The Wormtongue's rise and fall...
Gríma the scribe rose to be Theoden’s most trusted counselor and sit by his very throne. Fortune’s stroke and his own left the King and the darkened Hall and its Lady alone, within the serpent’s coils. Another week, a month, and the weakling King would join his dead son, and then none could gainsay Gríma, nor keep him from the prize he coveted above all else, the fair daughter of the House of Eorl. It had been so easy, after all!
Then he was flung from the Hall where he had ruled in fact if not name, robbed of his ease and chased from Edoras like a stinking rat, in front of the Lady he had craved. They would all pay for his humiliation, his exile. If he must go forth to his true master and leave his pride in the Golden Hall, he would see it burned to ashes, and the blood of Eorlingas run red from Edoras to Helm’s Deep! Perhaps a serpent cannot truly walk among men. But he can still slay them.