At Legolas's public recognition of Bard's bloodline, the Master of Lake-town could not hide the flicker of unease that crossed his face. He knew full well what such an acknowledgment implied—Bard, heir of Girion, bore a rightful claim to restore the fallen Kingdom of Dale.
Once, Lake-town had bent the knee to that kingdom. And if Bard were to rise again…
A shadow passed through the Master's eyes—a glint of cold calculation, swiftly followed by murderous intent.
He turned subtly to one of his attendants, whispered something through barely parted lips. The man gave a curt nod and slipped away silently.
But nothing escaped the gaze of the two wizards—and certainly not Kaen's. With a glance exchanged between them, they chose—for now—to remain silent, to let the Master play his hand.
Let him reveal the depth of his treachery.
….
The grand hall shimmered with golden lamplight and the glint of silver goblets. Platters of roasted meats and sugared fruits adorned the tables. Goblets overflowed with rich wine. The guests were seated—Elves, Dwarves, Men, and wizards—while the Master played the gracious host.
Smiling wide, he poured wine for Legolas and Tauriel himself, his manner deferential, almost oily.
"Welcome, honored guests," he began, voice thick with false warmth. "It is the greatest honor for Lake-town to receive you. The Elves have always been our benefactors—our patrons through the leanest winters. It is because of your guardianship that our people know peace and prosperity."
Across the table, Bard let out a bitter snort. He eyed the bounty before him with thinly veiled disgust. In his heart, he knew this feast had been bought at the cost of starving bellies and hollowed cheeks.
Were it not for the merchants' greed, the townsfolk would not be left to beg for crumbs while the elite drank gold from silver cups.
But the Master ignored Bard's disdain.
Instead, his eyes passed briefly over the Dwarves and settled once more on the Elves. His voice lowered, grave and weighty.
"In the old tongue," he said, "it is written: The coming of Dwarves shall rouse the dragon, and the flames of Smaug shall consume all."
He glanced toward Thorin's company.
"So tell me, why have you brought these Dwarves here? Do you come bearing treasure—or doom? Or are you handing them over to us, so that the people of Lake-town may decide their fate?"
Legolas replied evenly, "Neither."
"We have chosen," he declared, "to aid the Dwarves of Durin's line… in slaying the dragon."
The Master reeled theatrically, his tone dripping with disbelief. "The Woodland Elves… aiding Dwarves? And against a dragon? One who could burn the world to ash?"
Balin, the Dwarven elder, answered with calm dignity, "It is not so strange. This is merely the fulfillment of an ancient oath."
The Master's voice turned sharp. "An oath? As I recall, the Elves stood idle as your home was turned to cinders."
Instantly, Legolas's eyes narrowed. His tone turned cold as steel.
"Are you attempting to sow discord among us, Master of Lake-town?"
The Master dropped the charade.
"No," he said, letting the smirk settle on his face. "I am performing my duty. My duty, to shield Lake-town from fire and ruin, to ensure its people are not turned to ash for another kingdom's folly."
"Duty?Shielding?"
Bard could take no more.
He rose from his seat, eyes burning.
"Let's not pretend you are some selfless guardian! You are no ruler. You are a parasite in a merchant's cloak, feeding off the people while they starve!"
The Master gave a theatrical shrug.
He set down his goblet, walked slowly to a window, and threw it open.
The cold lake air flowed in.
"Tell me, Bard," he said, arms spread wide, "why would anyone choose to remain in this damp, stinking mire? The streets reek of fish. The air is thick with mildew. If not for the gold, who would stay?"
He turned, eyes gleaming cruelly.
"I am the ruler here. The coin belongs to me. What fool would leave gold in the hands of mud-covered peasants?"
He sneered.
"Your ancestors died clutching nothing. The line of Girion has faded into obscurity—now clinging to nets and spears. And you? You're nothing but a fishmonger's hero—propped up by fools."
A tense silence followed.
Faces darkened.
Even the most reserved among them—Thorin, Legolas, Gandalf—looked grim.
Thorin's voice was low and dangerous. "Then what is it that you intend, Master of Lake-town?"
The Master turned, his expression gleaming with malevolence. He grinned.
"To end you all. Then drag your corpses to the foot of the Lonely Mountain… and blame it on Smaug."
Legolas rose. "Do you grasp the consequence of such treachery?"
The Master laughed, gloating. "There will be no evidence. The Woodland Realm will think the dragon struck first. Their fury will be aimed there."
Tauriel scoffed. "And you think you can make that happen?"
"Indeed," the Master said, clapping his hands. "Because this is my town."
Outside, the sound of boots thundered down the walkways.
The Master's grin widened into a maniacal laugh.
"Did you really think I was just a merchant? Ha! You poor fools. Without cunning, who becomes Master here? I own this place!"
He looked at them as one might look at lambs before the slaughter.
But then—
The doors burst open.
The mirth drained from his face.
It was not his guards who entered.
It was a battalion of Elven warriors, their armor soaked in blood, swords still drawn.
Two of them dragged in a body—his own rat-faced deputy—and flung him at the Master's feet.
The deputy clung to his leg in desperation, wailing, "Master! They've… they've killed our men! We never stood a chance against them!"
The Master's expression twisted—rage, disbelief, panic.
His plan—his carefully laid trap—had been dismantled before it even began.
And he had not seen it coming.
Kaen, who until now had sat silently, sipping wine and watching it unfold, rose to his feet. His eyes gleamed with quiet mockery.
"Well now, Master," he said with a smile, "your little game is over."
What none had known was that Kaen, ever watchful, had been quietly sweeping the area with his mind.
At the first sign of betrayal, he had sent a message to the Elven soldiers beyond the walls—ordering them to strike first.
The warriors of the Woodland Realm—swift, disciplined, and deadly—had struck with precision.
Lake-town's guards, poorly trained and lacking true loyalty, had fallen like brittle reeds before them. Some perished. The rest surrendered without a fight.
It was over.
Now, with the tables turned, the hall was silent but for the sound of heavy breathing and retreating boots.
Legolas, Tauriel, Thorin, and the others finally allowed themselves a smile.
It had all been a performance—and the curtain had fallen.
Bard stepped forward.
He stared into the Master's pale, sweat-beaded face and said coldly:
"You shall be judged by the people of Lake-town—for every ounce of suffering you have brought upon them. You will answer for your crimes."
And in that moment, the Master's mask cracked. His shoulders sagged.
He had nothing left to bargain with.
As the Elves moved to take him away, he cried out in desperation, "No! You can't do this! Those wretches have no right to judge me! I am the Master! I am the ruler of Lake-town! You—you're all bandits! Savages!—"
His cries faded as he was dragged away.
Kaen turned to Bard, voice solemn.
"You are the heir of Girion. The people look to you now. The time has come to bear that burden."
Bard lowered his head, then straightened, eyes alight with purpose.
He bowed deeply to Kaen and to the Elves.
"I thank you—from the depths of my heart. You've rid us of a curse. From this day forward, the people of Lake-town shall know justice… and peace."