Chapter 98 — Sow's Horn
Hrrrreeee!
Nine gold cloaks thundered along the Kingsroad, cloaks snapping behind them, hooves kicking up long trails of dust.
Valentyn rode at the front, jaw tight, annoyance boiling beneath his eyes.
They had chased tracks all night—north, south, doubling back through the woods—only to be dragged in circles by cunning fugitives who left just enough traces to mislead them.
At one point they'd been ridden half a day all the way to the shores of the Gods Eye.
And now?
The single-wheel cart trail they'd been following simply… vanished.
Buried deliberately.
Someone was mocking them.
"Up ahead—what is that?" Valentyn reined in sharply, pointing at the crude silhouette of a "castle."
Calling it a castle was generous.
It was two floors of stacked stone, barely five or six meters tall—more shed than stronghold.
"That's Sow's Horn, Captain!" one of the zealots answered quickly—remembering (after much scolding) not to call him brother anymore.
The rider, who'd studied some heraldry, pointed at a faded banner flapping in the breeze—an awkwardly stitched piebald boar.
"That's House Hogg! Bannermen to House Hayford in the Crownlands!"
"Hogg…?" Valentyn frowned.
Before joining the Faith Militant, he'd been born to a respectable middling house.
But Hogg was a name he'd never heard—exactly the type of dirt-poor family who lived in patched armor and ate porridge for supper.
He scanned his men's gleaming golden cloaks.
Then tightened his reins.
"Search it," he ordered.
"Yes, Captain!"
Nine riders broke toward the so-called castle—
but as they drew close, Valentyn noticed something odd.
Figures were already waiting outside the gate.
"Hold!"
A knight in mismatched plate blocked their path, sword raised.
He wasn't tall, but built like a stone wall—thick arms, thick neck, grim gray eyes beneath a battered helm.
Behind him stood six men with cudgels or spiked maces, and three crossbowmen.
None wore metal armor.
Two at most had cracked leather breastplates.
Even the knight's own armor was incomplete—no tassets, no cuisses, barely enough steel to pretend he was a knight.
A poor house—pitifully poor.
Valentyn scoffed inwardly.
The entire village behind the walls probably held thirty peasants at most.
For them to muster nine "soldiers" was practically militaristic extravagance.
He raised his voice:
"We are the City Watch, acting under His Grace's orders to apprehend the criminals who kidnapped Prince Rhaegar!
Stand aside, ser knight. We will search your village."
He scanned their meager forces again—then smiled coldly.
There was nothing here that could stop them.
But instead of yielding, the thick-necked knight snorted.
"I am Ser Roger Hogg, Lord of Sow's Horn!"
He lifted his chipped sword, eyes reddening like a boar ready to charge.
"Unless the king himself sets foot here, no man enters my land without my permission!"
"Turn around and crawl back to King's Landing, you coin-grubbing gold cloaks!"
His voice thundered with outrage—not fear.
"Have you lost your fucking mind, you country bumpkin!?" Valentyn snapped.
Roger stood his ground like a boar ready to gore whoever dared approach.
Valentyn's brows drew tight. He slapped a gauntleted palm against his breastplate—clang!—letting the immaculate City Watch armor speak for him.
Then he raised his voice:
"We act under the king's direct command.
If you obstruct us, I'll report you for treason, ser knight!"
But Roger Hogg did not flinch.
He merely narrowed his dull-gray eyes and jerked his chin toward the crossbowman beside him.
Thwip!
Without warning, a quarrel zipped through the air and buried itself in the dirt less than a meter before Valentyn's horse.
"Turn back, goldcloak!"
Hogg slammed his sword against his round shield with a ringing bang!.
"There are no kidnappers here, and no Targaryen prince.
If the king wants to accuse me of treason, let him come do it himself!
We've been bled dry—three times the old tax!
"And I know your kind—
King's Landing ticks! You're all here to extort coin!"
Roger's voice rose, hoarse with fury.
"Well, Sow's Horn is broke.
And even if we had coin, I'd sooner feed it to pigs than to blood-sucking bastards like you!"
The Faith Militant riders stiffened.
Accustomed to being revered as holy warriors, they were not prepared for such unfiltered contempt.
One knight nearly snapped and shouted back:
"You ignorant fool! We are—"
"Enough."
Valentyn cut him off sharply.
"Very well, Ser Hogg!" he declared with sudden calm.
"We'll take you at your word. We'll leave. But if you do see the fugitives, you will contact my men immediately."
He didn't waste another breath.
He jerked his reins, wheeled his horse around, and led his riders past Sow's Horn and back onto the Kingsroad.
Only after the last gold cloak disappeared over the rise…
Only then did Roger Hogg release his breath, watch another half hour to be sure, and finally dismiss his men.
---
On the Kingsroad…
"Brother Valentyn… we're just leaving?"
One knight glared back at Sow's Horn, still bristling.
"That boar-born wretch dared compare us to those filthy gold cloaks!"
"Unacceptable! We must teach that peasant-maggot to respect the Seven's light!"
"Exactly! The Faith Militant cannot be insulted!"
Their indignation rose like a chorus.
But this time, Valentyn didn't scold them.
He actually smiled.
"Calm yourselves, brothers."
He slowed, scanned the road, then spoke pointedly:
"They were waiting for us outside the gate before we even arrived.
That alone is suspicious."
The riders murmured agreement.
"So what are we waiting for?
Let's turn back and purge the place! Make them repent before the Seven!"
Valentyn raised a gloved hand.
"Not yet."
His tone cooled.
"It's still daylight. If we storm the village now, it will be difficult to… tidy things up."
A cold glint flashed in his eyes.
"Wait for nightfall.
Then we enter quietly."
---
Night.
Rhaegar Targaryen curled on the crude stone bed, glaring helplessly at the Northern girl watching him like a hawk.
Her storm-gray eyes hadn't blinked in half an hour.
If not for the gag tied tight across his mouth, the prince would have shouted at her long ago:
"You dragged me out of the Red Keep… just to stare at me!?"
Thankfully, the door creaked open.
"Eat something, Lady Stark."
Roger Hogg's burly frame filled the doorway, a plate of steaming barley cakes in hand.
The moment the smell hit her, Lyanna's tired eyes lit up.
She snatched the cakes and devoured them ravenously.
"Did… did those men leave?" she mumbled through mouthfuls.
"Seems they did," Roger answered, sitting heavily on a stool.
He cast a complicated glance at the bound prince.
As a crownlands lord, he didn't pay taxes directly to the king—his liege, Lord Hayford, did.
But the royal tax hikes had grown absurd.
Half tax at first—reasonable.
Then increased.
Then increased again.
Now, three years on, it had reached triple the old rate.
Seven hells themselves would starve at such demands.
Warm as the crownlands were, rich in harvests and capable of two—sometimes three—crops a year, peasants were still forced to surrender seventy to eighty percent of their yield.
Roger had been sending every copper he could gather to his liege just so his peasants could survive at all.
That was why his house had fallen to such miserable poverty.
And he was far from alone.
Most crownlands lords were only a few disastrous harvests away from starvation.
It was no exaggeration: Aerys's tyrannical taxes were among the chief sparks that ignited the Crackclaw Point uprising—and more than a few nobles secretly prayed the outlaw Darklyn would succeed in killing the king so Rhaegar could ascend.
But fate had tossed a different monster into that revolt.
"Are you really taking him back to the North?" Roger asked, watching Lyanna inhale her food.
"Of course."
Now fed, Lyanna regained some composure.
She wiped her lips, lifted her chin, and glanced at Rhaegar—eyes turning cold.
"I'm going to bring him home…
and avenge Brandon."