When the people of Lake-town heard that their tyrant of a Master had been captured, stripped of his authority, and would never again wield power, the entire city erupted into joyous celebration. From winding alleyways to bustling marketplaces, laughter and cheers rang out like the peal of victory bells.
"Heavens! That fat swine has finally been caught!"
"Praise Bard! He did it! No more suffering for us!"
"Thanks be to the Elves—I saw them fight the tyrant's guards. Each of them, brave and unmatched in valor!"
The next morning, the fallen Master and his weasel-faced deputy were bound tightly and paraded through every street and alley of Lake-town on a small barge. The people, long held beneath the weight of oppression, hurled rotten vegetables, fish guts, and filth upon them with wild abandon, venting years of rage and misery.
The Master raged in fury, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Stop it! You filthy mongrels!"
"How dare you treat me like this! You'll all pay for this, mark my words!"
"I'll kill you! All of you!"
But just then, a perfectly aimed rotten egg flew through the air and struck him square in the mouth. He choked, gagged, and spat, his curses drowned in humiliation.
In the end, he was stripped of all titles, property, and coin. No blade needed to fall upon him—for the northern winter would soon descend, and the wilderness would deal its own cruel justice. Death by snow and hunger would find him before long.
Bard, now regarded as the savior of Lake-town, took only a small portion of the Master's hoarded treasure for the rebuilding of the town. The rest he distributed freely among the people, whose suffering he had shared and whose trust he now held. In their eyes, Bard was no longer merely a hero—he was a king in all but name.
And so, on that day, by the will of the people, Bard, last descendant of Girion, was crowned upon the banks of the Long Lake.
The shores were flooded with a sea of citizens. Men, women, and children gathered shoulder to shoulder, their voices united in fervent chant: "Bard! Bard! King of Dale!"
Clad in regal garb woven and gifted by the Elves, Bard ascended the stone steps of the great platform. With each step, he passed those who had stood by him—the twelve Dwarves of Thorin's company, each noble in their own right, bowing with solemn pride. Then came Bilbo Baggins the hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield himself, Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and the fierce Captain Tauriel, all offering gentle smiles and a nod of respect.
His children stood watching him—Sigrid, the eldest daughter; Bain, the strong young son; and the youngest, little Tilda. Their eyes glistened with tears, yet shone with pride.
At the very summit, standing in flowing robes were the Grey Wizard Gandalf and the White Wizard Saruman, each raising their staffs to bless the coronation with a flourish of radiant light.
And above them all stood Kaen Eowenríel, tall, radiant, and commanding, wreathed in a soft divine glow. As King of Eowenria, it was he who held the sacred right to crown Bard, for none stood more noble.
When Bard reached the summit, Kaen raised a hand, and silence fell over the multitudes.
"Bard, heir of Girion," Kaen declared, his voice firm and clear, "beneath the sky, upon the earth, by the waters of the Long Lake, and before the people who love you—do you accept the burden of kingship? Will you restore the Kingdom of Dale?"
"I do," Bard replied, his voice unwavering.
"Before the gods of old, do you swear to hold to the light? Even should blades pierce your flesh, or fire consume your body—will you remain true to justice?"
"I do."
"Then you shall remember this oath until your final breath. Let it guide your every step."
Kaen turned to the tray held by a royal attendant and lifted the crown—crafted of black iron at Bard's own request, forged by Dwarven hands. It gleamed not with jewels, but with weight and strength. Its design was simple, severe, and noble—symbol of a king forged not in courts, but in fire.
With great reverence, Kaen placed the Black Iron Crown upon Bard's head and raised his voice to the people.
"I declare, from this day forth, after a hundred years lost to shadow, the Kingdom of Dale is reborn!"
"BARD! BARD!"
The people roared with such thunder that even the surface of the lake trembled with their joy.
Thorin watched it all, his heart filled with complex emotion. He smiled, but clenched his fists tightly. Bard had reclaimed the lost glory of Dale. Surely, Erebor—the kingdom under the mountain—would soon be his to reclaim as well.
Lake-town and its surrounding lands held over twenty five thousand souls. The first thing Bard did upon ascending the throne was to establish a new army. A thousand warriors were recruited from among his people. The Woodland Realm supplied them with armor and arms, with a promise that payment in gold would follow the war.
As for the dragon-slaying plan, King Bard offered no resistance. He agreed to the proposal and declared that, so long as his people were fairly compensated after the battle, he would lead them to safety without complaint.
Thorin, filled with the zeal of restoration, accepted the terms without hesitation. Before the gathered witnesses, the two leaders sealed a pact—the dragon would fall, and with it, the old darkness.
When Bard issued the order for evacuation, the people responded not with resistance, but solemn acceptance. They knew this land would soon become a battlefield. Their homes—already scarred by hardship—might be lost forever. Yet their eyes were filled not with sorrow, but hope.
This place had brought them suffering. Now, with a true king to follow, they marched toward a brighter dawn. Home, they understood at last, was not a place—but a promise.
It took five days to move everyone away from Lake-town and its outskirts. The Elves drew precise maps of the region. Eighty of Kaen's elite royal guard arrived, escorting a hundred massive bolt-firing siege weapons—heavy-duty ballistae designed to pierce even dragonhide.
Strategically, they placed these ballistae along the riverbanks that surrounded Lake-town.
Then came the wizards—Gandalf the Grey, Saruman the White, and Kaen—each standing at a point along the lake. Together, they chanted ancient spells of concealment.
Water spirits stirred, rising from the depths as vapor. Under the command of their magic, thick grey fog enveloped the region, veiling all from sight.
A thousand Elven warriors arrived. Five hundred joined the guards to operate the siege engines. The other five hundred, armed with bows, were led into the abandoned town by Kaen, Bard, Legolas, Tauriel, and the two wizards.
There, they practiced—leaping across rooftops, weaving between buildings, preparing for the deadly dance of war.
Kaen addressed them solemnly: "When the dragon comes, and the fires roar—leap into the water without hesitation. It may be the only thing that saves your life."
The soldiers nodded, resolve in their eyes.
No other armies were permitted to remain. Numbers would not matter. Only precision. Only courage.
Everything was prepared.
All that remained now… was the coming of the dragon.