Far to the north of Middle-earth, beyond the Grey Mountains and north of Erebor, lay a land few mortals dared to tread. Perpetual snow blanketed the wastes, and the air itself seemed sharpened with ice.
Through the driving storm, a lone figure came, Saruman the White, borne aloft upon the back of a Fellbeast. Snow clung to the leathery wings of the creature, its hide already crusted with frost. The storm lashed its rider as well, caking his beard and brows with ice, yet Saruman paid no heed. His thin robes whipped in the wind, and his piercing eyes fixed unerringly upon a looming mountain veiled in white.
The Fellbeast shrieked uneasily, its body trembling as it neared the slopes. Some dreadful presence stirred within the icebound peak, and the beast sought to veer away.
"Silence, worm," Saruman hissed, his voice edged with enchantment. "Forward."
The Fellbeast resisted, wings faltering. Saruman's eyes flashed. He pressed his will upon it with a surge of commanding sorcery. "Descend into the mountain."
The creature stiffened under the spell and, against its instincts, glided down into a ravine at the mountain's base.
Saruman dismounted, leaning upon his staff as the storm howled around him. He left the shuddering Fellbeast behind and pressed forward into the glacial chasm that split the mountain.
Here, the cold grew so savage it felt as though it might freeze the very soul. The deeper he walked, the wider the rift became, its walls glowing faintly blue with veins of ancient ice. Even Saruman's breath turned instantly to frost, hanging in clouds before his reddened face. At last, he summoned a faint warmth from the tip of his staff to shield his flesh from the piercing chill.
Then he came to the end of the crevasse, and beheld a sight that made even his breath falter.
Before him lay the head of a Dragon vast beyond comprehension. Black-scaled, ridged with cruel horns, it slumbered, each breath thundering like a winter gale. The icy wind that swept from its nostrils was the very storm that cloaked the mountain. Each scale was the size of a man's shield, gleaming with a deathly sheen.
This was one of Morgoth's prime creations, a relic of the Elder Days when Dragons had first been unleashed upon Arda.
Saruman's mind flashed with memory and lore. Morgoth had bred many kinds of Dragons:
Wingless serpents, like Glaurung, who in the First Age had scorched Ard-galen, broken the hosts of Maedhros, and destroyed Nargothrond with fire and guile.
Winged terrors, both two-legged and four, whose shadows blotted out the sun.
Among them, none surpassed Ancalagon the Black, greatest of all the winged Dragons. It was said that its outstretched wings could block out the sun.
When the drgon was slain in the War of Wrath, its fall from the sky shattered the very mountains of Thangorodrim.
And besides fire Dragons and cold Dragons, Morgoth in his malice bred other abominations as well: serpent-dragons that crawled limbless across the earth, thunder-drakes whose maws spat lightning, radiant dragons s that loosed beams of searing light, and ice-dragons whose breath froze flesh and spirit alike. Yet these breeds were rare and solitary, never forming great hosts like the fire-drakes, nor boasting champions to rival Glaurung, the Father of Dragons, or Ancalagon the Black, mightiest of the winged brood.
The beast that slumbered now beneath the glacier of the far northern mountain was one of those rare kinds, an ancient frost-drake, long thought perished in the ruin of the War of Wrath. Against all doom it had endured, hidden in the frozen wastes where none dared to wander.
Its vast eyes grew distant, haunted by memories older than the sun. "You were not there, little Wizard. You did not see the breaking of the world. The land was rent asunder, mountains split like kindling, seas swallowed the plains, and rivers of fire poured forth. Countless of my kind perished in that doom."
When the continent of Beleriand sank beneath the waves, I was there. I watched with my own eyes as the raging sea devoured all my kin.
I survived only by chance. As the ocean closed over me, I unleashed my frost breath. The waters that engulfed me turned instantly to ice, entombing me in a shell that carried me north on the currents. At last, the glacier drifted ashore at the edge of the world, and I have remained within this mountain ever since.
From that day forward, I swore never again to leave this place."
Saruman, of course, knew that the battle Hrívemir described was the War of Wrath in the First Age. As a Maia, he had not taken part in it. Now, seeing the ancient dragon shudder with remembered terror, a trace of disdain flickered in his eyes. To him, Hrívemir seemed little more than a beast cowed by war.
But Saruman pressed on with his task.
"Speaking of dragons," he said smoothly, "perhaps you know of the fire-dragon called Smaug? He has been broken to the will of another, forced into service as a mere mount."
"Impossible!" Hrívemir's cavernous voice thundered with outrage. "The children of fire and frost bow only to Morgoth who wrought us! Not even Sauron could make us submit!"
"But it is true," Saruman replied, his tone cool. "The one who subdued him is a sorcerer called Sylas. He rides Smaug openly, and his deeds are spoken of throughout Middle-earth. Already they call him the 'Lord of Dragons.'"
"Lord of Dragons?" Hrívemir's laughter shook the ice. "Absurd! Only Morgoth was Lord of Dragons. For a wizard to claim such a title is mockery!"
The dragon's vast eyes narrowed back on Saruman. "So that is why you've come crawling here, seeking my aid against this fire-drake and his master?"
With a sneer, Hrívemir's jaws snapped shut. "Bah. One young flame-breather is beneath my concern. Begone, wizard. Disturb me no longer."
A cold gleam flashed in Saruman's eyes. Proud as ever, he could not endure the insult. He raised his staff, his words flowing like poisoned honey, laced with hypnotic power.
"Hrívemir, Lord of Frost, listen well. Why waste eternity rotting in this forsaken ice? Rise with me! Claim the treasures of the world! Your name will blaze in dread across Middle-earth, as Glaurung's once did, as Ancalagon's did before the end! Winter is coming, and you shall be its herald, the shadow of death from the North!"
Hrívemir's massive eyes glazed, his mind faltering beneath the spell. Saruman's voice sank into the cracks of the dragon's heart, feeding his bitterness, his yearning, his long-buried pride.
...
Stones Plzzz
Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818