Chapter 37: Sow Horns
The smoke of Hog's Head rose against a grey afternoon sky, the smell of roasting meat and pig fat clinging to the air. Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes over rolling fields, where wild boars fled in frightened herds. The dragons had claimed a hill near the castle, and every creature with sense had fled before them.
From above, Daemon could already glimpse the vast ruins of Harrenhal, black against the pale horizon. Yet his father had chosen to delay that journey. First the Crownlands, then the Riverlands. Such was Prince Baelon's methodical mind — a patient man's road.
Daemon, however, was not made for patience.
After dismounting from Caraxes, whose scarlet wings cast long shadows over the fields, Daemon turned to his father.
> "They say the countryside here is famed for its roasted ham," he said with an easy smile. "My lands could use such skill. I should like to see how it's made."
Baelon gave a quiet chuckle. "A prince seeking the secrets of ham-making? You've inherited your mother's curiosity, it seems. Go on, then. Take a guard if you must."
Daemon's hand rested lightly on Dark Sister.
> "No guard needed. I have one already."
He walked alone through the small villages of Hog's Head — each but a cluster of cottages, orchards, and the smell of fermenting apples. Peasants stared at him wide-eyed, bowing, some daring to offer gifts of blackberries, smoked fish, or roasted trout.
A ragged farmer whispered, "A dragon prince among us… may we see your beast, my lord?"
Daemon smiled faintly.
> "No. Dragons breathe fire, not charm. Keep your sheep well away from that hill, unless you'd have them turned to cinders."
The peasants laughed nervously and scattered to obey.
When he asked after their best cook, an old woman with one milky eye told him, "That'd be Martha, my prince — but she's been called to the castle to cook for your kin."
A wasted errand, it seemed. Still, Daemon enjoyed watching how even the poorest folk looked at him with reverence — not fear, but awe. The sight of a Targaryen in flesh was a blessing they'd tell their grandchildren about.
He turned toward the castle, boots crunching through the dirt road — and heard the sound of steel on steel.
In a grove of elm trees, a tall knight was sparring with a young squire. The knight's armor was dull grey, marked by the sigil of three piglets. Each clash of their blades echoed with real power.
The squire stumbled, barely deflecting the knight's strike. "I yield!" he cried.
> "Say it properly," the knight growled, voice deep and muffled beneath a visor.
"I yield, Ser!"
The knight kicked him aside, forcing the boy to lift his sword again.
Daemon watched with a faint smile. "Perhaps I can offer him a reprieve," he said, stepping into the clearing and picking up the fallen blade. "Allow me to test your mettle, Ser."
The knight's visor turned toward him. Blue eyes, cold and steady as a winter lake, met Daemon's lilac ones. The silent challenge was accepted.
Their swords met with a crash. Daemon had skill — he had trained under Ser Ryam Redwyne and the Red Keep's master-at-arms — yet this knight's brute strength was astonishing. His blows were heavy as hammers, and Daemon found himself driven backward through the dirt.
When his sword was finally struck from his grip, Daemon laughed — breathless but unashamed.
> "Seven hells… I had not expected such strength in Hog's Head."
The knight removed their helm — and a cascade of brown hair spilled down to the waist. Daemon froze. The warrior was a woman — tall, broad-shouldered, and beautiful in a way that demanded respect more than desire.
> "I am Mia Hogg," she said evenly. "Daughter of Ser Donnel Hogg. You must be Prince Baelon of Dragonstone."
Daemon raised a brow. "Close. I am Daemon, his son. Do I look so weathered already?"
Color rose to her cheeks. "My apologies, my prince. I have never met a dragonlord before."
Daemon grinned, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "Then I am honored to be your first. You fight like a bull in armor — and that is praise, not insult. Few men have bested me in fair combat."
> "You were holding back," Mia said simply.
"Perhaps. But I'll not flatter myself. Next time, we'll both fight without restraint."
She smiled faintly — a rare thing on her face — and gestured to her companion.
> "This is my cousin, Matt. My reluctant squire."
"Not by choice," the boy muttered. "She forced me into service with her fists."
Daemon laughed aloud, the sound echoing across the fields. "Then I see the Hoggs breed warriors, not courtiers."
Mia's tone softened. "My father and mother are at the castle, preparing to receive you. If you'll allow me, I'll escort you there."
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The stench of pig dung thickened as they neared the keep. Hog's Head Castle was modest but sturdy, built of coarse brown stone. Piglets ran across the cobbled path, squealing underfoot.
Inside, Ser Donnel Hogg awaited them — a towering man with a beard like a boar's mane. His wife, Lady Margot Crakehall, and their three daughters stood beside him, each one as broad-shouldered as a sellsword. Even the youngest, barely a maid, stood taller than Daemon.
Baelon was already seated by the hearth, a cup of ale in hand.
> "Welcome, my prince," boomed Donnel, thumping his chest. "We Hoggs are humble folk, but we breed strong. Even our youngest can lift a hog twice her size!"
Daemon smirked. "Then it seems Harrenhal's neighbors are aptly named. The Strongs may have their keep, but your blood is stronger still."
Donnel's booming laugh shook the rafters. "My wife's of House Crakehall — their sigil's a wild boar, same as ours. The gods paired us well."
Mia added, half-proud, half-teasing, "And my grandmother was an Umber. Some say we carry a drop of giant's blood."
Daemon raised his cup in salute. "Then may that blood never run thin. Westeros could use more strength of your kind."
The feast was hearty — roasted pork glazed with honey, thick ale, and laughter that filled the hall. Yet even in this crude warmth, Daemon's thoughts drifted.
Strength, blood, inheritance — the same words echoed everywhere he went. From the smallest keep to the Iron Throne itself, men clung to lineage like armor. Donnel's talk of sons, of a male heir to replace his daughter, mirrored the whispers Daemon had heard in court — about Princess Rhaenys, about the throne that would never bear a woman's name.
Daemon set down his cup, smiling thinly.
> "Lord Corlys may build fleets and win fortunes," he said softly to Baelon, "but the realm will never let his wife rule. The blood of men weighs heavier than the worth of women — even among pigs."
His father gave him a measured glance, but Daemon only smiled — that dangerous, knowing smile that had begun to define him.
The fire crackled in the hall, casting long shadows over the Hoggs' strong forms and the dragon prince's pale face.
Somewhere beyond the walls, Caraxes stirred — and the night wind carried the faintest scent of blood and smoke.
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