Smaug did not sleep. That was the first terror.
“What do you mean?” he breathed.
“You’re thinking too loud, burglar,” Thorin Oakenshield muttered beside him, his blue cloak tattered, his eyes fixed on the Lonely Mountain’s shadow across the water. “Save your fears for the mountain. Smaug does not care for your conscience.” El Hobbit 2- La desolacion de Smaug
Bilbo said nothing. He had seen the desolation already—not the scorched earth outside the Mountain’s front gate, but the desolation inside Thorin’s heart. The dragon-sickness was already awake in the dwarf-king’s voice. It whispered in every order, every sharp glance.
That night, they entered the hidden passage. The darkness was not empty. It had teeth. Bilbo felt them scraping against the walls of his mind as he crept alone down the tunnel, the ring now on his finger, the world turned to grey shadow. Smaug did not sleep
And somewhere, far to the south, in a tower of broken stone, nine black riders turned their hollow gazes toward the mountain and smiled. This story weaves canonical dread from The Hobbit with a darker, more ominous thread leading toward The Lord of the Rings . Would you like a sequel or a version focused on Bard or Tauriel?
It was not Smaug’s fire that would destroy them. He had seen the desolation already—not the scorched
“Well, thief,” the dragon’s voice rolled, slow as lava, rich as poisoned honey. “I smell you. Shire-rat. You have the stink of courage and stupidity in equal measure.”