With the arrival of the dwarven craftsmen, the construction project at Weathertop officially commenced. The dwarves demonstrated their professional expertise, meticulously surveying the terrain from the mountaintop to the base, leaving no area unchecked, and continuously refining their blueprints.
"We plan to build a grand castle covering the entire mountaintop, centered around Amon Sûl..." Balin unfurled a complete design blueprint and pointed at it as he spoke. "In addition, I propose excavating underground tunnels within the mountain itself, serving as a rear entrance leading directly from the castle to the marshland at the foot. Then, we can dig out the marsh to form a lake encircling Weathertop."
"This will not only create a natural barrier but also provide an escape route. If the front gate is ever blocked, we can retreat through the underground passage to the lakeside dock and depart by boat."
Luke nodded repeatedly as he listened to Balin's suggestions.
Balin's design aligned perfectly with his own vision—now, it resembled the Hogwarts Castle from his memories even more. "Then let's proceed according to your plan, Balin," Luke decided, slapping the table. "I trust your judgment!"
Balin grinned in response, thumping his chest in assurance. "I'll build you the most magnificent castle!"
Luke was equally excited, though his mind was already calculating how to squeeze more gold out of that miserly dragon. After all, while the dwarves had agreed to help construct the castle, their labor wasn't free. Building materials, tools, and other necessities would incur massive costs—not to mention the dwarves' food and, especially, their liquor expenses, which would be no small burden.
"Augh! Master, you might as well kill me now!" In the cellar, Smaug let out a wail so mournful it sounded as if his parents had died twice over. He sprawled his massive body over the treasure hoard like a dead pig, refusing to budge. "The treasure is already pitifully small, and now you want to spend it on building a castle?! How much will even be left after this?! You promised me a mountain of gold, and instead of seeing it grow, I have to watch my coins vanish! Woe is me!"
His resentful glare and pitiful cries might have made an outsider think Luke had committed some unspeakable cruelty against him.
Luke rolled his eyes and kicked him irritably. "Move!"
Smaug clung stubbornly to the treasure, not even twitching—even using his tail to subtly sweep more coins beneath his body.
Luke was so exasperated he almost laughed. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled out the divine spear Aeglos from his spatial bag and poked threateningly at the dragon.
Feeling the sharp sting of the spearpoint, Smaug stiffened before grudgingly shifting half his body aside, grumbling all the while.
Expressionless, Luke put away the spear and began scooping gold into his spatial bag. Watching his wealth disappear before his eyes, Smaug felt as though his heart was bleeding.
"Master, stop! I'll work for you! Just leave me some gold!"
Luke paused, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "You'll work for me?"
"Yes! I'll help build the castle! I can haul massive stones from afar, flatten hills with my tail, and melt steel with my dragonfire—I'm far more useful than those greedy dwarves!"
To save his gold, Smaug was willing to go all out.
And so, in the days that followed, the construction crew at Weathertop gained a new member—a mighty dragon.
The castle required sturdy stone. The dwarves found suitable granite for construction in the Weather Hills north of Weathertop. They quarried massive blocks, piled them up, and left the aerial transport to Smaug, who carried them to the mountaintop. The dwarves then assembled them like building blocks.
Smaug even flew thousands of miles to the Trollshaws, uprooting ancient, hardy trees to serve as construction materials. Every day, his busy figure could be seen laboring away.
With the dragon's assistance, the efficiency and speed of the castle's construction skyrocketed. According to Balin's estimates, the original construction timeline of over a year had been shortened to just three months. Even the most costly expenses—stone and timber—were resolved by Smaug's efforts. The biggest expenditure now was the liquor bill for a thousand dwarven craftsmen: The Prancing Pony's ale supply was nearly monopolized, and its proprietor, couldn't stop grinning.
As a result, Smaug's gaze toward the dwarves grew increasingly hostile...
Now, every penny the dwarves spent was being deducted from his hoard! If not for his master's strict prohibition, Smaug would have gladly gobbled up these drunken dwarves in one bite. Just as his glare grew increasingly undisguised, Luke smacked him hard on the head with his staff, instantly clearing the dragon's mind—and the dwarves finally breathed a sigh of relief. Working alongside a dragon was far too stressful; if this continued, they might have gone on strike!
The village chief of Amon Sul, had once offered to build Luke's castle for free, but Luke refused.
Despite Smaug's constant whining about his dwindling gold, the truth was that even a tenth of the Lonely Mountain's treasure was enough to construct countless castles. So Luke was far from short on funds and had no need for the villagers' unpaid labor. He merely hired them to prepare daily meals for the thousand dwarven craftsmen.
