While the valley of the Lonely Mountain hummed with the labor of Men and Elves, the legendary Company of Thorin Oakenshield had been on the road for the better part of a day.
For now, the atmosphere remained relatively harmonious, the weight of the journey not yet pressing down upon their spirits. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the group began searching for a place to make camp. They eventually settled on a flat ledge halfway up a mountain peak—a defensible position with a clear view of the surrounding wilderness.
"We shall make camp here," declared Thorin Oakenshield. Even without a crown or a people, he maintained the imperious bearing of a prince, issuing commands with an authority that brooked no argument. "Kili, Fili... see to the perimeter."
Thorin walked to the edge of the ledge, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared into the darkening East with a flinty gaze. In many ways, Thorin was a man possessed—a prince of a fallen kingdom, fueled by a mixture of righteous heritage and a simmering, dangerous pride. Unlike the tragic figures of other legends who never find their miracle, Thorin's destiny was already in motion.
Night fell, thick and heavy.
From the shadows of the distant valley, a series of high-pitched, guttural howls shattered the silence. Bilbo Baggins, huddled by the fire, jumped at the sound. "What was that?"
"Orcs," one of the Dwarves grunted.
"Orcs? And what, precisely, are they?" Bilbo asked, his voice trembling.
The question opened a floodgate of dark history. The Dwarves began to recount the bloody chronicles of the War of the Orcs and Dwarves, and the horrific slaughter within the ancient halls of Moria. By the firelight, Bilbo listened with a mounting sense of dread, while Thorin sat in stony silence, his very presence radiating a cold, smoldering fury.
Deep beneath the Lonely Mountain.
[Gandalf the Grey and the Expeditionary Company have begun their journey.]
[The Prophecy is in motion. It cannot be ignored.]
Keith, who had been resting after another hearty meal, opened his amber eyes as the notification flickered.
He had known this moment was coming since he first arrived in this world, yet he had not fully decided how to play his hand. One thing, however, was absolute:
Return the Mountain to the Dwarves? Surrender his hoard? Give up his sovereign kingdom?
Preposterous.
It was time to formulate a counter-strategy. Should he intercept them?
The Orcs were likely already hunting the Company; if he intervened, he risked complicating things. He had no desire to kill Gandalf or Bilbo—in fact, he hoped to count them as "friends" of the Dragon Kingdom eventually. Besides, even as Smaug, killing a Wizard like Gandalf was no simple task, even if the Grey Pilgrim's power was currently constrained.
More importantly, Keith needed the Company to follow their original path. He needed Bilbo Baggins to find the One Ring. Given his gargantuan size, Keith could never squeeze into the goblin-tunnels or the lightless damp of Gollum's cave.
"Let the burglar do the heavy lifting," Keith rumbled to himself. He began to sketch the outlines of a plan—a way to let the quest proceed while ensuring the Mountain remained under his wing. There was time; the Dwarves were weeks away.
The news of the world travels slowly, but it eventually finds its mark.
The word that Smaug had declared a kingdom, and that the Elves of Mirkwood were actively assisting in the rebuilding of Dale and Erebor, finally reached the Iron Hills.
The Iron Hills was the most powerful of the seven remaining Dwarf-kingdoms, ruled by Thorin's cousin, Dáin Ironfoot. Dáin was a man of legendary temper, even by Dwarven standards.
Upon hearing the report, Dáin—who had been in the middle of a celebratory feast—roared with such fury that he smashed his tankard, spilling a vintage of ale that any other Dwarf would have died for.
"Those thrice-damned Elves! They dare to treat with the beast? They aid the thief of our halls?"
"I, Dáin, swear it—one day I shall march upon those woods and leave not a single leaf standing!"
Interestingly, Dáin's rage was directed almost entirely at Thranduil and the Elves rather than the dragon itself. To a Dwarf, a dragon was a natural disaster; an Elf's "betrayal," however, was a personal insult.
After several minutes of shouting that shook the pillars of his hall, Dáin finally subsided into a simmering scowl. A close advisor stepped forward. "Dáin, Thorin and his company have likely already begun their march. They cannot know how the Mountain has changed."
"Should we send word?"
Not long ago, Thorin had asked Dáin to join the quest. Dáin had refused, stating that Erebor belonged to Thorin's line and he had no interest in dying for another's throne.
Dáin sat in silence for a long moment, pouring himself another massive draught. His feelings were complicated. Since the fall of Erebor and Moria, the seven Dwarf-lords had enjoyed a certain freedom. They no longer paid tithes to a High King; they were masters of their own deeps. Dwarven greed was a powerful thing; many were secretly content to let the "Glory of Erebor" remain a memory if it meant keeping their own gold.
But blood was blood.
"Contact the other six Kings," Dáin commanded. "We must discuss this outrage—and more importantly, how to deal with that snake Thranduil. And send scouts. I want to know exactly what that lizard is doing in our halls."
Five days later, the Seven Kings of the Dwarves gathered in the Iron Hills. Being Dwarves, they spent the first few hours shouting over one another before finally reaching a consensus.
"Thorin is the heir of Durin. He must be told."
"And if he demands we march to war with him?"
The hall erupted into a fresh round of arguments.
Eventually, it was decided: the matter of joining the war would be tabled for later, but a messenger would be sent to find Thorin immediately.
"Now," Dáin growled, leaning over the stone table. "To the more pressing matter. Thranduil betrayed us an age ago, and now he desecrates Erebor by laboring for the drake. How do we punish the scoundrel?"
Another king, slightly more level-headed than Dáin, scratched his beard. "Dáin, if we march upon the Mirkwood, are we not effectively joining Thorin's war by default? The woods sit at the very feet of the Mountain."
Dáin froze, scratching his head in frustration. The logic was sound, and for a Dwarf, that was the most annoying thing of all.