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A glimpse into Smaug's early life. Rated PG for mild draconic violence.
His mother's fire-glow cooled and faded as she died. The emerald scales dulled to grey – a distant traveller might mistake her for a mound of rock – and from inside the cave the one who had defeated her roared in triumph as he beheld his newly won hoard.
His sister tipped back her head and keened to the stars. He hissed a warning, and when she did not stop he caught her neck between his jaws and bit down. Cold blood flowed into his mouth as her life, too, dripped away – but no matter. Fearg was weak and foolish. He had no time for such as her.
He turned to the mouth of his old cave-den and let a low rumble build in his throat.
One day, usurper, I will come back. I will snap off your wings and bite off your legs and leave you for the crows to consume – and then I will amass such a hoard that the world will come to fight over it. Ah, but none shall defeat Smaug the Magnificent; I shall wear my rocks and jewels in my belly like armour, and no thief will ever again take from me what is mine!
He rustled his wings, as yet untried, testing the breeze and the feel of the air. It was a warm night and a clear one. His rumble built to a growl of pleasure; he unfurled, marvelling at the beauty of the moonlight on the golden membrane, and stared over the edge of the cliff.
Time to learn to fly.
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