Chapter Text
The day the dragon came to Erebor, everything changed.
Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, Crown Prince Under the Mountain, Second of His Name, Heir to the Throne and the Lonely Mountain, had come to the ramparts to enjoy the midday sun after some tiring lessons with his advisor and friend Balin. As Crown Prince it was his duty to be informed about the kingdom’s daily affairs, and his grandfather, King Thror, made sure that he received the proper education and preparation. After all, he was to be King Under the Mountain one day, and no one could do so without decades, if not centuries, of counseling.
And Thorin took these duties very seriously, much more so than his sister Dís and his brother Frerin. Dís was married to Lord Víli from Ered Luin, with their five year old son Fíli as heir and another one on the way. She had done her duty to the kingdom and was of no importance to Thror (which made Thorin furious). Dís for her part was content to live her life away from the spotlight with her family, though she could be a true force of nature when she wanted to be, her tongue as sharp as her wit. But alas, she was a dam, and so, she was forbidden from holding any form of power. Frerin however had no ambition to be involved in courtly affairs or politics. He spent most of his days deep in the forges, mumbling about softly in Khuzdûl to the metal or himself, completely absorbed in his craft. He was happy between the coals and hammers and anvils. He had no place at the long council table, felt misplaced among all the grey bearded dwarves and gruff lords and dukes and nobles. He had no interest in competing with them in their debates, was perfectly fine not talking to anyone for weeks when he found a new project that claimed all of his attention in his beloved forgefire.
So, it was left to Thorin to fill the place of the dutiful son and grandson, being prepared for leadership since birth. Never once in his life had he doubted that one day, he would need to lead his people. It was who he was to be, what had been ingrained in his life for as long as he could remember. Strict rules, etiquette, diplomacy, battle strategies, negotiations, days spent listening to the complaints of guilds and merchants and lords - that was his life. And he was happy. He truly was. He had a purpose, he had a task. He loved his people, loved his kingdom, loved his family. He would do everything in his power to protect them. And so he gladly wasted away countless hours brooding over numbers and letters. He enjoyed the lessons with Balin, the training to be King.
But amidst all that, he was still only a dwarf. A dwarf that needed some fresh air after a tedious session about trade and grain and storage. And so he went to the ramparts.
Thorin stood at the edge, hands on the railing, face in the soft breeze, sun warming his cold nose, eyes closed and inhaling the cold, fresh mountain air. He loved the smell of soft pines, stubborn alpine flowers and the occasional waft of forge smoke from within Erebor’s belly. A few ravens flew about, bringing messages or returning to the rookery. Erebor was alive and healthy. Thorin was happy. His family was strong.
And then the dragon came.
Before anything, Thorin smelled it. The calm of the noon was disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, carrying with it the sharp sting of smoke. At first he thought it might be from the forges or maybe even the kitchens, but the wind blew the stench into the lonely mountain, not out of it. Thorin furrowed his eyebrows, opening his eyes, shielding them from the sun. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The guards on the ramparts stood at their posts, banners flew proud. Everything seemed as it should be.
Then Thorin felt a sudden pressure in his ears, making them thrumm uncomfortably. A quick glance at the guards told him that they were feeling it too. The pressure lifted, only to come back a few moments later, stronger, more insistent. It came and went like the tide, washing in waves through Thorin’s head. He had no idea what was happening, only that he did not like it. He instructed a nearby messenger to bring note to the King and told the guards to be on alert. The thrumming in his ears did not relent, wave after wave crashing into them, assaulting his eardrums. Thorin really wished he had brought his weapons with him, not just the clunky ceremonial royal sword at his side. Even though it was unlikely that a proper sword would be able to stop whatever caused the continued pressure waves, Thorin would definitely feel better with it at hand. An illusion of safety, or, at least, the ability to do something about it. But his sword was not here, it was safely locked away in the royal armoury.
The wind picked up, bringing a new gush of smoke stench and the trees beyond the gate began to sway in the strong gust. Clouds drifted by lazily, betraying the tense thrumming that weaved through the air. The ravens in the rookery took to the sky. If Thorin wasn’t on edge before, he certainly was now. The ravens had left Erebor. Why, he did not know. His gaze followed them high, and beyond them, he saw a shadow emerging from a cloud.
It was green, stark and deep against the white tufts, with glittering specks of gold reflecting the sunlight like a kaleidoscope. Left and right, a pair of massive wings sliced through the air, carrying the shadow towards the lonely mountain. As it let out a roar, Thorin’s blood ran cold and his heart stuttered, finally realising what he was looking at.
It was a dragon.
A green dragon, a Fire Drake from the north, judging by the smell of smoke and flame. And it was heading towards Erebor.
Thorin didn’t waste any time.
"DRAGON!“, he roared, eyes fixed upon the creature in the sky as a new wave of pressure fell upon his ears, brought forth by the drake’s wings. The guards stared at him, followed his gaze, only to be awoken from their stupor moments later. Orders were yelled, and a horn was blown. From inside, Thorin could hear boots stomping, armour clinking and dwarves - his people - clamouring.
Erebor had never been attacked by a dragon. Thorin had heard stories (which dwarf hadn’t?) about the other great dwarven kingdoms, about the wyrms that had brought them to ruin. Dragons were pulled to treasure. And Erebor had arguably the largest treasure hoard in the east. So, honestly, it wasn’t too far fetched for the green dragon to have chosen Erebor as its target. But it had always seemed so far away, so unlikely, so… fantastical, that Thorin had never even thought about having to defend his home against a dragon.
"Thorin! Get inside, now!“ That was Dwalin, head of Thorin’s personal guard. His bald, tattooed head shone in the sunlight, the double axes on his back polished to perfection. He attempted to pull the Crown Prince into a tight circle of armoured dwarves. Thorin resisted and glared at him.
"What Prince leaves his people alone in the wake of a dragon?“, he snapped, blue eyes fierce.
"A smart and alive one!“, Dwalin retorted, twisting Thorin’s arm to his back to make him obedient. „His Majesty would have me head and those of the whole guard if ye’d end up dying here!“ Thorin knew he was right. He knew there was little he could do here, on the ramparts, against the giant beast that was about to descend upon them. Still, it went against everything he believed in, his pride and his honour. Dwalin ushered Thorin down from the ramparts, not without some struggling, and away from the gate. Dozens, if not hundreds of soldiers were running past them to aid their kin in the fight. The citizens had already fled into the deeper halls, the horn and bells ringing alerting them of the attack. The steady thrumming of the dragon’s wings grew ever stronger, and quite a few dwarves had their hands pressed over their ears to protect them against the assaulting pressure waves.
Thorin, Dwalin and the guard had barely made it across the grand entry hall when the earth shook, almost making them tumble to the ground. For a moment, there was silence, apart from the ever ringing bells. Thorin looked back to the gates which were now shrouded in a giant shadow. His throat was dry and his breath sped up as he saw glints of green and gold completely covering the gate, blocking out the sky.
Then, the very air seemed to rumble as the dragon spoke.
"I bring an offer. Send out your king, if he is dwarf enough.“