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The Elves weren't wrong.
With the crowd in chaos, no rules, no structure… if things continued like this, people would die.
Choosing a leader was inevitable.
Thanks to his courage during the battle, and the trust he had built over the years, Bard was elected quickly and without dispute.
Once the decision was made, Bard moved fast.
He divided the townsfolk into four groups: one to search the ruins for anything salvageable, one to collect weapons, armor, and metal tools, one to tend to the wounded, and one to prepare food.
With basic order restored, Bard went to the Elven camp to negotiate directly.
"Your Majesty," Bard said respectfully, "thank you for your generosity. Lake-town has been destroyed. I want to ask for your assistance in rebuilding it. Any debt incurred will be repaid through future taxes."
"Wait," the Elvenking replied calmly. "Your name is Bard. The descendant of the lord of Dale… the one whose bloodline is said to have pierced Smaug's scales."
"That was my ancestor."
"You wish to rebuild Lake-town," Thranduil continued. "Yet Lake-town was built on water. Your people cannot farm there. You survive by fishing alone."
He gestured outward.
"Why choose such a life?"
Then he pointed toward the ruins in the distance.
"Over there lies the old city of Dale. One day's journey from here. The land where your ancestors once fought."
His voice remained smooth.
"There, you can build warm, solid homes. The soil is fertile. Smaug is dead… that land is free once more."
"The dwarves will reclaim Erebor. And you," Thranduil said gently, "can return to Dale."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"The dwarves possess vast wealth. You may borrow from them… or earn fair payment by helping rebuild what was lost. With that, you can restore your home."
The suggestion was tempting. Carefully constructed. Reasonable.
Once, people had fled to Lake-town out of fear. Smaug was a fire-drake, a creature that loathed water. Lake-town had been chosen precisely because he despised it.
But safety came at a cost.
The damp air. The biting cold of winter. The suffocating heat of summer. Drafts that never stopped. Every year, people freeze to death.
Lake-town had never been a good place to live… merely a place Smaug ignored.
As acting leader, Bard's position was fragile.
If the people later learned that a better option had existed, yet he chose to rebuild Lake-town anyway… they would turn on him immediately.
And Thranduil was right about one thing.
Dale had been his ancestors' land.
He had every right to reclaim it.
As for assisting the dwarves in exchange for payment… that could work.
"Your Majesty," Bard said carefully, "your proposal has merit. But I must first consult my people."
He bowed slightly.
"In the meantime, we will need continued supplies of food and vegetables."
"That can be arranged," Thranduil replied. "However, after an Orc attack, your people should relocate somewhere safer."
He gestured again toward the ruins.
"Dale may be damaged, but even in its current state, it is safer than this place."
"Agreed," Bard said. "Thank you for the warning."
They spoke at length after that. About relocation. About helping the dwarves rebuild. About mutual defense.
On paper, it sounded like cooperation.
In reality… it was positioning.
Bard was only an acting leader. He had never governed before. Kindness and popularity were not enough for politics.
Sometimes danger comes from outside.
Sometimes it wears a smile.
Without realizing it, Bard had already been placed at the front of someone else's strategy.
Political instincts… nonexistent.
With judgment like that, being mayor was already generous.
Village head would have been more appropriate.
After returning, Bard told the people about relocating to the ruins of Dale.
Once the shock passed, relief followed.
Land was still where humans truly belonged.
…
The migration was massive.
A slow-moving river of people poured out along the road toward Dale. There was no need for Jimmy's sharp eyes this time… the crowd stretched endlessly, dense as ants covering the earth.
…
The journey took two full days.
On the third day, nudged forward by Thranduil's carefully placed words, Bard rode ahead on horseback toward the dwarven stronghold.
"Bard," he announced loudly, "acting lord of Dale, requests an audience with the King Under the Mountain."
Thorin appeared at the watch platform, peering down at the lone rider.
"Dale," he said coolly. "Wasn't Dale destroyed long ago. Where did this 'lord' come from?"
"King Thorin," Bard called up, lifting his head, "may we speak face to face?"
After a moment of thought, Thorin moved to the sealed gate. Arrow slits lined the stone. The two men faced each other through the narrow openings.
"Who appointed you acting lord of Dale," Thorin asked sharply. "If I remember correctly, Dale falls under Erebor's domain. Only the King Under the Mountain has the authority to grant such titles."
His gaze hardened.
"You wish to rule Dale. Did you receive my consent?"
Bard hesitated.
"My apologies, King Under the Mountain. We are people of Lake-town. After the Orc attack, our homes were destroyed. We have no choice but to rebuild."
He swallowed.
"Though we lived on the lake, our ancestors were citizens of Dale. This is merely a return home."
"Enough," Thorin cut in. "Save the half-truths. State your purpose."
"Very well," Bard said. "I came to ask whether you require labor. If possible, I hope you might offer us work… in exchange for modest payment. Enough to keep our families alive."
Thorin's expression darkened.
"So," he said slowly, "you intend to occupy Dale… then come here to earn gold to rebuild it."
He let out a cold laugh.
"You would use my gold to claim my land."
His voice sharpened.
"Dwarves may be honest, but we are not fools. Do you take me for one?"
He leaned closer to the arrow slit.
"And even if you earned coin, what would you eat. Gold. How do you intend to solve the food problem?"
"That issue has already been addressed," Bard said quickly. "The Elvenking has agreed to supply us with grain and vegetables… though payment will be required."
Thorin laughed outright.
"Then let me add another reason to refuse."
His eyes burned.
"The food you speak of was meant for Erebor. For my people. The sons and daughters of Durin who wandered homeless for generations."
He continued, voice heavy.
"If you purchase it, my kin will return to empty stores. They will go hungry."
He stared at Bard.
"Do you believe I would allow that?"
Bard clenched his fists.
"King Thorin," he pleaded, "we have suffered greatly. Without aid, we will perish."
He bowed deeply.
"We fought the Orcs together. We share the same enemy. And by settling at Dale, we also stand between Erebor and danger."
His voice trembled.
"I beg you… show mercy."
Bard looked genuinely pitiful.
Even Bilbo, watching from within, felt his resolve waver.
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