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T.A. 2591. Erebor, the Kingdom under the Mountain, newly re-established.
Nár, son of Hár, stood uneasily at the side of the King of Durin’s Folk. The King was young, scarcely older than Nár himself—not even yet fifty! But the dwarves he had brought with him to Erebor hailed him as their ruler, and he bore the Arkenstone, which Nár’s own ancestor Onar had delved from the mines deep below their feet alongside his brother An.
But this King Thrór knew nothing of Erebor, the Kingdom under the Mountain. He had arrived in the dying days of autumn, on the eve of Durin’s Day, winter biting the heels of his people as they trudged from their fallen kingdom in the Grey Mountains. Dragons, they said, had slain King Dáin, and driven them out into the cold. And now they returned to Erebor, claiming it as their own.
But it was not Thrór, nor Dáin his father, nor Grór his brother who ruled Erebor: it was Hár Onarsson, a miner like his ancestor, who presided over those few dwarves who had not abandoned the Lonely Mountain centuries ago. The King of Durin’s Folk this Thrór may be—but who had made Erebor great, and who had kept it so? Thrór’s ancestor Thorin had left for those selfsame dragon-infested mountains, taking most of Durin’s Folk with him. Only now that the dragons came for them, they thought they could return, as if nothing had happened since Thorin’s desertion.
Yet much had happened. And the line of Onar had kept Erebor strong, no matter that An had foolishly given the Arkenstone to King Thráin so long ago. (There was a reason that Onar’s sons were made leaders, and not An’s, for all Onar was the younger brother.)
And now Hár and Nár were supposed to bow to Thrór as King under the Mountain, and step aside! Well, they were sons of Onar, not of Durin. They would not bend quietly to this usurper, this son of wanderers, no matter if he held the Arkenstone or no.
Hár was no fool. He knew Thrór commanded respect and awe, despite his youth, and had charmed many, even some of those who knew Erebor from birth. And so he tasked his son, Thrór’s agemate: befriend the King. Show him Erebor’s worth. Learn his weaknesses—and then, when the time is right, demand the respect they were due, and the Arkenstone as their birthright.
But how? Nár had wondered. But his father only smiled.
Do your part, Hár had said, and I shall do mine.
Three months later, Nár had done his part. He had offered his friendship and knowledge to the King, and Thrór, overwhelmed and exhausted from his long, harrowing journey, and still consumed by grief at the deaths of his father and his brother Frór, had accepted him gratefully.
It was too easy. And that was the problem: the ease. It was easy to befriend Thrór, because he was a good friend. He was open, he was honest, and he was so glad of Nár’s goodwill-that-was-not that he showered him in gifts and praises. Nár ate at his table, flirted with his cousins, and wore his gifts of gold and jewels. He was immensely likeable, and treated Nár with no guile whatsoever.
And in return, Nár was to betray him!
His father would make his move soon, very soon. Already, Hár spoke secretly with Prince Grór, the King’s brother, and Nár knew Grór’s stubbornness bothered Thrór. For Grór was not satisfied here in Erebor, and desired to move on, to find new lands—he remained only out of love for his brother. This, Nár had discovered, and told his father, and he watched now as Hár exploited the rift between the brothers, the only two remaining of their family.
Nár himself had but one sister, Hillevi, and to think of her estranged—it broke his heart. Always he had followed his father’s commands, but now, he began to wonder: would Onar truly be proud to see his descendants so cunning and manipulative? Ought he to instead be as An was, and offer loyalty to the King?
Now Nár stood at Thrór’s side, a friend and companion, and welcomed diplomats from the west into the Halls of Erebor. They had not received such visitors since King Thráin’s time, and Hár was beside himself with the possibilities for trade. But Hár was no longer the leader here, and the delegation from Belegost wanted nothing to do with a lowly miner, not when the King had at last returned.
“I am Hornbori, representative of King Dolgthrasir of Belegost, the City that Never Rains!” declared the Firebeard, though his beard was white and fraying.
“It rains not beneath our halls, either,” said Borin, the King’s uncle and his closest counselor.
Hornbori scowled. “Long has our city stood! Since before the world changed; before the sea swallowed up the West; before all this, we delved our halls, and traded with the elven-kings of old.”
“Welcome, Hornbori, to Erebor,” King Thrór said, cutting him off before he could brag about the markets and pubs and water features beneath the Blue Mountains. Behind Hornbori, his two attendants shuffled, muttering to one another, and Nár coughed to cover a laugh as they continued their lord’s spiel beneath their breath. It seemed Hornbori was a walking advertisement for Belegost.
“What brings you to our Kingdom beneath the Mountain?” asked Thrór. “We are glad to welcome you, cousins from the West, but why have you made such a long journey to our halls?”
“King Dolgthrasir is pleased to hear of Erebor’s renewal,” Hornbori said. “We hope we are the first of the Seven Clans to congratulate you on your successful journey from the Grey Mountains, and offer our support as you continue to restore the Lonely Mountain to greatness!”
Ah—a trade offer. Nár hummed softly as Hornbori continued, outlining what Belegost was willing to offer. It was very generous, he thought—until he named the price.
At this, Borin scoffed, Grór hissed, and Thrór laughed aloud. Nár shifted uneasily: it was outrageous! And the trade discounts he was demanding—a farce!
