannister stood at the stern, his hand braced against the railing, staring at the ruin in the distance. The firelight from the shattered Great Sept of Baelor could be seen even from here glimmering faintly like the eye of some terrible god opened at last. 

"It has to be him," Jaime said under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. 

Tommen, hunched beside his mother near the middeck, looked up, confused and pale. "Is he… attacking the city?" 

Cersei said nothing. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her daughter, Myrcella, as if willing the girl to disappear into her embrace. Her jaw clenched, lips thin and trembling but not with fear. 

With fury. 

She kept her eyes on the shoreline behind them until it began to vanish in the mist, the sight of the Red Keep and the city she once ruled growing smaller, less powerful, less real. 

"Mother?" Tommen asked again. 

Still, she said nothing. Just gritted her teeth. 

Jaime turned, slowly approaching her. He knew that look in her eyes. He had seen it far too much. He had seen it when her father was murdered. And now it returned, stronger than ever. 

That helpless, poisonous rage. The fury of a lioness watching her den collapse. 

"I know what you're thinking, Cersei," Jaime said softly, eyes not unkind. "But this… this is the only way to survive what's coming." 

Cersei finally looked at him. 

There was no fire in her reply, only a cold, tired bitterness. "I don't understand the difference, Jaime. Between staying… or fleeing to Essos, or to the ends of the fucking world." She shook her head, her voice cracking. "He can appear anywhere. Whenever he wants. You saw it too. How does running help?" 

Her eyes drifted to the dark clouds still curling into the heavens. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's not a man. He's a curse a plague!" 

Jaime said nothing for a moment. Then he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, and nodded toward the fading skyline of the city. 

"The difference," he said, voice low, "is that he wants that." His finger pointed toward the towers, toward the Iron Throne, toward the city of schemes and blood. "Not us. Not Tommen. Not Myrcella. Not now." 

Cersei looked back at the children—Tommen clutching the ship's edge nervously, Myrcella gazing out into the sea as if searching for a dream. 

"We will be safe," Jaime added. "I promise you that." 

Cersei didn't answer right away. Her throat bobbed, and her eyes glistened in the dying light. 

"Safe," she echoed hollowly. "as If such a thing even exists in a world where that monster walks free." 

She turned her back to the sea and pulled her children close, as if shielding them from the very thought of him. 

/-\ 

If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC

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