On the boat, Gandalf's stern reprimand had its intended effect. The Dwarf who had spoken out subsided into a grumbling silence, though his eyes still burned with a deep-seated prejudice against the "tall folk."
"I hope you are right, Wizard," Thorin Oakenshield muttered, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. He turned to the rest of the company. "Lower your weapons, but remain on guard! We do not walk into a trap blindly."
Despite the order, the atmosphere on the boat was thick with suspicion. Thorin stood tall at the bow, chest out, projecting the aura of a royal heir returning to his rightful domain. He stared at Bard's group with a cold, piercing intensity, waiting for them to speak first.
"Are you Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, grandson of Thrór?" Bard finally asked, his voice steady. It was the middle of the autumn harvest, and Bard had no desire to stand on a beach all morning playing staring contests with a bunch of dusty travelers.
"Who asks?" Thorin replied, his voice a gravelly challenge.
"Bard, Lord of the City of Dale," Bard answered, his eyes narrowing. He didn't like the Dwarf's tone one bit.
"And why are you waiting here for us?" Thorin pressed, his voice rising.
"Smaug knew you would arrive today," Bard said simply. "He asked us to receive you."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Thorin's hand gripped his sword so tight his knuckles turned white. Several Dwarves behind him snatched up their axes, while others frantically scanned the sky, looking for a winged shadow in the clouds.
"He knows we are here..." someone hissed in terror.
"Quiet!" Thorin commanded, never taking his eyes off Bard. "So, Lord Bard, the rumors are true. You and your people have truly become the lapdogs of the Fire-drake! Have you forgotten how he burned your halls and slaughtered your kin?"
Lapdogs. The word stung.
The men standing behind Bard shifted angrily, their hands tightening on their spears. Bard's face darkened. He realized that Thorin, like his ancestors, suffered from a specific kind of blindness—the inability to see anything but his own pride.
"We live here," Bard replied coldly. "That is all. We are here to escort you to the Mountain. If you wish, you may stay in Dale for a time. If you find our hospitality lacking, you are free to walk. It makes no difference to me."
Thorin opened his mouth to deliver a blistering refusal, but Gandalf stepped in front of him.
"We thank you for your kindness, Lord Bard," the Wizard said with a respectful bow. "We would be honored if you would show us the way."
Thorin glared at Gandalf's back.
"Think of why you are here, Thorin," Gandalf whispered harshly over his shoulder. "Swallow your useless pride for once."
Thorin thought of his father, Thráin, and the potential horrors he was enduring. He forced himself to be silent, though his jaw remained clenched.
The party dismounted and began the trek toward the city.
As they walked, Gandalf's eyes weren't on the road, but on the land itself. For sixty years, the Desolation of Smaug had been a graveyard of ash and jagged stone. But now... it was breathing. Patchy green grass was reclaiming the hills. He saw distant fields where grain was being harvested and cattle were grazing.
He looked at the men of Dale. They weren't the haggard, starving wretches of Lake-town. They were well-dressed, physically fit, and carried themselves with a confidence that spoke of a full stomach and a stable life.
The reality was hitting Gandalf like a physical weight: Smaug's reign was actually working.
"Lord Bard," Gandalf said, catching up to the leader. "I see your people have prospered since leaving the lake. How is life under the shadow of the peak?"
"It is manageable," Bard replied.
"The livestock... the grain... I heard food was scarce in these parts," Gandalf probed.
"We grow what we can. We buy the rest from the South and the Elves," Bard said.
"Buying requires coin," Gandalf noted, puffing on his pipe. "Where does a city of refugees find such wealth?"
"Smaug provides a monthly tithe of gold," Bard said matter-of-factly.
Gandalf fell silent. A tithe? A dragon who pays a salary? Behind them, Thorin—who had been eavesdropping—erupted. "That gold is mine! It belongs to the House of Durin!"
Bard didn't stop walking. He didn't even look back. "It was yours."
"It will be ours again!" Thorin snarled.
Bard ignored him. The atmosphere grew even more strained. Gandalf tried to smooth things over. "And where is the Dragon now, Bard?"
"In the Mountain," Bard replied. "I haven't seen him leave his halls in weeks."
Deep within the lightless roots of Erebor, spraed across a bed of ancient coins.
Smaug had been dozing, his mind drifting in a hazy dream, when a sharp sound echoed through the chamber.
Crack.
Smaug's golden eyes snapped open. He looked at the translucent Ice Dragon Egg resting beside his claw.
A jagged line had appeared across the shell.
Finally! Smaug felt a jolt of genuine excitement, his draconic instincts surging to the surface. He leaned his massive head closer, his breath coming in slow, hot huffs.
One minute. Five. Ten.
The cracks spider-webbed across the blue-tinted surface. Then, with a soft, wet sound, a small fragment of the shell fell away.
A tiny, snow-white head, covered in delicate, crystalline scales, peeked out into the darkness. It blinked its pale, misty-blue eyes at the massive golden-red titan towering over it.
Smaug grinned, his teeth like rows of swords. "Welcome to the world, little one."