Lake-town was a strange place, built entirely on wooden pillars driven into the bed of a great lake. The town sprawled across the water, connected by bridges and walkways, with boats tied up at every door. It was noisy and crowded and smelled of fish, but after the darkness of Mirkwood, it seemed like paradise to Bungo.
The bargemen who had fished the dwarves out of the river led them through the town to the hall of the Master, the ruler of Lake-town. The Master was a plump, nervous man who sat on a carved chair at the end of a long hall, surrounded by councillors and hangers-on. He looked at the dwarves with suspicion, but when he heard Thorin's name, his eyes widened.
"Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield? The heir of the King under the Mountain?" He leaned forward. "You claim to be on a quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain?"
"I do not claim it," said Thorin. "I am on it. We have come from the west, through the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood, to seek our heritage."
The Master's councillors whispered among themselves. The Master stroked his chin.
"The dragon," he said. "Smaug. He has been there for many years. Many have tried to reclaim the Mountain. None have returned."
"We will return," said Thorin. "And when we do, Lake-town will be remembered. The treasure of the Mountain will flow again, and trade will return to these waters. Will you help us?"
The Master hesitated. He was a cautious man, and he did not like risks. But the promise of treasure was a powerful thing, and his people were poor. They had suffered under the shadow of the dragon for too long.
"We will give you provisions," he said at last. "Food, supplies, boats to carry you up the lake. But we cannot give you warriors. We need our men here, to protect the town."
"That is all we ask," said Thorin.
The dwarves were given rooms in the town and treated like heroes. The people of Lake-town brought them food and drink and asked endless questions about their journey. Bungo found himself a celebrity of sorts—the hobbit who had travelled with dwarves and escaped from elves in a barrel. He told his story over and over, and each time it grew a little more dramatic, until even he hardly recognized it.
But beneath the celebrations, Bungo felt a growing unease. They were getting closer to the Mountain now. Soon they would have to face the dragon. And no amount of storytelling would save him then.