A whisper began in Middle Earth; of treasure, wealth and precious things. It flew on the wind and soared through the sky until it landed on a Fire Drake's ear. It told him many secret things, but all he heard were the words 'gold' and 'Erebor'. He did not waver indecisively, but took the sky swiftly. He had heard a call, malevolent and sweet, and he would answer it. Each beat of his wings was a declaration of war, each inch he travelled south the battle drew closer.
Smaug was coming, and he brought no mercy with him. His home in the North had been long forgotten, he had no need of it anymore.
A hurricane was what came first; the sound of wing beats carried on a hot swept through Dale. Foreboding followed, and realisation, for all knew what these noises meant. Swiftly came fear, but horror came swifter. Most hardened their hearts and rallied, but some stood by in bemused terror. The young, the old, the cowardly and weak – what chance had these against an inferno's ire?
Some had said it was not the strength of the living that would save them, but a skillfully guided arrow unique in both shade and make. A black arrow launched from a dwarvish Wind-lance, they said. It would save them.
They were wrong, of course.
By the time Smaug's onslaught had begun it was finished — over in brief but dazzling display of fire and fury. Dale fell, its knees cut out from underneath it, a heartless and cruel afterthought…and nothing more. For it was not Dale the whisper had spoken of, but the mountain. Yet he did not pass the opportunity when presented before him, did not stay his fire for innocents...for what good was power without fear? And so, unflinching and unstoppable in his cold intent, he invaded Erebor against the backdrop of a burning city. The screams of the dying were his fanfare, his entry was bathed in blood and fire, and to his prize he hastened. Easy, so easy; the dwarves were nothing beneath his feet and fingers, he barely felt their soft swords as he made his way through the mountain to the gold – his gold.
The dark thrumming call from the great cavern was now answered, its true master now arrived. He cared not what the dwarves did now; he would neither pursue those who ran, nor attack those who might remain. They were nothing to him and always had been. But no fool was he; Smaug knew that one day the dwarves would return, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness or the hope that the passage of time might have turned the tables in their favour. And on that day, they would find nothing but death.
But for now, he would revel in his victory, however effortless it had been. The ease of which one takes what they want hardly matters – more so the shame of those defeated! And shamed the dwarves of Erebor were, the line of Durin was disgraced and left in despair. The gold churned as he, Smaug, rejoiced; a turbulent sea of golden light in a dark and fallen mountain.
The king under the mountain was as good as dead, where was his throne and crown? He had taken them, and his people had been his victory feast.
No…there was nothing left but desolation for Durin's Folk.