On the high terrace of Rivendell.
"Gandalf," Keith spoke, breaking the silence as the Wizard turned. His tone was breezy, almost casual. "You were so lost in your thoughts you didn't even notice me arrive. That's a dangerous habit for a Wise Man."
"Perhaps so," Gandalf replied with a faint, weary smile. He sat at the stone table, setting his pipe aside. "I assume you have a fair idea of what occupies my mind."
"Let me guess," Keith said, his squirrel-eyes glinting. "You're wondering what to do with your little parade of Dwarves."
"And do you have a suggestion?" Gandalf asked, his curiosity genuinely piqued. It was a surreal sight: the Grey Wizard and the Sovereign of Fire, conversing like old colleagues at a roadside inn.
"I do, actually," Keith replied. "I suggest the expedition continues."
"Oh?" Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "And if they continue, what exactly awaits Thorin Oakenshield at the end of the road?"
"Much of what you originally intended," Keith said simply. "Thorin can have his Arkenstone. He can use it to unite the seven houses of the Dwarves. The only difference is that he can forget about the Mountain. That is mine."
Gandalf stared at the squirrel, stunned.
"Are you saying... you are willing to return the Arkenstone?" he asked, unable to believe his ears. He had spent the last hour mentally preparing to haggle, to offer concessions and gold just to get that one jewel back so he could send Thorin home with his pride intact.
He hadn't expected the dragon to simply offer it up.
"I dislike the word 'return'," Keith corrected him. "In this world, it's survival of the fittest. I defeated the Dwarves; I won Erebor. Everything within its halls belongs to me by right of conquest."
Gandalf didn't argue the point—mostly because, in the harsh logic of Middle-earth history, the dragon was right.
"Back to your question," Keith continued. "I don't care for that shiny rock. When you arrive at my gates, I am prepared to gift it to Thorin."
"Truly?" Gandalf pressed, desperate for confirmation. This would solve his diplomatic nightmare in one stroke.
"Truly," Keith nodded.
Gandalf let out a long, silent sigh of relief. He sat in silence for a moment, reigniting his pipe and taking a slow pull. "Why? If my observations are correct, you hold a deep-seated dislike for Thorin Oakenshield."
Keith let out a chattering chuckle. "Your observations are spot on. I find the current Thorin to be a singularly tiresome, arrogant, and ill-mannered fool. I hope the rest of this journey teaches him some much-needed humility."
"Let me be blunt: when you reach the Mountain, I will give him the stone. Let him have his wish; let him try to unite his scattered people. But hear this, Mithrandir—if he remains as foolish and arrogant as he is now, I can take back what I have given. No one in this world could stop me."
Gandalf's brow furrowed. The arrogance of the statement bristled against his spirit. "You have a high opinion of your own power. Do you truly believe the world is so empty of strength?"
Keith raised a tiny paw and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "If I understand correctly, a single dragon like me is already enough to give the White Council a migraine. But what if there were two?"
Thump.
Gandalf's heart skipped a beat. His expression shifted from weariness to a cold, sharp alertness. "What is the meaning of that?"
He knew what it meant. He just didn't want to believe it.
Keith grinned. "Gandalf, you are a Wise Man. You know exactly what it means."
"But... how? It is impossible!" Gandalf gasped.
One Smaug was a calamity. Two dragons of such power? If that were true, who was the greater threat to Middle-earth? Was it Sauron, or was it the drakes of the North? Gandalf's mind felt like it was spinning in a vortex of shifting shadows.
Suddenly, a realization clicked into place. Keith's decree of a "Dragon Kingdom" wasn't a mad whim. It was built on a foundation the Council hadn't even suspected. Everyone assumed a lone dragon couldn't hold a kingdom; no one had accounted for a dynasty.
And then, the second realization—the true motive behind Keith's "friendship" with Galadriel—became clear.
He isn't just looking for peace, Gandalf realized, a chill running down his spine. He's looking for legitimacy.
Keith wanted to replace the Elves as the stewards of the North. He wanted the super-power status that the Eldar were slowly losing as they sailed into the West.
The implications were too massive to hold back. Gandalf looked the squirrel in the eye. "You wish to supplant the Elves? You seek to become the new Power in Middle-earth?"
"You really are as sharp as they say, Mithrandir. That is indeed the goal," Keith admitted freely. "But don't be so quick to look at me with dread. As I told the Lady, rule through blood and fire is a dead end. I am not Sauron. I have no interest in being a Dark Lord."
"..." Gandalf was speechless.
Which was worse? Sauron, whose evil was at least understandable in its malice? Or a dragon who spoke of "nuance" and "legitimacy" while holding the power to burn nations? For a fleeting, absurd second, Gandalf wondered if the Necromancer might actually be the lesser of two evils.
No. Absolutely not, he corrected himself. But the fear remained. He had to stop this. He had to find a way to contain the dragon's ambition without triggering a war that would destroy the North.
"Forgive me if I cannot take you at your word," Gandalf said quietly. He wouldn't pick a fight here in the gardens, but the lines were drawn.
"A pity," Keith remarked. "There's a saying among my... people: 'Time reveals the heart.' I hope that by the time you reach my gates next year, you'll see I'm not your enemy."
With a flick of his tail, the squirrel turned and vanished into the trees.
Gandalf didn't move for a long time. He smoked until the bowl was ash, then rose to find Galadriel. This was beyond his pay grade. Only the Lady of the Wood could oversee a board this complex. He wouldn't even tell Elrond or Saruman—especially not Saruman—until she had weighed in.
In Galadriel's private chambers.
Gandalf recounted the conversation in a single, urgent breath. Galadriel listened with a deep scowl, her eyes reflecting an ancient, weary light.
"I suspected as much," she whispered. "A dragon does not build a 'kingdom' for the sake of gold alone. He seeks the throne of the world."
"But the second dragon... Mithrandir, that should be impossible. Dragons were the twisted creations of Morgoth's shadow. The fire was extinguished ages ago. Smaug should be the last."
Galadriel was genuinely shaken. Morgoth was gone, his spirit cast into the Void. Sauron was a shadow without the power of creation. Where could a second dragon have come from?