**Théoden**

Retirement was a cruel creature.

When Tywin Lannister had passed, and the matter of young Lord Tybolt's regency as close to settled as it could ever have been, Théoden Serrett decided it was better to retire from his position at the Rock and return home. Silverhill always managed itself and Théoden saw little need to interfere in the work of his stewards. Thorondir had done well to oversee what matters needed be overseen and, though it chafed on Théoden to admit it, everything had remained in good condition. Years of idleness had resulted, years of quiet. Of feasts and of hunts and of surveys. Never before had Théoden Serrett imagined he would whittle his time away reading through the castle library or chatting with Maesters and Septons.

*Bored* was the word that cut through his mind.

This day had found itself occupied by yet another round of wandering. Silverhill had always been beautiful. Generation after generation of Serrett lords had seen well to tend to its continual expansion and the reconstruction of the old castle into something more luxurious. It would never be the Rock nor its town match Lannisport, but no other place in the Westerlands - so Théoden thought - would ever quite match the Peacock Hall. Caught as it was between the great rolling plains and hills of the Reach and the craggy heights of the Westerlands, Silverhill sat in a unique position. As had its House.

Théoden ceased his walk at one of the long halls that connected the keep to the outer ring of walls and, staring out at the wide fields that girded his territory's southern border. He thought then of the days he once spent riding that land, and of the days where he would clamber around the deep hills and crags. He thought then of ambition. Of old dreams.

And in a moment, like some great old fire bursting forth from embers, he felt something light anew within.

Théoden returned to his chambers and called for a servant.

"Bring me as much parchment and ink as you can, I've need of it all."

The wheels, so long still, began to turn again. He pulled out from his desk great bound ledgers and books, things full of dreams and of hopes and of memories. He halted briefly when his fingers rested on a bundle of letters. He knew them by sight. They were from better days, early days. From when Tytos Lannister, whose kindness and amiability had warmed every hall in Casterly Rock, still lived. A flicker of a smile followed as Théoden perused the old papers. Small matters, records, concerns. He had hoped back then to be the most loyal of his lord's servants, the most able, to remind - as generations of Serretts had - the Lion of his strength. But those days were now long past, dissolved. Now false-coated cats prowled the Rock and seeped poison into its walls.

Théoden Serrett could not stand such indignities. Not for *his* Tytos, not for his children or his grandchildren.

And when the servant returned, arms full of all the necessary materials, Théoden set to work.

To My [INSERT CHILD],

It has been some time, no doubt, since I have last called any home, however as I reach my elder years I am struck by a great assembly of matters pertaining not only to the future of our House, but to the future of Silverhill and of the great houses of the West and of our place among them. Thus, I am hoping that you might assemble once more in the coming months to attend to me and to sit in council.

Your Lord Father, Théoden Serrett