In the halls of Mirkwood, the air was heavy with the silence of ages.
Thranduil found himself struck by a sudden, intense desire to pack his bags and head for the Grey Havens. To leave this world behind entirely.
Sauron... the King thought, a dark weight pressing on his heart. "His body was unmade," he said aloud, seeking clarity from the dragon perched on his railing. "His spirit was shattered. What can a shadow truly do after so long in the void?"
Smaug shook his eagle-head. "Without the One Ring, he cannot take physical form. But his spirit has drank deep of the darkness, and his legions are breeding in the deep places. Old neighbor, the world is not what it was in the last Age."
"Middle-earth is a house divided. Sauron doesn't need to be as strong as he once was; he only needs to be stronger than the scattered, bickering kingdoms of today. Galadriel and Elrond see the writing on the wall. That is why we are talking."
Thranduil's lip curled. Was the dragon lying? He doubted it. He could send a rider to Rivendell and verify the news in a week. The reality was inescapable.
"I shall give the command," Thranduil said, rising from his seat. "Beorn may cross my lands unmolested."
It was a dismissal. Smaug understood. "Much obliged. I'd pay you in gold, but I think I'll wait until I've shifted back into my proper skin. Unless you want a pile of coins dropped on your head by a bird?"
"..." Thranduil's expression suggested he wanted nothing more than for the dragon to vanish.
"Fine, fine. No sense of humor," Smaug chuckled. "But before I go, one more thing. You know of the Stone Giants in the High Pass?"
Thranduil stopped in his tracks. Stone Giants were ancient, mercurial beings—as old as the mountains themselves. Their strength was terrifying; a giant was a living siege engine that could pull itself back together unless its stone heart was shattered.
The King turned back, his gaze sharp. "I know of them. Why do you ask?"
"What language do they speak? I've tried everything I know, and they just sit there like... well, like rocks."
"They speak the Stone Tongue," Thranduil replied. "It is a language of the earth and the foundations of the world. Unless you are a Maia or a Valar, you cannot speak it."
"However," the King added, "they have lived for eons. They understand many tongues. If they do not answer you, it is either because they are in a sleep that lasts centuries... or they simply find you unworthy of a response."
Smaug let out a dry huff. "Charming. And what do they want? What can one offer a mountain?"
"That, I do not know," Thranduil lied, his voice cold. He turned and walked away, ending the conversation.
Smaug didn't press him. They were neighbors, after all; there would be plenty of time for "friendly" interrogations later. He took to the sky, shifting back into his massive, golden-red form as he crossed over the Long Lake, leaving the startled Elven border-guards in his wake.
Dale and the Lonely Mountain
Life in Dale had reached a state of vibrant, bustling normalcy.
The people had adapted with surprising speed. The dragon hadn't burned anyone in weeks; he mostly just asked for sheep and wine. In exchange, they lived in a city of stone far superior to their old wooden shacks, and their fields were already turning green with the strange, high-yield seeds Smaug had provided.
In the Lord's Manor, Bard was hunched over a desk, struggling with the paperwork of governance.
"Father! Smaug is back!" his son, Bain, shouted from the window.
Bard rushed to the glass. His daughters were already there, pointing at the sky. "I told you he wasn't in the mountain!" Sigrid cheered. "He was out seeing the world!"
Bard watched the gargantuan shadow pass over the city. Even after all this time, the sight of those scales and that massive wingspan sent a primal shiver through his spine. The children, however, viewed the dragon with a terrifying lack of fear—to them, he was simply the eccentric, dangerous landlord of their new home.
In the city streets, the remaining Elven builders—including Legolas and Tauriel—stopped their work to look up.
"He's been gone for nearly three weeks," Tauriel remarked. "At his speed, he could have crossed half of Middle-earth."
"And yet, there is no news of fire from the West," Legolas mused. "How can a creature that size move so far without leaving a trail of ash?"
"He came from the direction of Mirkwood," Tauriel noted. "Perhaps your father has the answer."
Legolas nodded. "I shall return home to inquire. This silence is more troubling than a roar."
Smaug landed at the gates of Erebor. The Elven craftsmen had done a spectacular job. The hideous Dwarven statues were gone, the rubble cleared, and the Great Gate was now framed with elegant Elven stonework—a mix of strength and grace that Smaug found much more to his liking.
"Nice work, lads," he rumbled as he stepped into the cool dark of the mountain.
He reached the hoard. Not a single coin was missing. Smaug's instinctual memory for his gold was absolute; he would know if a single copper had been pocketed.
"Perfect."
He settled onto a fresh mound of gold, the cool metal a welcome relief against his hot scales. He pulled up his system interface and opened the Upgraded Bronze Mystery Box.
[Congratulations! You have received: The Ultimate Culinary Compendium + The Master Guide to Spices.]
Smaug blinked. A cooking book? In this age of Middle-earth, food was functional. Salt and basic herbs were the extent of the culinary arts for most. But with this...
He imagined the people of Dale eating five-star meals every night. He imagined the scent of roasting meats and exotic spices wafting from the city.
If I give them the food of the gods, their loyalty will be unshakable, Smaug thought. 'The way to a subject's heart is through their stomach.'
"And then," he chuckled, a low, sulfurous sound, "I'll send missionaries across the land. Tell them the Dragon Kingdom has fresh fruit, three-course meals, and a King who hands out gold like it's candy. Sauron won't stand a chance against a high-carb recruitment drive."
"Smaug's plan is truly vicious!" he laughed.
Back in Mirkwood, Legolas found his father sitting in a profound, heavy silence.
"Father, the dragon has returned. Did he speak with you?"
Thranduil looked at his son—so young, so certain of the world. He decided it was time to let the boy grow up. "Sit, Legolas. We have much to discuss."
He told him everything: the Necromancer, the second dragon, and Smaug's visit to the White Council.
Legolas sat as if struck by lightning. "Sauron returns... and the dragon seeks to hold the line? Should we not prepare for an alliance?"
Thranduil let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Legolas, do not be so naive. You think I am worried about Sauron? No. Sauron is a disaster for everyone. He is a common enemy."
"I am worried about Smaug. I have a feeling that when the dust settles, he will be far more terrifying than any Dark Lord."
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