In the Shire, within the cozy confines of Bag End, the atmosphere was anything but tranquil.
Gandalf sat frozen for several seconds, his mind racing through the implications of the butterfly's message. He stood abruptly, needing the open air to process the sheer scale of the catastrophe.
"Gandalf, where are you going?" Thorin Oakenshield demanded, his voice low and suspicious.
"To seek the air," the wizard replied curtly, sweeping out of the hobbit-hole without a second glance.
Thorin watched him go, his eyes narrowing into flinty slits. He sensed the wizard was withholding something vital, a shadow of doubt crossing his proud features.
In the small front yard of Bilbo Baggins' home, Gandalf settled onto a wooden bench and drew a long, ragged breath from his pipe. His thoughts were a tangled knot. He had spent months orchestrating this quest, gathering Thorin's company and identifying the perfect "burglar." The entire plan rested on a single, crucial assumption: that Smaug would remain asleep.
If the dragon were dormant, Bilbo might have a chance to steal the Arkenstone, giving Thorin the leverage to unite the Dwarf-kingdoms. But now? Smaug was not only awake; he was declaring a sovereign state.
Who could possibly steal from a dragon who was actively watching over his halls?
Bilbo Baggins... can he still do it? Gandalf wondered, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.
The wizard was not ready to abandon the quest. As a Guardian of Middle-earth, Smaug had long been a thorn in his side. In Gandalf's estimation, as long as the Fire-drake held the Mountain, the peace of the world hung by a frayed thread.
He thought of the ancient prophecy: When the birds of old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast shall end.
The prophecy was immutable, and the ravens were indeed stirring. With a grim set to his jaw, Gandalf decided to push forward. However, he chose to keep the dragon's awakening a secret from the Dwarves and Bilbo—at least for now. Terror was a poor travelling companion for a long road.
A light footfall sounded behind him. Bilbo, looking utterly frazzled by the rowdy Dwarves devouring his pantry, stepped out into the night.
"Gandalf, what is the meaning of this? They're turning my home into a tavern! Why are they here?"
Gandalf turned, a forced but gentle smile appearing on his face. "Oh, my dear Bilbo. This is simply the beginning of a most wonderful adventure."
Bilbo could only stare, speechless.
As the night deepened, the ruins of Dale—abandoned to the wind for decades—were ablaze with torchlight.
The refugees of Lake-town had completed their migration, scrambling to start anew amongst the cold stone of their ancestors. Every soul had made the trek, save for the Master and Alfrid, who were now nothing but soot on the wind.
A new leader had not yet been formally chosen, though the name on everyone's lips was Bard. It was Bard who had prevented the riots when the gold was dropped; it was Bard who carried the blood of the city's last Lord.
Bard himself was currently standing on the high terrace of the Lord's Tower, the very spot where his ancestor, Girion, had made his final stand. He stood in silence, his heart heavy with a grief he couldn't name.
Finally, he turned toward the Mountain.
Under the silver moonlight, a colossal silhouette stood perched upon the highest peak of Erebor. Keith had been standing there for some time, finding that he quite enjoyed the sensation of looking down upon the world like a predatory deity.
Sensing Bard's gaze, Keith shifted his focus. Even from that distance, his draconic eyes saw the man clearly by the flickering light of the terrace torches.
Finding himself bored, Keith snapped his wings and glided toward the tower.
Bard stiffened, his body trembling with a primal, instinctive terror. He forced himself to stand his ground, chin lifted, eyes locked on the approaching nightmare.
Keith landed with a heavy thud on a nearby roof, his sheer weight causing the masonry to groan. He looked down at Bard. "Years ago, in the very spot where you stand, a man attempted to challenge my might."
"He died," Keith added simply.
"He was my ancestor," Bard spat through gritted teeth. "The last Lord of Dale."
"He was a fool," Keith rumbled, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Though a brave one. You, too, possess courage. The question remains: do you possess wisdom?"
"I am not afraid of you!" Bard declared.
"Hah! Such a childish boast," Keith chuckled. "Little man, you should learn the value of fear. Only through fear will you and your children find the path to survival."
At the mention of his children, Bard's composure shattered. "If you touch them, I swear—"
"Save your hollow threats," Keith interrupted coldly. "For the sake of your kin, learn to forget the past. The world has changed."
Bard fell silent, simmering with a helpless rage.
"At dawn, take your men to the lakeshore," Keith commanded. "Erect a boundary stone for the Kingdom of Dragons. Then, slaughter thirty sheep, roast them well, and bring them to my gates."
Keith paused, his golden eyes flashing. "Do this, Lord Bard."
He emphasized the title with a booming resonance before launching himself back into the sky. Below, the people of Dale heard the proclamation. In their eyes, the dragon had just crowned their leader.
On the terrace, Bard's hands were shaking—not from fear, but from a sudden, wild surge of hope.
He had seen it.
As the dragon spoke, he had glimpsed a jagged gap in the scales of the beast's underbelly. An old wound. An arrow wound.
Smaug was not invincible. He could be bled. He could be killed.
Bard did not realize that the "hope" he felt was a calculated gift, handed to him by Keith himself.
Deep within the roots of the Mountain, Keith returned to his hoard. Finding himself restless, he sifted through the treasure until he found the Arkenstone and the White Gem Necklace of Lasgalen that Thranduil so desired. He tossed them into his system storage for safekeeping and curled up beside the frost dragon egg.
That night, the Dark Lord Sauron suffered a monumental headache—or the spiritual equivalent of one.
The dragon would not cooperate. Worse, the beast held the secret of Dol Guldur over his head like a guillotine.
What was to be done? Moving his base of operations was impossible; there was no other stronghold in Middle-earth so perfectly positioned. Killing the dragon was equally out of reach. Even with his Legions of Orcs, the dragon could simply fly away and make good on his threat to expose the Dark Lord's return before the plan was ready.
Sauron realized, with a cold and mounting fury, that he had only one path forward.
He would have to find a way to bribe the dragon.