Work Text:
”You seem familiar with my name, but I don’t remember smelling your kind before…” It was strange indeed, this little creature having wandered right into the middle of his kingdom, apparently unarmed and alone. Only the curiousity over the situation had kept Smaug from turning the intruder into a crispy snack so far. Well, curiousity and the slight pleasure he had drawn from hearing all the terrified praise the little thief had to offer. But the dragon had to admit to himself, this unknown miniature person confused him – and Smaug didn’t like to be confused. For now, though, he decided to rely on politeness rather than threats. “Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask?”
“I… I come from under the hill.”
“Underhill?” The creature kept himself steady enough, but to Smaug’s sharp nostrils he reeked of fear, as he well should have. But that was not the only familiar scent coming from the thief. There was another one that brought Smaug pleasant memories of good meals and conquered gold… Dwarves. The thief was in league with those jewel-hungry peasants. It was no surprise really, Smaug had heard tidings of their ridiculous ambitions and “taking back their kingdom”. Fools! And what exactly were they hoping to accomplish by sending this bite-sized sneak in their stead?
“And under hills and over hills my path has led! And through the air! I am he who walks unseen.”
More avoidance. As if that would throw Smaug off. “Impressive. What else do you claim to be?” There was something more though, some very specific scent that he could almost place, but not quite. He went closer, almost touching the thief with the tip of his snout (the smell of fear grew yet more intense), and tried to locate the familiar scent from his vast memory.
“I-I am… Luck-Wearer. Riddle-Maker.”
Aliases. Obviously he had been told not to give his real name to a dragon. Very wise – but if the thief thought he could outsmart Smaug, he was sorely mistaken. “Lovely titles. Go on.” That scent though, something about it irritated him…
“…Barrel-Rider.”
Smaug’s eyes flashed, and he raised his head again. “Barrels? Now that is interesting!” Barrels meant the river, and Elves, and Lake-Town. So the Dwarves were in accomplice with the sorry descendants of the people of Dale. Miserable water-paddlers, why wouldn’t they just go and drown? Building their shaky village in the middle of a lake, as if that would save them from the fire if Smaug should choose to spit it at them. Their houses were still made of wood, and with water all around, there would be no place to run. Imbeciles. Annoyed, Smaug decided that it was about time to stop playing with the thief. “And what about your little Dwarf friends? Where are they hiding?” The sheer terror on the creature’s face was extremely gratifying.
“D…Dwarves? No. No, no Dwarves here, you got that all wrong.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Barrel-Rider!” He would dare to keep lying? Rather daring, Smaug had to give him that, although he could smell the nervous sweat breaking all over the thief’s body. “They sent you in here to do their dirty work, while they skulk about outside!” Sweat? Yes, his clothes had stank of sweat already when he had entered the treasury, but it was older and with a different twist to it. It took Smaug a moment, but he was no fool. It was sweat borne of excitement and fornication. Sex, that’s what he smelled of, and the scent he had not been able to place before was that of a person. A Dwarf.
“Truly, you are mistaken, O Smaug, Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities.”
“You have nice manners, for a thief and a LIAR. I know the smell and taste of Dwarf, no one better!” And especially that certain Dwarf. Thorin, son of Thrain. The would-be King Under the Mountain. The fool who was now nicknamed “Oakenshield”. This little thief was his lover. “It is the gold! They are drawn to treasure like flies to dead flesh… Did you think I did not know this day would come? That a pack of canting Dwarves would come crawling back to the mountain?”
Growing angrier by the minute, Smaug followed the sprinting thief, knocking down a pillar or two on the way. A lover of the Dwarf princeling, of all things! It was so obvious now that he recognized the smell. The thief was drenched in it, Smaug could almost see him grinding against the Dwarf’s body in some dark corner in Lake-Town. Well, incinerating the Barrel-Rider would be that much more fun now that he knew it would devastate his enemy. He wanted the thief to be aware of it too. “It’s Oakenshield, that filthy Dwarfish usurper! He sent you in here for the Arkenstone, didn’t he?”
“No! No, no, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
The panic in the thief’s voice when hearing his lover’s name was terribly amusing. He loved the Dwarf, then, enough to die for him. This should be entertaining. Smaug’s large mouth curled up with a victorious grin, the like of which he had not worn since the day he claimed the Mountain. Thorin Oakenshield, so high and mighty, so full of his petty rage and vengeance, and yet he had given himself to a silly, helpless creature like this. “Don’t bother denying it!” This was, without a doubt, the funniest thing Smaug had heard in centuries.