Outside the Great Gate of Erebor.
Smaug loomed over the scene, his golden-red scales catching the last rays of the setting sun. Below him, Thorin Oakenshield stood small but defiant, his head held high. For a long moment, neither king nor dragon spoke.
But the silence did not extend to the city of Dale. A cacophony of voices rose from the ramparts.
"By the gods... what is on his back?"
"It's a drake! A little white dragon!"
"How? Where did a second one come from?!"
"Praise the stars I didn't join the Dwarves... we'd be ash by now."
At the Lord's Manor, Bard gripped the stone railing. He felt a cold sweat prickle his neck. A second dragon changed everything. If Smaug could produce one, he could produce ten. His decision to side with the Dragon felt more like a divine intervention with every passing second.
The "Trash" Exchange
Smaug looked down at Thorin's stubborn, grimy face and let out a rumbling chuckle. "Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin. It's been a long time. Tell me, how did the Prince of the Longbeard feel, digging in the dirt like a common man?"
Thorin's hand twitched toward his sword. He wanted nothing more than to lunge at the Dragon's throat. But he stopped. His eyes had fixed on a spot on Smaug's underbelly—a patch where a single scale was missing, revealing an old, jagged scar.
He bleeds, Thorin thought, a surge of adrenaline hitting his heart. He isn't invincible. He can be killed.
"I have done my part," Thorin said, his voice tight. "Give me the Arkenstone."
"A promise is a promise," Smaug rumbled. He reached into his system storage, pulled out the shimmering Arkenstone, and held it between two massive claws. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the dust at Thorin's feet.
The King of the Dwarves gasped, diving for the jewel as if it were a falling child. As he reached for it, the Stone Giants clinging to the mountain face rumbled.
"Tasty morsel," the Giant Queen croaked, her massive eyes tracking the gem.
"Pick it up quickly, little King," Smaug mocked. "Before my sentries decide it looks like a sugar cube."
Thorin snatched the stone and tucked it into his tunic, his face burning with shame. He looked back up at the dragon. "Now... tell me where my father is!"
The Call to Arms
"I would be honored to serve you, Thorin," Smaug said with heavy irony. "But in return, I require a favor. I want you to summon every warrior from the Seven Kingdoms. I want an army. And I want you to lead them to war."
Gandalf, standing a short distance away, felt his breath catch. A war? Against whom?
"The enemy is Sauron," Smaug announced, his voice booming so loud it echoed through the streets of Dale.
"You shall be the vanguard. The Elves shall follow. The Men of the West shall send their legions. We are going to march until we reach the gates of Mordor itself!"
The shock was absolute.
In the city, the humans froze. At the forest edge, Thranduil felt his wine glass tremble in his hand. I never agreed to march on Mordor! the Elven-king thought, his face twisting in a mix of rage and disbelief.
"And why would we do this for you?" Thorin demanded, finding his voice. "Why would humans and Elves follow your command?"
"Because," Smaug rumbled, his voice dropping into a register of pure power. "Sauron is coming for you all. I have no interest in dying for your sake, but I have a great interest in solving the problem permanently."
"If any race refuses to march, they can leave Middle-earth. Or I will extinguish them myself."
"You think I speak with too much pride? I tell you this: I speak with the authority of three dragons!"
The claim of a third dragon sent a wave of genuine horror through the valley. Balin turned pale. "I knew it... a mother."
But Smaug wasn't finished. He leaned down, his snout inches from Thorin.
"And I speak with the authority of the One Ring."
"It is in my possession. If the races of Middle-earth do not join this crusade, I shall simply hand the Ring back to Sauron and watch him unmake you."
BOOM.
The revelation of the One Ring hit Gandalf like a bolt from the blue. The Wizard didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He broke into a dead run toward the Great Gate, his robes flapping in the wind.
"SMAUG!" Gandalf screamed as he ran. "Is it true?! Do you truly hold the Ruling Ring?!"