Solo Leveling in Westeros

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DRAGONSTONE – THE PAINTED TABLE HALL 

Aeron stepped through the arched corridor of Dragonstone, the stormy sea pounding against the cliffside. Shadows curled at his heels, following him like loyal hounds. He moved with silence his mind already deep in thoughts. 

The guards standing at attention bowed low the moment they caught sight of him. 

"Your Grace," one of them said, voice taut with reverence. 

"Your Grace," echoed the other. 

Aeron said nothing. His eyes, glowing violet, flicked toward the great doors ahead the war room, the Painted Table beyond. Through the stone, he heard murmurs: voices in counsel. 

"Dragonstone is already a great fortress my queen I suggest we remain here as our base of operation," Varys was saying. 

"Indeed, we just received a raven from Raya, it's going rather smoothly" came Tyrion's voice, sharper, but laced with fatigue. "This is rather an easy war to win, we shouldn't even bother send the queen's troops, Aeron can.." 

Aeron pushed open the doors. The heavy wood groaned. 

They turned at once. 

Tyrion blinked and gave a low whistle. "Well, speak of the Devil." 

Varys inclined his head. "Your Grace," he said smoothly, stepping back. 

But it was Daenerys who moved first, her gaze locking onto Aeron the moment he entered. Something in his face made her frown. She didn't speak just stepped forward, dress whispering over the stone floor, and took his hands gently in her own. 

"You're pale," she said softly. "Are you well?" 

Aeron exhaled through his nose, faintly amused. "I'm fine. Just tired." His voice had that same distant steel. "Been all over Westeros these past few days." 

Her hands tightened around his. "There's something else, isn't there?" 

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked past her, to the Painted Table where the world was carved out in rock, all kingdoms divided by shallow trenches and wooden markers. His voice came low and measured. 

"The Reach is ours. They bent the knee without a drop of blood. We now hold nearly all of Westeros save the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Crownlands." He paused. "That leaves the lion's den… and the throne they guard." 

Daenerys's lips curved faintly. "That's good news." But she studied him closer, narrowing her eyes. "Then what weighs on you so heavily? You wear your fatigue like a shroud." 

"I must go north," he said, tone dropping lower. "The true threat is still there. Watching. Waiting." He began pacing slowly, hands folded behind his back like a general in thought. "The wildlings and the Northmen are allies now. That works in our favor. The Night King whatever remains of him will find few corpses to raise this way." 

Varys looked visibly disturbed. Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine and didn't drink. 

Daenerys watched Aeron pace, her jaw set. 

"How strong is he?" she asked. "This Night King." 

"I don't know," Aeron said, voice tightening. "He shouldn't be much. But after what I've seen, the Apostles, the ones the gods chose to destroy me, the one you saw… I'm not so certain anymore. He may be...more. Something… unpredictable." 

He turned, his eyes glowing faintly even in the firelit chamber. "Still, even with what he might be, I've gathered all that I need. Every weapon. Every tool. my shadows. I feel ready ready to face anything." 

Daenerys stepped forward again, firm now, her hand reaching to stop him mid-step. "Then why do you bear this burden alone? Why keep sending everyone and me away so you can go to face death and ice?" Her voice wavered not with weakness, but with a storm of emotion. "Do you think me so fragile? That I'd shatter like glass at the first sign of danger?" 

Aeron stared at her. The fire between them flickered in the silence. 

"No," he said. "But I know I'm the only one who can stop these things. These… beings. These monsters. And I don't want you to fall if the danger is unpredictable." 

He gave a half-laugh. It was hollow, bitter, and short. "Besides, I've grown used to doing things alone." 

Daenerys stepped closer, her breath catching. "Then get unused to it." 

Without another word, she pulled him into a kiss soft but searing, the kind of kiss that quiets storms and stirs deeper ones. When they pulled apart, her violet eyes met his, unwavering. 

"Never send me away like that again." 

The room was silent but for the sound of the hearth. 

Varys, ever composed, folded his hands. "Well," he said dryly, "that was..." 

Tyrion finally sipped his wine and muttered, "Seven hells, why am I blushing." 

Aeron gave them both a sidelong glance, one brow lifting faintly. But he said nothing. Instead, he gently cupped Daenerys's cheek with one gloved hand. 

"I'll try," he murmured. 

the room itself felt far smaller now intimate even, almost quiet. A fire burned in Daenerys's violet eyes as she studied Aeron, his form still haloed by the long shadows of battle and consequence. 

She smiled. 

Not the smile of a queen before her court, not the calculating smile she offered ambassadors and allies, a warmer one. 

Then she stepped back from him, eyes glinting with mischief and meaning. 

"I have a gift for you," she said. 

At her cue, the doors creaked open. 

Missandei entered first, graceful as ever, her robes flowing like silk. Behind her strode Ser Jorah Mormont, his face weathered by sea and sun, his bearing stiff with purpose. Strapped to his waist was something wrapped in rich black cloth, and though he moved like a knight, he carried it like a priest might carry something sacred. 

Jorah came to a halt beside Daenerys and undid the cloth carefully, reverently. What lay beneath shimmered faintly in the firelight a circlet of Valyrian steel, set with large, square-cut rubies. A crown, old and significant. 

Aeron tilted his head, intrigued, his eyes drawn to it instinctively like a wolf to the scent of old blood. 

"I sent Jorah to Dorne," Daenerys explained, tone measured but proud. "They remember what the Lannisters did to Elia Martell. They remember the screams of children and the silence that followed. Hatred like that doesn't wither easily." 

Tyrion, lounging with a goblet of wine in hand, gave a dry snort. 

"How unsurprising. The Dornish always did have a long memory, and a taste for poetic vengeance." 

Daenerys nodded. "They said they would bend the knee to a Targaryen... or even a devil wearing a crown if it meant the Lion who ruled behind the throne would face justice." 

Her voice softened. "They gave us this." 

Jorah stepped forward and, without flourish, placed the uncovered crown in her hands. 

Daenerys turned to Aeron, her gaze never leaving his as she extended it forward. "You know what this is, don't you?" 

Aeron's eyes widened as he stepped closer, his voice low with recognition. 

"That's Aegon's crown. The Conqueror's." 

Daenerys arched a brow, the corner of her lips curling upward. "Impressive knowledge. Most would mistake it for a piece of old iron." 

Her tone grew softer, reverent. "It was lost, vanished during the time of Daeron the young dragon. But Dorne... Dorne kept it. In secret. Preserved." 

She pulled it back gently from his reach, cradling it in her palms as though it might burn. Then she smiled again wider now, something playful lighting her features. 

"Kneel." 

Aeron's violet gaze met hers. And for a moment it caught him off-guard, but he knew what she was about to do. 

He smiled. 

"As you command, my queen." 

And he lowered himself to one knee before her. 

The silence in the chamber was absolute. 

Daenerys stepped forward, the crown held above him. Her voice rang clear not loud, but full of grace. 

"There is no man more worthy to wear the Conqueror's crown than you," she said. "You crossed lands. You fought men and gods. You faced dragons and demons alike, and never once did you run. You did not ask for power, but it followed you and I am a witness to that. You do not crave the throne, yet you care about the realm and its people even if you do not show that, you have earned it." 

With both hands, she placed the crown upon his head. 

It fit as though it had waited for him. 

Behind her, Tyrion set his goblet down, solemn for once, his brows slightly lifted in awe. Varys watched in contemplative silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Missandei's smile was quiet but full of pride, and Jorah stood straighter, still not sure if this was the right thing to do. 

Daenerys placed her fingers under Aeron's chin, lifting his gaze to hers. 

"Rise, my king," she whispered. 

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