On the long memory of dragons

Smaug's an old dragon, a very old dragon indeed, and he hasn't smelled this smell in a long time, a very long time indeed. Dwarves he can smell, and ponies, and a peculiar earth-and-lazy-afternoons-and-plum-pudding smell—but this smell, faint but clear, he knows. The smell of Wizard. He hasn't smelled Wizard since, well, he never thinks of that one. The one before was juicy, though its beard tickled rather on the way down. Wizard. If he weren't a dragon, steaming gently on his golden bed, he might shiver.

Smaug remembers: once, many years and miles ago, he bore another name.