Long before his name was spoken with reverence in the halls of the Dwarves, before he became a king without a kingdom and reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield was simply a young dwarf. He had scarcely seen sixty winters-for a dwarf, not yet fully grown-yet there was already a gravity in his gray-blue eyes that others his age did not possess. While many young dwarves dreamed of exploring distant caverns or becoming masters of their craft, Thorin spent countless hours in the forges of Erebor. The ring of hammer against anvil was more familiar to him than any song. The Lonely Mountain was alive. Deep beneath its mighty peak, the blows of the smiths echoed through the halls. The wheels of the workshops turned without ceasing. Gem-cutters made crystals of every color blaze with light, and the ancient songs of the House of Durin resounded through the great chambers. Gold was everywhere-but to Thorin, it was not the greatest treasure. His family was. His grandfather, King Thrór, ruled Erebor with pride. His father, Thrain, was preparing for the day he would wear the crown. His younger brother, Frerin, followed Thorin everywhere, filled with admiration, while little Dís already believed her eldest brother to be the strongest dwarf in all the world. Thorin rarely smiled. But whenever his siblings were with him, even his solemn face could soften with warmth. In those days, he believed this life would last forever. He did not know that beyond the mountains, a shadow was already growing. A dragon whose greed was greater than any kingdom. And before many years had passed, Thorin would learn that even stone could break.