Smaug, the so-called “fire-breathing menace,” “destroyer of towns,” and “hoarder of treasure,” had always been misunderstood. Smaug wasn’t a villain—he was a property developer. Not Smaug the Magnificent, but Smaug the Investor.

It all started years ago when Smaug found the Lonely Mountain—a fixer-upper with untapped potential. It had been abandoned for centuries—no dwarves, no hobbits, not even a nosy wizard in sight. A true gem on the market. With breathtaking views and a treasure hoard just sitting there, untouched, it practically screamed, “Prime real estate!” Smaug wasn’t going to let that opportunity slip by.

Rumors flew that Smaug had stolen the treasure, but that was clearly propaganda. He hadn’t gone door-to-door like some common thief. No, Smaug had acquired it the honest way: by repurposing an abandoned asset. Frankly, if the dwarves had cared so much about their gold, they wouldn’t have left it lying around like loose change in a couch. Smaug did what any visionary would: moved in, renovated—lava-heated floors, anyone?—and settled down in style.

Centuries passed, and Smaug lived peacefully, reclining on his hoard. Occasionally, he’d muse, “Gold is a terrible mattress, really.” Then, out of nowhere, Thorin Oakenshield and his merry band of treasure-hungry dwarves showed up. After all that time, you’d think they’d have moved on. But no—Thorin was obsessed with “birthright,” as if the Lonely Mountain was some family heirloom he’d misplaced.

“Thorin,” Smaug might have said, if he’d bothered to argue, “you forfeited this place centuries ago. You can’t just pop back in like it’s a holiday cottage.” Smaug had kept the property in mint condition—orc-free, might he add—and this was the thanks he got? No compensation for centuries of upkeep. No acknowledgment of the enhancements. Talk about entitled.

Instead of negotiating, Thorin’s crew sent in a burglar. And not even a good one—a hobbit, of all things. Bilbo Baggins, small, nervous, tiptoeing around as if the mountain were an estate sale. He didn’t even have the courtesy to bring a gift. Smaug, of course, noticed him immediately.

“Thief!” Smaug bellowed, his voice reverberating through the cavern. “I smell you. I hear your breath. Where are you?”

Smaug knew exactly what Bilbo was up to—playing coy, throwing riddles around like some second-rate cave troll. “Riddles? Really?” Smaug thought. “Buddy, I’m a dragon. I’ve heard every riddle under the sun—and believe me, none of them are clever.” Still, he humored him, mostly to see how long it would take for Bilbo to realize he was wasting his time.

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Then Bilbo started mumbling about something “precious” in his pocket. Classic burglar trick—distract the dragon while hiding the real prize. Amateurs.

“You’ve got nice manners for a thief and a liar,” Smaug said dryly. Honestly, if Bilbo had any class, he’d have at least brought a peace offering. A gold nugget, maybe, or a bottle of fine wine. But no, Bilbo scuttled about like this was some sort of flea market.

That was the last straw. Did they really think they could sneak in, rob him, and leave unscathed? It was time to remind them why dragons are not to be trifled with. Lake-town just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I am fire. I am death!” Smaug roared, soaring toward the town, his flames casting shadows across the sky. The heat of his breath melted the buildings below as the people scattered like ants at a picnic. There was a certain artistry to it, Smaug thought—an elegant destruction. “This is what you get for underestimating a dragon.”

But of course, there’s always some “hero” waiting to ruin the moment. Enter Bard the Bowman—who, let’s face it, got lucky. One shot, one arrow, and by sheer chance, he hit the only weak spot in Smaug’s otherwise flawless armor. Evolution, it seems, had a cruel sense of humor. A single patch on his belly with no scales. It was like leaving the front gate wide open to a fortress.

Smaug knew about the weak spot, of course. He wasn’t stupid. He’d tried to cover it with gold and jewels, pressing them into his skin like armor, but some problems can’t be fixed by wealth alone. If only.

And Bard? He didn’t “defeat” Smaug. No, he won the world’s most rigged lottery. One lucky shot, and suddenly Bard was a hero, while Smaug—who had ruled a mountain for centuries—was reduced to a cautionary tale. If Smaug had torched Bard first, would he have been hailed as a hero? Of course not. He’d still be “Smaug the Terrible,” while Bard got parades and statues. The whole system was rigged.

Speaking of greed, the moment Smaug was gone, Thorin and his lot swarmed back into the mountain, picking over his carefully curated hoard like vultures at a feast. Years of careful management—ruined. They had no idea how to maintain a treasure of that magnitude. The inflation alone would wreck the economy, not to mention the tax implications. Thorin had no clue what he was in for.

But Smaug wasn’t greedy. He was a collector, a connoisseur of wealth. His hoard wasn’t just a pile of gold—it was a carefully assembled masterpiece, each piece a testament to his refined taste. If only the world had recognized that.

In the end, Smaug knew how history would remember him: not as the misunderstood investor, but as the villain in Thorin’s saga. That’s how it always went. The victors told the stories, and the dragons got the bad press.

But it didn’t matter. Let them squabble over the treasure, drown in taxes, and fight over every coin. Without him, it was just a pile of shiny trinkets, waiting for the next fool to claim it.

Smaug may have been a dragon, but he was no fool. Even as the arrow struck and the darkness closed in, he knew one thing for certain: they’d forget the details, but no one would ever forget his name.

Smaug the Magnificent.

The end.