Saruman's lips curled into a victorious smile as the frost-dragon's eyes clouded beneath his spell. For a fleeting moment, it seemed the mighty beast would yield.
But the triumph faded at once. Hrívemir's eyes blazed with fury, his will surging back to the surface. With a guttural roar, the dragon shattered the enchantment.
"You dare meddle with my mind? Foolish insect, you seek your own death!"
The cavern shook as Hrívemir thrashed within the ice, sending boulders of frozen stone crashing down. Then his jaws gaped wide, releasing a torrent of breath so cold it seemed to freeze the very air itself.
Saruman's face hardened. He raised his staff, summoning a radiant shield of light. The dragon's freezing gale struck it full on, coating the barrier with a thick crust of rime. Cracks spread across the shimmering wall of magic like glass under strain.
Knowing he could not withstand the onslaught, Saruman retreated, forcing his way out of the glacial fissure.
Hrívemir was not content to let his would-be master escape. With a roar that rolled like thunder, he tore himself free of his icy tomb. The mountain groaned, avalanches thundering down its slopes as the frost-dragon's colossal body erupted into the open air.
The creature's wings unfurled, vast sails of night and ice, each stroke birthing a storm. He was titanic, easily ten times the size of Smaug, a force of nature incarnate.
Saruman whirled from the chasm, summoning a Fellbeast in desperation. The terrified creature stooped low, and he leapt onto its back. Together they fled across the frozen north, the dragon's bellow shattering the silence behind them.
But Hrívemir's wrath was swift. His bulk belied no slowness; with a single beat of his wings, he soared after them. His jaws opened, and another tide of frozen death poured forth.
Saruman twisted, his staff blazing, a brilliant shield blooming around him. Much of the frost was deflected, but enough seeped through to strike his mount. The Fellbeast's wings froze mid-flight, crystals racing down its body. With a mournful cry, the beast seized up and tumbled earthward.
The wizard clung tight as they plummeted. At the last moment, he angled his staff, channeling magic to soften the fall. The Fellbeast struck a mountainside with a sickening crunch, its body shattered beyond saving. Saruman staggered clear, his robes torn and frosted, staff gripped tight.
Hrívemir descended in a storm of snow and wind, laughter rumbling from his chest like breaking ice.
"Where will you run now, little wizard? You and your pitiful beast will sate my hunger. Even bones make a fine snack."
The dragon dipped his head and, with a snap of his jaws, seized the dying Fellbeast. Its scream was cut short as Hrívemir devoured it in great gulps. His vast head turned back to Saruman, fangs glistening, breath a blizzard.
The dragon lunged, then halted abruptly, staggering. His wings faltered, his eyes swam unfocused.
"What? What trickery is this?" His voice rumbled, confused and enraged.
Saruman's expression shifted back to triumph, his voice sharp as winter steel.
"It is simple. I hid a gift within my mount. A poison, unlike any other, a single drop of Ungoliant's venom."
The circlet twisted and spread, reshaping itself until it fitted the dragon's immense skull. Black iron fused to scale and bone, and from it pulsed a cold shadow, seeping into Hrívemir's mind. The crown was no simple ornament, it bore the will of Sauron himself.
The dragon thrashed in resistance, but his ancient will was no match. Black mist flooded his eyes. At last he stilled, his spirit smothered beneath the Dark Lord's dominion. When he opened his jaws again, it was not his own voice that thundered forth, but Sauron's.
"Well done, Saruman. You have served me well. For this, I grant you a reward: return to me, and I shall permit you to forge a new Ring of Power in the fires of Orodruin."
Saruman's heart leapt at the promise. The fires of Mount Doom, raw flame from the world's core. With such a forge, his craft could surpass even the Ring he once devised. Though he longed to rival the One itself, he knew his limits. For now, this gift was more than enough.
Mounting the frost-dragon's neck, Saruman raised his staff high. With a beat of wings vast as thunderclouds, Hrívemir rose into the storm. His cry split the sky, summoning winter as he soared southward.
Snow and wind poured from his passage, cloaking the lands below in a breath of northern death. Over the Grey Mountains he flew, past the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills, skirting the shadowed eaves of Mirkwood. The dwarves felt the sky darken and the air sharpen with sudden frost, though they saw nothing above the clouds.
The Dwarves were unsettled, but with no clues to follow, they abandoned their search.
Only Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, and Galadriel, Lady of Lothlórien, lifted their gaze eastward, troubled. Though they could not see the cause, a shadow stirred faintly at the edge of their perception, and they frowned in silence.
Sylas, however, remained unaware of their unease.
He returned first to Isengard, ensuring Orthanc stood secure. The gryphons circling its heights and the three-headed hound set to guard its gates were rewarded for their vigilance.
From there, he journeyed into the hidden depths of the Misty Mountains, where, beyond cliffs and ravines, lay a concealed valley he had long prepared. It was there he had founded his dragon-breeding grounds.
The valley was wrapped in spells of concealment, barriers layered upon each other like veils. From above or outside, it appeared no more than unbroken forest. In truth, vast stretches of woodland had been hollowed away, replaced by pens, caverns, and fire-scarred cliffs designed to hold his growing brood.
Within, more than a dozen dragons prowled the skies and caverns. The largest stretched longer than a war-galley, nowhere near the colossal stature of Smaug, yet formidable enough. Their scales turned blades as if they were straw, and their fire could melt forged steel to slag.
Even Sylas, had he chosen to face one without resorting to the darkest of his arts, would have found the battle long and bitter.
Yet raw might was not their flaw. Rather, it was wit. These were not true fire-dragon of the Elder Days, cunning and cruel; they were savage offspring, quick to anger, slow to thought, and utterly untamed.
That, however, was a problem easily solved. Sylas placed them under Smaug's dominion.
The great wyrm, lord of the Lonely Mountain, cowed them by presence alone. Blood called to blood, and though these creatures lacked his intelligence, they shared his lineage. Those who tested his rule were beaten down, scorched, or crushed until they yielded.
Thus, Smaug established himself as their king. He need not dwell among them; once each year he descended, his shadow filling the valley like nightfall. At the mere beat of his wings, the brood quailed, their defiance extinguished.