Gandalf had spent many long, smoke-filled hours thinking... and quite frankly, he had considered many things that Smaug, currently snoring atop his gold, hadn't even intended. It was hard work being the only person in Middle-earth trying to outthink a dragon who seemed to be winging it with genius-level intuition.
As the night deepened, Gandalf finally let out a long, defeated sigh. He stopped pacing.
There was no point. He realized that, just like the encounter in Rivendell, Smaug had thrown a riddle into the works that forced only one outcome. Whether the news of Thráin was a lie or the truth, Thorin Oakenshield was now a man possessed. He would run to the Mountain with a speed that defied caution.
Is this still a dragon? Gandalf wondered. If all dragons were this clever, the world would have ended in the First Age.
For a moment, Gandalf felt a genuine chill of uncertainty. A Sauron who only knew how to use maces and orcs was one thing—but a Smaug who understood the levers of the heart and the politics of nations? That was a threat that could truly conquer the world.
Dawn broke, and Thorin—who had spent the night dreaming of his father in various states of torment—was instantly in Gandalf's face. "Have you reached a conclusion?"
Gandalf nodded. "We proceed to the Lonely Mountain with all possible haste."
"Good!" Thorin barked, his eyes burning. "Living or dead, I will find my father!"
"As will I," Gandalf murmured. He wasn't just looking for the King; he was looking for the last of the Seven Rings that Thráin had carried. He couldn't let that fall into the wrong hands.
With their goals aligned, the party spurred their horses into a gallop.
....
While the Company raced North, Azog the Defiler—Middle-earth's unintentional courier—arrived at the gates of Orthanc.
Saruman watched from the heights, descending quickly to meet the Pale Orc. Azog was a portrait of pure, unadulterated fury. He had been called away from the kill, chased by a bear, humiliated by a dragon, and now he was delivering trinkets to a "sand-shifter" in a tower. He looked ready to tear Saruman's head off just for breathing.
Saruman, however, feared the Master of Mordor, but he had no fear of an Orc. He knew that without a legion behind him, Azog was just a brute.
"Welcome, Defiler," Saruman said with a thin, mocking smile.
"I hate Wizards!" Azog spat, thrusting the heavy, cloth-wrapped Palantír toward him. "If I find out you are playing games with us, I will feed your heart to the wargs."
"Of course you will," Saruman replied smoothly, taking the sphere.
Azog didn't wait. He wheeled his warg around and bolted toward the North, his hatred for Thorin acting as a compass.
Saruman hurried to the top of his tower. He unwrapped the stone and felt the cold, dark pull of the Eye.
"My Lord," Saruman said, bowing his head as the crimson flame manifested within the glass.
"Saruman," Sauron replied. He didn't waste time. "I am amassing a legion to take the Mountain. But with you as my hand, I see a new path. We shall not break ourselves against the dragon's wall yet. We shall strike South."
"I listen, my Lord," Saruman said, his heart racing.
Sauron outlined a plan to bypass the North. While the world watched the dragon and the dwarves, Saruman would use his influence to rot the kingdoms of Men from within. They would start with Rohan and then move to Gondor.
"The kings of Men are weak," Saruman agreed. "The realm of Rohan is ripe for the taking. I shall see to it."
Saruman spread a map of Middle-earth across his table. He ignored the North for now, his finger tracing the borders of the Riddermark. "Theoden... your mind will be mine."
...
Time moved on. Smaug remained in his deep sleep, while Gollum continued his miserable vigil behind the Great Gate.
In Dale, the first harvest of the new era was beginning. Beorn, finding a strange peace in the labor, was helping the humans bring in the grain.
In the Mirkwood, the silence of the last few centuries was officially dead. The Elves were working around the clock, forging weapons, buying supplies from the South, and hauling timber for Smaug's forest project. Legolas was the master of logistics, overseeing a massive supply chain. Interestingly, he was so busy managing grain shipments and armor shipments that he barely had time to moon over Tauriel. It turns out, career focus is a universal distraction for the male heart.
As the late summer air turned into the crisp gold of autumn, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield finally crested a ridge.
The Misty Mountains lay behind them. Ahead, through the haze, the Lonely Mountain loomed, a jagged tooth on the horizon. They had reached the Mirkwood.
One final forest. One final lake. The Quest was almost at its end.
~~----------------------
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