A/N: My dear friend, the Watson to my Holmes, who dressed up as Bilbo for our venture to Battle of the Five Armies, was greatly entranced by the war-pig that Dain rides, and requested fic about it. I have done my best, with a (hopefully) majestic tale and wee!Durins.

Fili finds his brother sprawled out beneath the apple tree, two pebble and pinecone armies ranged against each other among the sparse blades of winter grass.

"Aren't you cold?" he asks.

Kili shakes his head.

Fili hunches down beside him. He is getting too old for these sorts of games, he knows—he has duties. He is the heir. But there is no one to see him so he takes out a pinecone with a well-aimed stone.

Kili looks up at that. "Hey!"

Fili flushes. Perhaps he does not remember the game as well as he thought he did. "Uncle is coming today," he says. "Mother said."

Kili jumps up, scattering his forgotten armies. "That means a story!"

Fili knows he should correct him, remind him that Thorin may be tired and busy, but there is no one to see. "Yes. But we should ask for something different this time. You always—"

His brother's jaw sets stubbornly and Fili sighs, knowing that his fate is sealed.

There are stories that they don't ask for, of course. They do not often ask about the Mountain, about their grandfather or their great-grandfather. Uncle Thorin speaks of Erebor, sometimes, but his eyes are hard and kingly when he does, and they must listen silently, with hands in their laps.

But Uncle Thorin has lived long, and fought many foes, and traveled over hills and through forests. He has many stories to tell, stories that make his nephews hold their breath, that make Mister Dwalin laugh and laugh.

They are good stories, even if Kili always asks for the same one.

"They want a story," Dis explains, with a smile and a sigh. "In truth, it was the only the way I could convince them to keep out from under my feet all day."

Thorin inclines his head. He is given to fine speeches, but the lads care little for them. They want daring tales of his adventures, answers to such burning questions as to why he has more hair than Dwalin, why braids are important, and how long it will be before they have beards.

"Please, uncle," Fili coaxes, ever the more respectful one.

Kili is more blunt, straight to the point. "Tell us about the pig," he says, propping his chin on his still-small hands and looking up at his uncle with serious dark eyes. "The great war-pig of Cousin Dain."

Thorin lifts a brow. "Did I not tell you that tale during my last visit?"

"Again," Kili demands, and then smiles sheepishly at a sharp nudge from his brother. "Please."

Thorin beckons them, unable to hide his smile, and they sit, one on each knee, eager faces brightened by the firelight.

"Dain Ironfoot," he begins, "rides neither horse nor pony nor goat. Since the Battle of Redwater, his mount is a wild boar—"

It was the first and last time that orc-filth ventured into that land. They came at night, so that they need not squint under the glow of the sun, and they burned the low cottages, dragging dwarrows from their homes and slaying them in the streets.

It was the first time they had ventured, and so they came boldly. But it was also the last, because there they were met by the redoubtable courage of the Iron Hills, dwarves with grim eyes and fierce blades.

Dain Ironfoot, red of beard and mighty of axe, stalwart as an oak tree, was not known as such then. He was only in his first braids, but he hacked bravely at the foul hoard, and many an orc was felled beneath his axe.

Long lasted the night, however, and it seemed darker still for the cries of Durin's folk. Dain himself was hurled into a farmyard, and rose to his feet, spitting mud and curses between his teeth.

It was there he beheld the beast.

A great hog, bristled and tusked, with cloven hooves and beady eyes.

Dain lifted his axe, and slung it through his belt. He set one broad hand between the pig's ears, felt it shudder still, as the steeds of men did beneath such a touch.

There was no time to think, to choose again. He scaled its great bulk, kicked its ample sides, and out they rode—

"But wait," Kili's voice interjects. "With no saddle? Didn't he roll off?"

"Shhh!" Fili hushes him indignantly. "You're ruinin' the story."

Thorin bites back a smile and continues.

The dwarves rallied behind Dain Ironfoot, and the orcs fled at their renewed vigor, charged on by the blood-curdling squeals of Dain's mount. From that hour forth, he clad the beast in armor and sharpened its tusks to spikes, and when he rode to battle, the War-Pig of the Iron Mountains was as feared a foe as any…

"Has it any piglets?" Kili inquires irrepressibly, when the tale is done.

Thorin harrumphs at that. "I imagine, nephew, that it is a boar. They don't have piglets."

"But it must be very old," Fili points out gravely.

"True," Thorin agrees, lighting his pipe. "My cousin Dain may now ride one of its descendants."

"Pig families," Kili says, satisfied. "I want one! Can't I have a piglet, uncle?"

"Ask your mother," Thorin returns, though it is a coward's answer, as he well knows.

"Have you ever ridden the pig?" Fili asks, fingers clasped loosely around one of Thorin's braids. It has been his habit since he was a toddler, though he falls back to it but rarely now.

"No," Thorin assures them. "Goat or pony are fitter for a king."

"Fili has to be a king someday," Kili says, sounding pleased.

"So?" His brother asks it like a challenge.

Kili grins. "That means I can ride the war-pig!"