Solo Leveling in Westeros

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Aeron's pulse quickened as the realization sank in. Ironborn… The word reverberated in his mind, the implications hitting him like a wave crashing against the rocks. The quest of the system wasn't just some vague task; it was connected to those men, raiders who had carved with blood through the lands of Westeros. 

'They are about to raid.' His whisper was lost in the dim noise of the tavern, but the shock stuck around, making his grip on the mug tighten. Of all the quests. he thought, as his mind raced through all the possible scenarios. Ruthless people, the Ironborn were known for pillage and plunder. Was he to stop them? Join them? The options whirled in his head, every one of them more unsettling than the last. "fucking stupid system giving me this 'survive' crap they might raid now!" His voice was hardly a whisper but seemed to shake with rage and terror alike. 

Aeron ground his teeth, forcing himself to think He couldn't stay here—not in this pathetic excuse for a tavern, surrounded by people who could turn hostile at any moment. If the Ironborn were truly going to raid, then this place would become a bloodbath, and he had no intention of being caught in the middle of it. 'I need to get out of this shithole,' he thought, urgency tightening his chest. "I have to go south, or at least reach the mainland, anywhere but here." 

His decision made, Aeron pushed the mug away and stood up, pulling his cloak tighter around him as he headed for the door. His heart pounded in his ears, a steady reminder of the danger he was walking away from. But as soon as he stepped outside, the biting cold slapped him in the face, and the noise of the tavern was replaced by the muffled sounds of the night. 

Aeron stopped right outside the entrance, his breath misty in the cold air as he searched both streets. The town was silent, unnaturally so, for Aeron knew beneath the surface of every home noise and chaos would be boiling. But then, out of the corner of his eye, a group of soldiers were hurrying down the narrow, dirt road, armor clinking softly with every step. 

"Where are they going?" The thought struck him immediately, his instincts flaring. The soldiers moved with purpose, their eyes set ahead as if they had a clear destination in mind. Aeron hesitated, torn between his initial plan to flee and the nagging curiosity that urged him to follow. 

"Damn it, I have to see this" he swore in his head. He knew he had to understand the entire situation the total picture if he was going to somehow find a way out of this. But the determination that such something important was going on at the docks from the haste of the soldiers made him suspect that the ships must be involved with whatever it was. Ships meant he had at least a chance to escape. 

Aeron drew up his hood over his face, slipped into the shadows, and followed the soldiers at a safe distance. The streets were uneven, the dirt slick with frost, but he moved as silently as he could, his senses on high alert. Every creak of the wooden buildings and every shout from a distance set his nerves on edge, yet he willfully kept to his task. 

Their approach to the docks was marked with a strong smell of saltwater and rotten fish, mixed with that of old wood and stagnant water. Aeron's heart quickened as his breath caught at the coming into view of the docks. Soldiers were assembling at the quayside, joining more men who were preparing for something—a raid most likely, as Aeron had feared. 

Though well past dark, the docks were busy. The light of the torches dancing in the darkness created odd shadows, sometimes making it appear as though the moored ships rolled and flexed beside him as he passed. Aeron could see men loading weapons, others barking orders and making final preparations. 

"This is fucking bad," Aeron thought, ducking behind a stack of crates to avoid being seen. His heart pounded against his ribs as he watched the soldiers move with a sense of urgency that sent shivers down his spine. Whatever was about to happen, it was going to happen soon. 

"I need to get out of here," he told himself, but the words seemed empty in light of the looming peril. 

He thought of stowing away on one of the ships crossed his mind, but that was a risk in itself—if he were caught, the consequences would be dire. But then again the reality of it hit him hard—he had no clue how to row, let alone operate a medieval ship of such size. On top of that, it belonged to House Mormont and was heavily guarded. The risks were immense. 

His reverie was broken when a calloused hand reached out, catching his collar and hauling him off the ground. "What the fuck are you doing here boy?" The man's voice was flat, like he was both bored and angry. Aeron spun around to be met by none other than the fellow who had rousted him from the stables some hours earlier. 

