Lake-town, or Esgaroth as it was once called, lay nestled in a quiet bay at the mouth of the Forest River, where it met the western shore of the Long Lake. Connected to the mainland by a great wooden bridge, the town had been built upon the water itself—raised on massive wooden pilings that held it above the lake's depths, safe from marauding Orcs and other threats of the wild.
The streets were narrow wooden walkways, the homes and shops built close and compact, forming a great floating market ringed around a central pool. It was a city born of trade.
Its governance, however, was not one of noble lineage or martial leadership. Instead, the master of the town had been elected by the merchant guilds—a man not known for wisdom or valor, but for greed.
The expedition entered from the southern stretch of the lake, requiring ferries to cross.
A dozen boats ferried the party—Kaen, Thorin, Gandalf, Saruman, and the others—along with fifty Elven warriors across the water. As they passed through a veil of lake mist, the wooden city slowly came into view.
It loomed upon the surface like some great raft—its clustered rooftops rising from the mist, its edges guarded by a ring of wooden watchtowers.
Bard pointed to the gateway ahead. "That's the checkpoint," he said. "In normal times, I would have to announce myself before entering. But I think such formalities are now a thing of the past."
The boats arrived before a great iron gate. A voice called out from a wooden hut nearby.
"Halt! All vessels must be inspected! Present your documen—oh… Sweet heavens!"
The voice stopped abruptly.
A man had stepped out of the guardhouse, only to be struck dumb at the sight of the Elves—resplendent and armed, standing in silent formation upon the boats.
Bard raised a hand. "Percy, these are emissaries from the Woodland Realm. They're here to speak with the Master."
"O-oh! Yes, of course!"
Percy hastily turned the wheel, and the iron gate creaked open.
Not far off, a rat-faced man with a weasel's eyes turned on his heel and ran off.
"Who's that?" someone asked, brows furrowed.
Bard answered, his tone dry, "The Master's deputy. A cur who thrives off fear and power."
Gandalf gave Bard a side glance. "You seem… less than fond of your leaders."
Bard's gaze hardened. "They're merchants. They care nothing for the poor. Their greed has rotted the town from within. Everyone here knows it. We've lived beneath their boots for too long."
Thorin looked at him thoughtfully. "What if you were Master of this town?" he asked. "What if you restored Dale and claimed the glory of your forefathers?"
Bard gave him a sideways look. "You speak as if you're faring much better. Let's not forget—it wasn't just Dale that fell. Erebor burned with it."
That silenced Thorin.
Truth be told, he and Bard were not so different—each burdened by the legacy of ruin.
As the company passed deeper into the town, residents began to gather on the wooden platforms, murmuring with curiosity.
"So many Elves… where are they headed?"
"Those are Dwarves, aren't they? It's true then—the prophecy—they're going to reclaim their home!"
"Is that tall man an Elf? His armor glows! That's magic!"
"Bard brought them!"
"I knew it! Bard has summoned the Elves to drive out the Master and his cronies!"
"Yes! Girion's blood would never let his people suffer in silence!"
Hearing the whispers, Kaen turned to Bard. "You command great respect among the people. If they detest the rulers so, why not lead them in revolt?"
"Because revolts get people killed, my lord."
Bard's voice was grave. Though Kaen was younger, Bard regarded him with respect—for the light in Kaen's bearing, and the noble spirit that seemed to shine from within.
"The Master enforces strict weapons control," Bard explained. "All blades and bows are locked away in armories. The poor can't so much as hold a sword."
"I don't fear death," he continued, "but I won't march a mob of fishmongers and knife-wielding butchers into a fight against armed guards. That's not courage—that's slaughter."
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "swallowing pride is wiser than dying for a moment's anger."
"But they see you as a hero," Gandalf said.
Bard's eyes dimmed. "That's exactly why I must think carefully."
And then Saruman, who had remained silent, leaned toward Gandalf and Kaen, and spoke through thought alone:
"The heir of Girion has the heart of a king. He is worthy of our support."
….
In the town hall, beneath chandeliers made of cut glass and fading brass, a rotund man clad in lavish furs sat listening to his aide's report.
"What did you say?" he growled. "Bard brought Elves—armed Elves—into Lake-town? And they're headed here?"
"Yes, Master," said the weasel-faced man, panicked. "And the poor folk are growing restless! They see Bard as their leader! He is… Girion's descendant!"
At that, the Master's beady eyes narrowed. A shiver ran down his spine.
He was no fool.
One did not rise above a den of merchants without cunning. He could see the signs as clear as fire in the sky:
Rebellion. Uprising. Coup. Outside allies…
None of it boded well for him.
If the Elves were here to remove him, backed by Bard and the townsfolk…
The Master had no choice. He could not wait for the storm to fall upon him.
"Summon the guards," he snapped. "We'll greet our guests with honor. And invite our people's hero… Bard."
….
By the time the company reached the hall, the wooden causeways leading to the town center were bristling with guards—armored men, one or two hundred strong, standing at attention.
At the far end stood the Master himself, surrounded by a cluster of gaudily dressed merchants. He smiled with practiced warmth.
"My advisors tell me we have guests from the Woodland Realm," he called out. "I came personally to welcome you!"
Legolas stepped forward. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil."
"Tauriel," said the captain at his side, "Commander of the Woodland Guard."
"We are here under royal command, to discuss matters of grave importance—matters that threaten the very survival of Lake-town."
The Master's heart sank.
Even he could not mask the dread that bloomed within.
The Prince himself, he thought. And the Guard-Captain…
He forced a smile through his fear.
"Such an honor," he said, bowing. "Please, my lords, come within! I have prepared a feast worthy of Elven guests."
The company exchanged glances, then stepped ashore, following the Master through the hall's grand double doors.
But as they passed, the weasel-faced man stepped in front of Bard, sneering.
"The Master's hospitality is for honored guests, not… lowborn rabble."
At that, the entire party halted.
All eyes turned to the man.
He faltered under their stares, laughing nervously. "I-I just meant… I wouldn't want this peasant interrupting your lordships' peace."
Legolas turned cold eyes upon him.
"He is no peasant," he said softly. "He is of the line of Girion. In his veins flows the blood of kings. Speak not so lightly of him again."