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Summary
“It would be a fair share of Thrors horde, your Grace," Gandalf nodded sincerely, nudging Thorin shut when he grunted his displeasure at the prospect. "Lord Balin here has drawn up the contract -"
"Five percent of the horde seems rather miniscule considering the Crown Prince will be taking a large part of my army to almost certain death, facing a Firedrake!" The Maharajah of Rhun-Agar waved his arms dismissively. "I do not expect most of my men to return. And you would be marrying one of my own daughters!"
What a mess he was in. Thorin needed an army, since Dain refused to help. And according to his own grandfathers law, he would need a bride and an heir in order to rule as true King under the Mountain. And he would be damned if he reclaimed Erebor only to require a bunch of self appointed noble-dwarves as his council!
This was Gandalf’s solution, and this army would certainly be precisely what he needed.
Now all he had to do was marry the daughter of the King of Rhun-Agar, stick a baby in her, slay a dragon and kill the the orc filth chasing after him.Easy right…?