Chapter 8. The Iron Hills — Dwarven Fury
At the Lonely Mountain, humans and Elves were busy as fire and flame.
Elsewhere—
Gandalf had already led Thorin Oakenshield and his company on the road for more than half a day.
For the moment, since the journey had only just begun, the atmosphere among the group was still relatively harmonious.
As they walked on, night slowly fell.
The company decided to find a place to rest.
Before long, they reached the middle of a mountain slope. There was a stretch of flat ground—perfect for making camp.
"We'll spend the night here," Thorin Oakenshield declared.
Despite having lost his kingdom and the vast majority of his people, he still carried himself with the bearing of a prince, issuing orders with commanding authority.
"Kíli, Fíli, you two—"
After giving his instructions, Thorin walked alone to the edge of the clearing, clasped his hands behind his back, and stared grimly into the distance.
From a certain point of view, Thorin Oakenshield wasn't all that different from Prince Zuko.
Both had lost their kingdoms.
Both still regarded themselves as princes afterward, full of pride and posture.
Both dreamed of restoring what was lost.
The difference was—
Prince Zuko never received a miracle.
Thorin Oakenshield did.
After eating and drinking their fill, night deepened.
Suddenly, from the darkness in the distance, shrill howls pierced the air.
Bilbo stiffened and asked nervously,
"What was that?"
"Orcs," a Dwarf replied.
"Orcs?" Bilbo blinked. "What are those?"
And just like that, the conversation turned—
Drifting back to the brutal wars long ago, when the Dwarves and Orc armies slaughtered one another in the ancient Dwarven kingdom of Moria.
By the campfire, Bilbo listened with growing dread.
Thorin Oakenshield said nothing.
Yet anger radiated from him, thick and unmistakable.
---
At the same time—
Deep beneath the Lonely Mountain—
[Gandalf the Grey — Mithrandir — has led the Expedition Party and begun the journey.]
[The prophecy cannot be ignored.]
Smaug, who had also eaten his fill and was lying comfortably at rest, sensed the notification.
He opened his eyes and began to think.
From the moment he transmigrated into this world, he had known this sequence of events would occur.
He simply hadn't fully decided how to deal with it yet.
Of course—
One decision required no hesitation whatsoever.
Hand the Lonely Mountain back to the Dwarves?
Give up this vast fortune?
Give up his kingdom?
What a joke.
Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
Now that the expedition had begun, it was time to seriously consider a countermeasure.
Go out and stop them?
Those brainless Orcs were probably already doing that.
And if he went—
On one hand, Gandalf was a good man. Bilbo, too, was decent. Was he really supposed to kill them? He actually wanted to befriend them.
On the other hand, speaking frankly, he was currently just a dragon. His abilities were limited. He probably couldn't even kill Gandalf—
Even a Gandalf who was not yet a fully awakened Maiar.
Besides—
From another angle, he needed the expedition party to follow the original storyline.
Bilbo had to obtain the One Ring.
Given Smaug's size, he couldn't enter the trolls' territory—nor could he possibly crawl into that cave and capture Gollum.
Therefore, stopping the expedition was not a good idea.
Smaug thought and thought.
For a long time.
Finally, a rough plan began to take shape.
The details still needed refinement.
There was no rush—Gandalf and his party would take a long time to reach the Lonely Mountain anyway.
---
Days passed, one after another.
Middle-earth was not small—but neither was it vast beyond reach.
And on this day—
News finally reached the Iron Hills.
The evil dragon Smaug had officially founded a Dragon Kingdom at the Lonely Mountain.
And the Elves of Mirkwood were helping rebuild Dale and Erebor.
The Iron Hills—
One of the Seven Dwarven Kingdoms still standing today.
And notably—
The strongest among them.
Thorin Oakenshield's cousin, Dáin Ironfoot, was the King of the Iron Hills.
His explosive temper was legendary—even among Dwarves.
And sure enough—
The moment the news reached him, Dáin, who had been drinking heartily, flew into a rage. He smashed his goblet to the floor, spilling fine ale everywhere.
Now, Dwarves loved their drink as dearly as life itself.
Which made it easy to imagine just how furious Dáin truly was.
"Those cursed Elves!" he roared.
"To think they would dare aid that evil dragon!"
"I, Dáin, swear this—one day I will slaughter those Elves to the last! Not a single one spared!"
Interestingly enough, the focus of Dáin's fury was not Smaug—but the Elves led by Thranduil.
In the grand hall—so spacious as to be utterly impractical—Dáin raged for several minutes before finally calming down a little.
Seeing this, a Dwarf close to him spoke up.
"Dáin… Thorin and his companions may already have begun their expedition to reclaim Erebor."
"They might not yet know what's changed at the Lonely Mountain."
"Should we warn them?"
Not long ago, Thorin had contacted Dáin, hoping he would join the expedition.
Dáin had refused, saying that Erebor was Thorin's Erebor—and that he had no interest in taking part.
Hearing this—
Dáin fell silent for a few seconds. Then he moved again, poured himself a large cup of ale, and drained it in one gulp.
His feelings were complicated.
After the fall of Erebor and Moria, the Seven Dwarven Kingdoms ruled by Dáin and the others had, in truth, gained freedom.
They no longer had to obey Erebor's commands.
They no longer had to pay tribute.
They could do as they pleased—far fewer burdens, far fewer restraints.
Greed was in a Dwarf's nature.
Before Smaug seized Erebor, Dáin and the other kings had gained little from it—if anything at all. More often than not, they had been ordered about, pressured, and humiliated.
And yet—
Thorin was still his cousin.
Dáin thought it over again and again, then finally spoke.
"Contact the other six kings. We need to discuss this matter together."
"And more importantly—how to deal with that damned bastard Thranduil!"
"Also, send a few sharp minds to see exactly what Smaug is up to."
---
About five days later—
All seven Dwarven kings, Dáin included, gathered within the royal palace of the Iron Hills.
Aside from greed, Dwarves were also notoriously hot-tempered.
The moment the kings met, they argued loudly for quite some time before finally getting to the point.
"No matter what, Thorin is a descendant of Durin. We should inform him."
"And if he asks us to go to war?"
The moment those words were spoken—
The seven kings erupted into another round of shouting.
After a long while—
They finally reached a consensus.
Whether or not they would join the war could be discussed later.
But informing Thorin—that would be done immediately.
"Good," Dáin said, taking the floor once more.
"Now let's talk about the real issue."
"Thranduil betrayed the Dwarves in the past. And now he's allied himself with the evil dragon Smaug, defiling Erebor!"
"How should we deal with that damned bastard?"
It was no longer a question of whether he should be dealt with—
But how.
The moment the words left Dáin's mouth—
The other six kings erupted in furious agreement.
After yet another long discussion—
One of the kings, slightly sharper than the rest, spoke hesitantly.
"Dáin… if we send troops to attack Mirkwood, wouldn't that mean we're effectively joining Thorin's expedition?"
"After all, Mirkwood lies right next to Erebor."
"…."
Dáin was left speechless.
He scratched his head.