Under the firelight, its fur was black as ink.
It was a lion. A pitch-black lion.
And it was standing on two legs.
In Westeros, lions were rare enough. Black lions were myths. But a bipedal black lion? That was a nightmare made flesh.
"Monster!"
Both sides froze, screams dying in their throats.
Even Solomon's stoic mask slipped. What the hell? Does Westeros have were-lions? Did I miss a DLC? Is Bronn a skinchanger?
The wildlings, steeped in superstition and tales of wargs, felt a primal terror grip their hearts.
The black beast moved. It lunged at a wildling wielding a battle-axe.
The motion was a blur. The wildling barely screamed before his throat was opened.
Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the crackle of burning tents.
"Kill!!"
Twenty of Solomon's soldiers—the ones Bronn had taken into the woods—burst out behind the beast.
"It is Lord Solomon's beast!!" they screamed, charging the stunned wildlings. "The Black Lion fights for Lord Solomon!!"
"Lord Solomon summoned a black lion!!" a soldier gasped, his face shining with fanaticism.
The idea spread like wildfire. It fit perfectly. The Starks had direwolves. Why shouldn't their invincible young lord have a shadow lion?
"Black Lion!!"
"Better than a Lannister!!"
"Solomon IS the lion!!"
The chants grew wilder. "Solomon turned into a lion!"
Some soldiers dropped to their knees, praying to the Seven.
Solomon, standing on the hill and definitely not a lion, twitched. ...Okay then.
"Black Lion Solomon! Our Lord!!" Lushen roared, raising his sword.
"Solomon! The Black Lion of the Riverlands!!" Lauchlan bellowed.
"BLACK LION!! BLACK LION!!"
The soldiers, forgetting their fatigue, forgetting the burning loot train behind them, surged forward with religious fervor.
The wildlings broke.
To them, this wasn't a battle anymore. It was a massacre by a sorcerer. The sixteen-year-old war chief wasn't human. He was a demon.
"Sorcery!!"
"Run!!"
They dropped their weapons and fled into the dark forest, scrambling over each other to escape the black demon.
Timett son of Timett stared in horror. He tried to rally his men, but his voice was drowned out by the chants of "Black Lion."
He realized he had lost. Not just the battle, but the war of spirits.
He turned and fled into the night, abandoning his tribe.
Solomon stood there, trying to look imposing while internally screaming.
Tommen, the young rider, slipped through the ranks and whispered to him.
"My Lord... it's Bronn."
Solomon looked at him, wide-eyed.
"Bronn says... there is one last scene," Tommen whispered. "And he says he's charging extra for the acting."
Solomon: "..."
The battle died down. The last wildlings were cut down.
The Black Lion moved.
It walked slowly toward Solomon. Its gait was strange—powerful, but slightly... human.
The soldiers parted like the Red Sea, eyes wide with awe.
Only Lushen gripped his sword, ready to defend his lord, until a soldier whispered in his ear.
The beast stopped three paces from Solomon.
Its red eyes glinted in the firelight. It was covered in blood.
Slowly, deliberately, the Black Lion dropped to all fours. Then it bowed its head low, prostrating itself before Solomon like a servant before a king.
A hush fell over the valley.
One by one, the soldiers dropped to one knee. Then all of them.
Three hundred men knelt in the mud and blood, heads bowed before the boy and his beast.
"That will do, Black Lion," Solomon said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "You have done well."
The lion's eyes seemed to wink.
It turned, bounded into the forest on four legs, and vanished into the shadows.
Solomon stood alone amidst the kneeling army, the flames of the burning camp casting long, dancing shadows behind him.
The Legend of the Black Lion was born.
70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/AgentTwilight