The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a pale golden hue over the shores where the survivors of Laketown had first made landfall. The scene had once been one of chaos and desperation as the townspeople fled from Smaug's fiery wrath. Now, however, the atmosphere had shifted—quiet, almost reverent—yet charged with a tension that vibrated in the air. Something ancient had come to these shores, and even those unfamiliar with the Dracagoth could feel their power.
Hundreds of them filled the land, their presence undeniable. Dragons, with scales that shimmered in hues of deep obsidian and burnished bronze, lined the coast. Their massive wings stretched and folded, some resting upon the rocky outcrops while others hovered near the water's edge. These dragons, unlike Smaug, were not beasts of destruction but sentient, revered beings—creatures bound by blood and duty to (Y/n)'s people. Their deep, rumbling breaths sounded like distant thunder, a reminder of their ancient strength.
Between the dragons moved the soldiers of the Dracagoth, their armour dark and intricately etched with symbols of fire and flight, their presence a manifestation of a forgotten era. They had arrived not by foot, but by the sky itself—flown in on ships, enormous vessels carried by the dragons themselves, the very earth trembling as the beasts touched down. The dragons had ferried their kin across the lands with grace and precision, their bond with their riders evident in every coordinated movement.
The soldiers worked with unwavering focus, pulling the colossal body of Smaug from the cold waters of the lake. It was a monumental task, for Smaug's fallen form was a ruinous sight—his once-magnificent wings tattered, his gleaming scales dulled by death. The dragon lay half-submerged in the water, his massive frame tangled among the rocks and debris. The Dracagoth soldiers used ropes woven with ancient magic to lift his body, their dragons lending their strength as they carefully extracted Smaug from his watery grave. There was no joy in the task, no sense of victory, only the heavy burden of what had been lost.
(Y/n) stood atop a small ridge overlooking the scene, her dark cloak billowing around her as the wind tugged at her hair. Hades stood beside her, his presence as unwavering as hers. His black coat shimmered in the fading light, and his eyes, bright and intelligent, watched the proceedings with quiet intensity. The bond between them was as old as time itself—a partnership forged through countless battles and moments of peace.
Her gaze, however, was fixed on Smaug's lifeless body as it was dragged ashore. The sight of him, once a creature of unrivalled power and magnificence, now reduced to a cold, still mass of flesh and scales, stirred something deep inside her. A profound sadness, yes, but also anger—anger at the world, at the circumstances that had led to this moment, at the injustice of it all. She had been meant to protect him. She had been meant to stop this.
Beside her, the captain of the Dracagoth guard approached, his armour gleaming in the dim light. He knelt before her, bowing his head in respect, though his voice was steady and strong when he spoke.
"We are ready, my Queen," he said, his tone deferential but commanding. "We leave for Dracagoth when you command."
The title, Queen, still felt heavy on her shoulders. She had taken it upon herself out of duty, out of necessity, but it was a burden she carried with more difficulty than she liked to admit. Leading her people had been one thing, but now, with the weight of Smaug's death upon her heart, everything felt uncertain, fragile.
(Y/n)'s eyes remained fixed on the horizon for a moment longer, her mind racing with the possibilities that lay before her. She could feel the pull of her people, the need to return to Dracagoth, where the ancient ceremony would be performed for Smaug's soul, where his spirit would be honoured and given the peace he deserved. Her heart longed to be there, to be among her kin. And yet... war was coming. It was a storm building on the horizon, one that would not be stopped by walls or borders.
Her jaw tightened, and she turned to the captain, her voice colder than she intended. "War is coming to these lands," she said, her words clipped and filled with a quiet rage that simmered beneath the surface. "We leave immediately. We owe them no allegiance."
The captain's head lifted slightly, his eyes meeting hers. He knew what her words meant. The Dracagoth had always kept themselves separate from the conflicts of others, but (Y/n)'s tone left little doubt—this was not a retreat. It was a severing of ties. The men of Dale, the elves of Mirkwood, even the dwarves in their mountain—they were not her concern.
"As you command, my Queen," the captain said, his voice resolute.
(Y/n) watched as the soldiers continued their work, their movements swift and efficient. The body of Smaug was now fully out of the water, his massive form laid out on the shore like a fallen monument. The dragons of the Dracagoth stood sentinel, their eyes watching with a mournful silence, as if they too could sense the passing of one of their own.
But even as she watched, (Y/n) could not ignore the weight in her chest—the feeling that something was still unfinished. Smaug's death had not been the end of her journey; it had only been the beginning of something far greater, something darker. The mountain, the dwarves, the elves...Bilbo—none of them knew what was coming. War was inevitable, yes, but it was not the war they expected. It would not be just for gold or land. It would be for the survival of entire races, for the very soul of Middle-earth.
As she stood there, her eyes scanning the horizon, she thought of Legolas. Of his quiet strength, his steadfast loyalty. His words still echoed in her mind, the way he had tried to comfort her in her moment of grief. She had let herself be vulnerable with him—something she rarely allowed herself to do—and now, standing here on the edge of a battlefield that had not yet begun, she felt the sting of regret. Regret for allowing herself to be so exposed.
But also regret for not saying more.
How foolish, she thought, to ever believe that he might feel the same. How foolish to think that in the shadow of Tauriel, she could ever be more than a passing moment for him. And yet, the memory of his touch, of the way he had held her as she cried, was something she could not so easily forget.
Her heart was at war with itself, torn between duty and the faint, flickering hope of something more.
With a sharp inhale, (Y/n) forced the thoughts away, straightening her posture. She was not here for dreams of what might have been. She was here to lead her people, to prepare them for what was coming.
"Prepare the ships," she commanded, her voice steady and sure. "We return to Dracagoth before the night falls."
The captain bowed his head once more before turning to relay her orders. (Y/n) remained still, her eyes fixed on the distant mountains, knowing that whatever path she chose, there would be no turning back.
As the dragons stirred behind her, their wings stretching toward the darkening sky, (Y/n) knew that the time for mourning was over. The time for war had begun.
YOU ARE READING
Lonely Dragon {Legolas x Reader}
Fanfiction(Y/n) or The Lonely Dragon, a name that was known across Middle Earth. Feared....admired.....worshipped All she wanted was to be normal, but that wasn't the case. She was made to be a weapon of war, the spawn of Sauron himself. His plan B if the Rin...
