This is just a short chapter. I'm uploading two at the same time today, so don't worry. It's just because it's a bit of an action-packed chapter, and I didn't want it to grow stale.

Oh, reviews are back up – thanks to everyone who's been informing me it's just a bit of a glitch on the site.

Also, 60 reviews for 8 chapters? That's phenomenal – thank you so much, I love the amount of enthusiasm you guys are giving, it's so great to see!

Raff Bolton – Oldcastle, The North

Markas Stark… I have to admit, the boy had a mind for tactics. After taking White Harbour and Hornwood, our numbers were diminished, but it seems that the little wolf hadn't expected the Bolton and Umber armies to fall upon him at Oldcastle.

His men fought with a great deal of ferocity. Red Cedric Glover killed scores of men with his axe, and Ichabod Cerwyn had released the brute caged inside him, roaring triumphantly as he cut down man after man after man.

Most men would have felt terror or anxiety in the face of such opposition, but I reveled in it. Slaughtering Stark and Cerwyn and Glover and Mormont soldiers alike. The Locke troops rode out from Oldcastle, and the Starks found themselves fighting a battle on two fronts.

I swung around my axe, imbedding it in the spine of a Mormont soldier as I looked around to see Markas Stark there, holding his lofty greatsword, Ice. Valyrian steel… I'd always wanted a Valyrian steel blade. Stark locked eyes with me – those light grey eyes like my own. His ebony hair was matted in blood, dirt smudged against his cheeks. I grinned, wrenching my axe from the Mormont soldier. An Umber soldier tried to rush past me; I grabbed his neck, throwing him onto the ground and taking his sword from him. I turned back to see Markas Stark, who gripped the greatsword tentatively, studying my movement. I pointed the sword at him.

"That sword's too big for you boy!" I called, and rushed towards him.

I ducked under the blade, and swung the axe into his pauldron, denting it. Stark fell backwards, recovering quickly.

"Going to run back home to your mother, craven?" I shouted at him, pressing the attack. Stark was almost as big as me, and perhaps he would have stood a chance if he had received proper training. But he was a fucking Stark – so arrogant as a child to believe no-one would ever oppose their rule.

Stark raised his blade to block my blow, and my sword shattered upon impact with his. I took a step back, holding my now empty hand in front. Stark lunged at me, but I quickly stepped out of the side of his blade, sweeping my leg behind his ankle and knocking him to the floor.

"Bolton scum!" I turned to see Rolan Mormont leap at me. Rolan the Grim, he was named. A beast of a man, clad in a dark gambeson of scaled armour. He'd earned a reputation on the Iron Islands. During the raids, after the fool Ben Stark travelled South, the Ironborn had occupied Bear Island. That is, until Rolan lead a militia of farmhands and stable boys and reclaimed the island, beheading the Ironborn and mounting their heads on pikes.

Gods, I hadn't had a fight like this in years.

Rolan twirled that great bastard sword of his, Longclaw, and raised his oaken shield, decorated with the black bear of the Mormont House. He swiped at me, making me double back, and continued to press the attack. I grabbed a soldier beside me, throwing him into Rolan, but Rolan simply clove the man in two and turned his attention back to me.

He was the age of my own father, but like his overlords, Mormont was a stubborn old goat. He cursed and yelled as he continued pressing his attack. I blocked and parried, but found no opening to return an attack. That is, until Markas Stark fell to the ground with an arrow in his chest.

Ichabod Cerwyn – Oldcastle, The North

Such a young boy, lying on the ground, fists ripping out grass as he gasped for air. He didn't see me there, but I saw him. Dying on the floor… he'd surely live if he was attended to. But as soon as I took a step towards him, I stopped, and in that moment, I saw an end to the war.

We could hold off the Boltons for another few years. In that time, Tylan could learn to become a suitable Lord. We'd train him in weapons, tactics, and prepare him to destroy the Boltons. He had less memory of his father than his siblings. Easier to mould… as soon as his mother, the Stone Wolf, was separated from him. Boys died all the time in war, and Markas Stark was not the man to end this war. I'd say he was barely even a man.

I took a step backwards, looking to see the Bolton forces retreat, with Raff Bolton being dragged backwards from the fray. It seemed Raff Bolton's work was done, with Markas Stark ready to die in the dirt.

And then Rolan Mormont ran forwards to him. Of course he did – a loyal bear. He snapped off the shaft of the arrow that protruded from Markas' armpit, and the Redbeard moved in front of them both, protecting them.

Damned Glover… he was prolonging the war with this action. I rushed over to them, putting Markas' arm around my neck.

"My Lord," Rolan shouted to Markas, "Raff Bolton is retreating!"

"We'll get the cunt…" Redbeard growled as our men pushed forwards past us, forming a line to protect their Lords.

"My Lord, the Umbers are overwhelming the Mormont troops!" Rolan pointed to the banners of chains that enveloped the Mormonts. Markas staggered slightly, looking back to Raff Bolton, who had mounted a horse. He turned back to the Mormonts and took a breath to regain his strength.

"Rally the armies. Protect the Mormonts." He ordered Redbeard.

"Are you fucking touched, lad? We could end this war. If we kill Raff, we can route his armies-"

"Alvar is Lord Bolton, not Raff." Markas interrupted Redbeard.

Redbeard snarled, but rallied his troops and turned to protect the left flank of Mormonts. Markas Stark, the Foolish Wolf. Just as much of a cretin as his father. Mormont carried Markas away, to find a healer.

Gods, the boy couldn't have just died on the field.

Yup – the Battle of Oldcastle. Please leave a little review saying what you thought of this little injection of action. The next chapter is back in King's Landing, named 'A Rose Withered'.