“You ask too much, Hornbori,” Thrór warned. “We may be newly returned to Erebor, but our lineage is ancient. I am the heir of Durin the Deathless, and you cannot extort me!”
Now Hornbori blustered and protested, but his two retainers whispered to him until he retreated.
“Apologies, Majesty, for our lord’s boldness,” said one, and the other nodded vigorously.
“Return with humility, or not at all,” Thrór ordered, and Hornbori departed with a huff, his retainers hurrying to catch up to him.
When they were gone, Thrór sighed, leaning back in his throne and rubbing his forehead. “I could have handled that better,” he admitted.
“Nonsense!” said Borin. “He needed to see your strength!”
But Thrór ignored his uncle, looking instead to Nár. “Do you think I did right?”
Nár swallowed. Before he could answer, Grór cut in: “Absolutely not!” he cried. “If we are to turn this mountain into a place worth living, we need aid!”
Nár bristled. “This is a place worth living,” he said. “And King Thrór knows it! That is why we cannot allow ourselves to be extorted like this!”
“Peace, peace,” Thrór said wearily. “Grór, brother, I know how your heart. I will consider your words. Uncle—thank you for your unwavering support. And Nár, my friend...”
He smiled, and Nár felt his heart wilt.
“Let us have a drink together,” he said, nodding to dismiss the others.
Thrór led him back to his private meeting chamber, and Nár was glad to hide his guilty face in a cup of ale. They drank in silence for a few moments, and then, Thrór began to speak.
“How is your father?” he asked—and Nár simply could not take it any more.
“Oh, he’s dreadful,” he blurted out; “probably scheming with Prince Grór as we speak!”
Thrór leaned back, startled. “What?” he said, astonished. “Nár, I have never heard you speak ill of your father before! And what do you mean about Grór?”
Nár trembled, but once he said one word, he couldn’t stop. “I love my father, I do, Sire, but—but the only reason I have been your friend since you arrived, is—is because he told me to get close to you, and learn your weaknesses, so that...that he would not be usurped as Erebor’s leader! And—at first I was happy to obey him; he is my father, and I have never questioned his intentions, but—you’re not the big-headed fool he said you’d be, you’re kind and wise for your age, and a good friend, and—and he’s been talking to Grór, behind your back, about taking folks to the Iron Hills o’er the horizon, and, and—”
“Nár!” Thrór said, laying a hand on his. “Stop, stop. Slow down. You mean—you...are not my friend?”
Nár burst into tears. “I am, I am, your Majesty, but—”
“How many times have I told you just to call me Thrór?” he asked. “If you are my friend, Nár, then let’s work together on this.”
“But—it’s all but treason, Sire—I mean, Thrór,” Nár blubbered.
“Not yet,” Thrór said. “You told me, did you not? And yes, I know Grór wants to leave. That’s no secret. But you said...Hár believes I am usurping him?”
And then Nár told him everything: about how Erebor was before he came; about An and Onar discovering the Arkenstone and An giving it to King Thráin, and how Onar’s line held a grudge ever since; about the lean years when King Thorin left, and only a handful of dwarves remained; about how Hár had worked so hard to provide for his people, and how he felt betrayed by a King claiming Erebor as his own.
When he was done, Thrór shook his head. “I never intended to hurt your father,” he said. “But he is a Longbeard, as are we all, and he is my subject, whether he likes it or not. I must do better by him. Would he wish to be a lord? I do respect him, and you, my friend.”
“I do not know if that would appease him,” Nár admitted. Hár was stubborn, and once he had set his mind to dislike Thrór, he would not be dissuaded. “But I know that you are a good king, and you have brought life back to this mountain. Even despite all my father did, we were so few before you arrived.”
In the end, Thrór summoned Grór and Hár to his chambers and asked for their side of the story. Grór’s patience was at its end, and the ensuing argument left Nár trembling: the Line of Durin were awful in their fury. At last Grór declared he was leaving, and taking anyone who would follow with him.
And as for Hár... Nár had been right in thinking he would be too proud and stubborn to bow to reason or appeasement. He refused the offered lordship, spat at Nár’s feet when he learned of his betrayal.
“Return the Arkenstone to Onar’s house, and then I will call you king,” Hár growled.
But Thrór would not give back the stone, and Nár did not blame him. Give Hár an inch, and he would take a mile. And so Hár did the unthinkable: he turned away from Erebor, the home he had built, and took his leave, traveling to the Iron Hills with Grór.
Nár remained, and was honored to accept the lordship Thrór wished to give him. A month after Grór and Hár departed, Hornbori of Belegost returned (with two different dwarves as his retainers) with a much more acceptable trade offer, which this time Thrór accepted. And in time, Nár and Thrór grew even faster in their friendship—and became brothers, for Thrór wed Nár’s sister Hillevi, and Nár married Thrór’s cousin Bjarndís!
Their descendants were fast friends, and a century later, even Grór’s heart softened. He brought his son to the Lonely Mountain, reconciled with his brother, and relations between Erebor and the Iron Hills improved.
Many long years of happiness and prosperity followed, and though in the end, dragonfire would once more wreak havoc upon Thrór and his family, he would endure it with Nár by his side—until the very bittermost end.