After entrusting all affairs to Chief Luke and Edward, Luke retreated alone to the seventh-floor meditation chamber, where he spent his days in deep thought. Outside, the construction site buzzed with activity, but no sound reached the chamber. Here, Luke either meditated, studied magic, or practiced alchemy.
Then one day, the innkeeper of the Prancing Pony brought him good news: He had found a seven-year-old rooster.
Luke's spirits lifted, and he immediately Flooed to the inn.
"Where's the rooster?"
The innkeeper, greeted Luke with deep respect and enthusiasm—after all, this was his best customer! Bowing slightly, he said, "Lord Luke, rest assured, the rooster is in perfect health. I'll fetch it for you right away!"
With that, he hurried to the backyard and returned with a cage, placing it on the table. Inside was a magnificent rooster—its comb bright red, neck feathers gleaming with a metallic sheen, body robust, and tail feathers fanned out like a colorful display. Its beak was sharp, and its claws looked formidable.
Luke leaned in for a closer inspection.
Afraid Luke might doubt him, Butterbur quickly assured him, "Lord Luke, I swear this rooster is truly seven years old! I bought it from an elderly Hobbit in the Shire—he kept it as a pet for seven whole years! I wouldn't dare deceive you!"
Luke remained noncommittal but pointed his wand at the rooster, casting a spell. A beam of white light struck the bird, and after a brief shiver, a glowing "7" appeared above its comb.
Confirmed—this rooster was indeed seven years old.
Luke smiled in satisfaction.
Ordinary roosters rarely lived to seven years, and those that did would be frail, with dull and sparse feathers. But this one had clearly been well cared for—even at seven, it remained strong, its plumage vibrant and lustrous.
Having secured the rooster, Luke then asked, "What about the other materials I requested?"
Butterbur replied, "I've gathered a batch already, but some of the items you need are… quite unusual. It's taking time to collect them all."
"That's fine. Give me what you have now, and keep gathering the rest at your own pace," Luke said.
"Please follow me, my lord. The items are rather… numerous and unsettling, so I stored them in the cellar," the innkeeper explained, a hint of unease in his voice.
Luke's requested ingredients were bizarre and macabre—if not for the generous pay and Luke's reputation, Butterbur would never have agreed to procure them.
The two descended into the cellar, where Luke's potion ingredients were stored:
A crocodile heart preserved in a large glass jar.
Bat hearts, eel eyes, frog brains, salamander spleens, pufferfish eyes, and other grotesque specimens.
No wonder Butterbur had hidden them away—if any guests saw these, they'd likely flee the inn in terror.
Luke, however, was pleased. With a wave of his wand, he stored everything in his spatial bag, then turned to the innkeeper.
"Keep gathering more for me. Don't worry about overstocking—send whatever you find to Weathertop, and you'll be well compensated."
He handed Butterbur a hefty pouch.
"A thousand gold coins. Will that suffice?"
"More than enough! Thank you, my lord!" The innkeeper beamed. "I'll make sure to collect even more materials for you!"
"Such a generous employer—what does it matter if the materials are strange? He must complete the employer's task."
Bid farewell by the innkeeper, Luke returned to Weathertop with the rooster and the potion ingredients. After instructing Edward to take care of the rooster, Luke went up to the eighth floor. With a wave of his wand, he conjured potion storage cabinets on three walls, then meticulously sorted and stored the ingredients. Another flick of his wand lowered the room's temperature. He then took out all the necessary potion-making tools, including cauldrons. Finally, he approached the door, tapped it lightly, and a golden plaque engraved with "Potion Room" appeared on its surface.
Once everything was set up, Luke left the potion room and sought out the dragon Smaug. With another wave of his wand, a massive syringe materialized. He smiled gently at the dragon and said, "Come, Smaug, I just need to draw a little blood."
Smaug, seeing Luke's gentle smile and that enormous needle, instinctively shuddered. "M-master, can I refuse?"
"No!" Luke replied without hesitation. "Don't be afraid. It's just a tiny bit of blood—it won't affect you at all."
Under the irresistible command, Smaug could only watch helplessly as Luke approached his chest, pressing the needle into the scale-less gap and drawing out a large tube of dragon blood. To a creature of Smaug's size, the syringe was no more painful than a mosquito bite, but the psychological trauma was real. And so, Middle-earth's first needle-phobic dragon was born. From then on, whenever his master smiled and took out that syringe, it became Smaug's recurring nightmare.
The dragon's blood was as scalding as magma—Luke didn't dare touch the syringe directly and instead used a Levitation Charm to transfer the blood into a heat-resistant glass vial, sealing it tightly. Then, carrying the harvested dragon blood, he returned to the potion room. This time, he intended to brew an extremely obscure and complex potion.