Every living creature feels an instinctive surge of grief and rage when their home is threatened with destruction.
In the wake of such emotions, most will fight to the death to defend their hearth. Beorn has returned to his ancestral lands, and the longer he breathes the air of the Mountain, the deeper his roots will grow. When Azog the Defiler eventually marches with his legions—or when the Dwarven lords come to claim the halls—Beorn will not be a mere observer. He will be a defender of his own dirt.
This is the essence of Smaug's "Grand Design." He never intended for the humans of Dale to die for him. He intended for them to thrive so thoroughly that they would die to protect everything they had built.
Beorn watched the horizon for a long moment before turning his horses toward the gates of Dale. Bard had received word of his arrival and led a small party to greet him. By afternoon, Beorn had politely declined their offers of help, requested a massive supply of timber, and begun the solitary task of hewing his own home into reality.
Deep beneath the roots of the Mountain, Smaug lay atop a sprawling mound of gold. He had feasted the night before and was now content to drift into a long, restorative sleep. Beside him, the Frost Dragon Egg sat in a patch of shadow, cold and silent, waiting for the moment of its awakening.
In the halls of Mirkwood, Thranduil had spent the weeks analyzing the geopolitical board. The problem was an equation with no easy solution, but he had identified the first necessary move:
Mobilize.
He ordered the forging of new blades, the casting of heavy plate, and the stockpiling of grain. The silence of the forest was replaced by the rhythmic clanging of hammers and the shouts of drilling archers. After centuries of stagnant peace, Mirkwood was finally waking up.
Far to the west, Gandalf and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield continued their trek on foot.
At midday, a party of Dwarves sent by Dáin Ironfoot finally intercepted them. They brought news of the Mountain—news that was already several weeks out of date.
"I am aware of the changes," Thorin said, maintaining his royal posture despite the dust of the road. "Thank you for the long ride. Give Dáin my regards, and tell him I will reclaim Erebor!"
The messengers departed, heading back to the Iron Hills. Thorin turned to his twelve companions with a triumphant grin. "This is a good omen, lads! Dáin is watching. He is waiting for the signal."
"Once we have the Arkenstone, the seven houses will fall in line. Dáin will lead the vanguard, and the others will follow. The day we slay the worm and take back our halls is nearly upon us!"
Thorin's hope was a blazing fire, fueled by his own conviction. Beside him, Gandalf puffed on his pipe and pointedly looked away. He couldn't bring himself to tell Thorin the truth: that "slaying the worm" was no longer on the White Council's agenda. He simply remained silent, a weary passenger on a quest of delusions.
Bilbo, unaware of the Wizard's internal conflict, cheered along with the Dwarves. He was genuinely happy for his friends.
The days bled into weeks. A full month passed.
In the deeps of Erebor, Smaug opened his golden eyes. He felt the familiar pang of hunger. He tucked the Frost Dragon Egg back into his system storage and lumbered toward the exit.
As he emerged from the mountain, a wonderful scent hit him—the aroma of roasting meat, rich fats, and a complex blend of herbs. The humans of Dale had clearly been practicing. Their culinary skills had ascended to a level Middle-earth hadn't seen in an age.
"Not bad," Smaug rumbled to himself. He took flight, circling once before landing at the Lord's Manor.
Bard was in the kitchen, preparing the mid-day meal. His son, Bain, spotted the shadow and alerted his father. Bard stepped out onto the terrace, his face pale but determined.
"Lord Bard," Smaug said, sniffing the air. "It smells like you're making lunch. Mind if I join you?"
"..." Bard looked at the massive dragon, then at his small dining room. "The house is small. I cannot invite you inside."
"Lord Bard, I'm going to show you a magic trick. Don't blink," Smaug chuckled.
He triggered his skill.
Shapeshift.
The gargantuan dragon vanished. In its place stood a stout, two-meter-tall Miniature Troll. He was broad-shouldered but fit perfectly within the human-scaled architecture.
Bard stood paralyzed, his mind reeling. He had never known the dragon could do this. In that moment, the final vestige of his plan to "slay the beast" died. If the dragon could become anything, he could be anywhere. He was effectively unkillable.
Bard had two choices: flee with his family, or accept the new reality. He took a breath and nodded. "Very well. Come in."
"My thanks," Smaug grunted, enjoying the look on the man's face. He reached into his storage, pulled out two massive, glittering emeralds, and set them on the table before shifting back into the small Troll. "A gift for your children. Consider it a 'housewarming' gesture for my first visit."
Bard tried to protest, but Smaug waved him off. "I have more of these than I can count. Don't be shy. Now, let's eat. I'm starving."
"..." Bard had no choice but to lead the way to the table.
"Oh, and Bard? The shapeshifting thing? Let's keep that between us. I like a bit of mystery," Smaug added with a wink.
The meal was surprisingly pleasant. Bard's children were wary of the "ugly guest," but the gems were a powerful bribe. They behaved well, and Smaug found himself enjoying the domesticity of it.
After the meal, Smaug wiped his mouth and stood up. "I'll be seeing you, Lord Bard." He walked out of the manor and headed toward the outskirts of the city to find Beorn.
The skin-changer had finished his house nearly two weeks ago. He was sitting in his yard, eating from a massive wooden bowl. The food was delicious—Bard had sent instructors to teach him the new recipes.
Beorn looked up as the Mini-Troll approached. He was starting to like it here. The air was clean, the food was good, and the dragon... well, the dragon was at least keeping his promises.
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