The man's eyes narrowed, raking Aeron with suspicion and a large serving of annoyance. "Did you finish your work?" he demanded. 

"Yes, sir," Aeron replied, though internally he cursed his own ignorance. I have no fucking idea what I was supposed to do! The thought gnawed at him, the uncertainty and confusion swirling in his mind. 

Before the man could do anything else, another figure stepped forward—a man in armor with a green cape adorned by the sigil of House Mormont. He moved with an air of authority that commanded respect. "Leave him be and give him a sword," the armored man said firmly. 

Aeron's eyes widened at the newcomer. 'This is a Mormont—likely the lord himself,' he realized by the worn sigil of the bear on his cape. His attention turned then to the man who had seized him, who now hesitated, clearly uncertain how to respond. 

"But my lord, he's just recently passed sixteen winters," the man protested, clearly concerned. Aeron's eyes slid to his face then, a hint of sarcasm curling his lips. 'Is this cunt showing concern for me, or does he think I'm not worthy?' 

'Wait a minute,' Aeron thought as the sudden revelation hit him. 'I'm sixteen? My build doesn't seem like that of a sixteen-year-old—I look thirty or something!' 

One of the nearby buckets, filled with water that was still and calm, caught his attention. He walked toward it and looked into the bucket. There, he saw his reflection—a face with dark hair so striking, and piercing violet eyes. The visage was youthful, but there was something in his features that told of a hardening experience. His face was handsome: chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw, but the eyes were what drew him—the sharp, intense gaze brimming with depth belied his years. "How did I end up looking like this?" 

he wondered, his mind racing. "I don't feel like I should be this criminally handsome, I had a build of a turtle back in my world and i was nineteen! " The reflection stared back at him, a reminder of the strange, disorientating nature of his new reality. "and that eye color will be a problem if a certain Baratheon sits the Iron throne..." Aeron muttered to himself filled with concern. Lord Mormont broke in, at once urgent and irritable. The lord's voice cut through his thoughts. "We need every man we can get," he said, his tone filled with urgency and irritation. "Those damn iron-bitten wretches are close." His words were laced with disdain, a clear insult to their enemies. 

With that, Lord Mormont moved on, the guards trailing behind him, their footsteps echoing on the cold ground. Aeron watched them go, his mind still dazed from the whirlwind of occurrences. But his attention was brought back quickly as the man who had grabbed him earlier took a step forward, twisted in distaste. 

"Here, boy!" the man sneered, pressing a sword into Aeron's hands. "Be useful for once." 

Aeron caught the sword in a narrow hand, his eyes slitting a hair fractionally as he bit down on the spurt of anger that flared up inside him. 'I hope you fucking die, bastard,' he thought bitterly, but what he actually said was, "Thanks, sir," the words forced out through teeth clenched together in fury. 

He was surprised at how light it felt when he held the sword. He always imagines that a medieval sword would be heavy, inconvenient even , but this one seemed almost perfectly balanced. Realization brought excitement, fleeting though the emotion was, given the circumstances. I have always wanted a real medieval sword! he thought with an exhilarating tingle. 'This is pretty cool!' 

He half unconsciously swung the sword a few times to feel its weight and balance. The blade whooshed satisfactory through the air, and for one fleeting moment, the extremely serious nature of his predicament was forgotten as a boyhood sense of wonder swept over him once more. 

"Easy there, lad, careful!" one of the passing soldiers called out, giving Aeron a sidelong glance as he and another soldier walked by, clearly amused by the sight of him playing with the sword like a child with a new toy. 

Just as Aeron was about to reply, a loud, resounding clang cut through the cold air—a deep, forbidding bell, whose echoes reverberated from stone walls across the docks. That sound sent a jolt through Aeron, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the sword as the momentary excitement rose to a sense of fear. /************************************************\ 

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