Well, this was slightly depressing at the start, and action-packed at the end. Song of the moment, Shadows and Regrets by Yellowcard. It basically sums up Ralof's life right now.

The thanks; To Delphine hater, the Penitus weren't raping Casta's daughter or wife. The guy was just another dickhead. Why is he being framed? It's not all that special, but you'll find out later. Alsfur and Thorek surviving? Okay, well, we'll see. Thanks for the review! To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I know. Stupid politics, right. Wow, you don't like the Empire right? Okay, fair enough. Cairo just wants to win, admittably in a very selfish way. Casta's wife was sleeping with some guy. It doesn't much matter. Thanks to everyone for the reviews and stuff!

Ralof will be getting a bigger role from now on. Welcome back the Wood, the only surviving POV character from Season Unending! Whoa, isn't that just a little depressing. I suck to my characters. Also, something else, that I mention in the story, I never even realised how much Jon actually said 'It doesn't matter now.' If there's a Wiki for this, that'll be the quote at the top of his page. Just saying. It was just something that I wrote subconsciously. Anyway, moving on.

Please review. Seriously.

Carl Ralof Wood

Carl Ralof Wood woke trying to run. His breath came out fast and cold, as icy as the look Jon had given him when he turned away, back into the darkness. Ralof had tried to reach him, but he had fallen through the floor, into the unfeeling stone, far below. Wood looked around, wiping the sweat off his face, taking in his surroundings of his tent, before sitting up and swinging his legs off his bunk. Ralof put his face into his hands as he thought about the dream. Terrible guilt submerged him with emotion as his body began to rack with sobs at the thought of Jon's death. If only I'd been there…

It sucked away at what little strength Ralof had left, leaving him empty and devoid of anything. Worse than that was the realisation that he could have fixed it all, if he let Thorek Silver-Blood take that shot. Ralof just knew that, he knew that, if that shot had been allowed to loose, Thongvor would be dead, and Jon would be alive. That made it all worse, and thrust him back down into the guilt that ravaged his mind; the knowledge that, directly or not, it was his fault Jon was dead. Ralof let out a shuddering breath, and then pounded his fist into his bed to relieve the sudden anger at his failure that surged up like a winter wind, threatening to destroy his emotions in a storm of fury. His nerves were fried, and his skin hurt, as if the pain was spreading from his heart, all across his body. Ralof gritted his teeth, and then buried his head in his hands again as the guilt rushed back up.

Ralof tried to push it away, but it wouldn't go, so he stood and walked around his tent in a furious circle, trying to expel his energy into the ground, and bury the pain with it, but it stuck there like sand in a boot. Thongvor Silver-Blood's smug face came back into his vision, taunting him, and Ralof lashed out at air, trying to rip him apart. And then he was gone, and Wood slumped to his knees, defeated.

Ralof hated Thongvor. He was the cause of everything that was wrong in the world; he had killed Jon, and then played the hypocrite as he carried his body away from the field. His eyes gloated at his success, and Ralof's failure, but today he would get his revenge. The Silver-Blood army would come, and Wood was going to destroy it, so that there was nothing left, leaving them to burn in oblivion as some small comfort for Jon.

Ralof let out a breath of frustration as the guilt settled back in again, and he paced to his wooden chest, opening it to reveal parchment and ink. He had only learnt to write a few years ago, and even now his hand was messy and scribbled, but nonetheless he brought out a half-finished letter, meant for his sister Gerdur, Thane of Riverwood. Looking back at it, the letter was emotional, messy and incoherent; it didn't even make much sense, but now he had started, Ralof felt he had to finish it. With shaking fingers, Wood reached for his quill, laying the parchment upon the top of his wooden chest, wondering what he should say, or how he could finish it. Nothing came, and Ralof dug deeper for something to say, but still, nothing but more guilt.

'Carl Ralof?'

Wood turned to see a young boy standing by the door, looking shy. 'What is it?' he asked, not unkindly.

'Jarl Stormcloak says its time to prepare.'

Jarl Stormcloak, Ralof mused bitterly. Alsfur. When did the boy become the man? 'Tell him I'll be ready,' he said sharply. The messenger ran off before anything more could be said. Ralof sighed, and then shoved the letter back into the chest. He stood as the horns of war began to blare out across the camp. Most of the tents had already been packed away, but some of the leading officers had been allowed to keep theirs until the final stages of preparation were being made. Ralof smiled briefly as he thought about Jon would say about his role as a 'leading officer', but then his mood just soured further as he realised that wasn't even true anymore. Alsfur hadn't even given him command of a small force of men; he gave those jobs to his Theyns. Different Jarl, different times.

Ralof made his way to his armour and eyed it with a dark stare. It looked back at him innocently and Wood quickly pulled the chainmail and boiled leather jerkin off the stand and threw them to the floor. Ralof sniffed and realised he was about to develop a cold, just in time for the battle, before pulling on his steel covered greaves, which covered his shins, and then pulled the, now soiled, boiled leather over his head, covering his shirt. Then he pulled his chainmail over that, tied his belt and fixed his bracers. Then, the hard part came; Jon's shield.

Alsfur had inherited Kodaav, and all of his father's armour, or what ever had been left of it after he had taken such a beating from the battle. Carrying his body from the field, Ralof could only imagine what he had gone through, alone, where he should have been at his side. Wood pounded his fist to his thigh as he struggled to contain fresh tears. I should have been there. Ralof could just imagine Jon alone, fighting through hordes of men, looking to his Housecarl for relief, but he was gone, riding a horse to fucking safety!

The emotions exploded in a rush as Ralof realised what he had been doing as Jon died; he had been running. Well, looking for his Jarl, most correctly, but still; he had had the horse, and the freedom, while Jon was dying alone. But that wasn't true either, was it? He died with Alsfur, defending him. But was it even the right choice? Ralof instantly scolded himself; Jon would never allow that. Alsfur was their only hope now; Ulfgar was just a boy, and Ysold must be a shell of her former self, torn apart by grief. I know I am.

Ralof forced down his thoughts and emotions viciously, trying to put on a blank face typical of Jon, but it was impossible. How did he ever do it? Wood snatched up his war axe, light and deadly, and attached it to his belt with his dagger. Jon had provided him with his much desired claymore, or greatsword, when they first set off for war months ago. A quality one was very expensive to make, and far more difficult to wield, but Jon had paid for it all. Ralof hadn't really held one in years; he had never needed to. It didn't suit corridors, due to its length, but on a battlefield it was devastating. Something he was counting on when I stood by his side…

Ralof strapped it to his back, slung the shield round as well, and took up his helm. He also snatched his amulet of Talos from the bed, and then ducked from his tent quickly. Squires were waiting outside to pack it away, and as soon as he gave the nod they leapt into action, tearing it apart like Alsfur used to do with his meat. Just not half as fast, he mused. Ralof sighed again and strode away, out through the rocks surrounding the main path.

They were camped out on the small cliffs that surrounded the main path, nestled in the gorge, where Alsfur planned to make his attack. Ralof fingered his amulet of Talos as he looked around, taking in the armoured warriors; he and become quite religious since Jon's death. Most Nords held very strongly to Talos, the patron God of mankind and founder of the Empire, but Jon had never been particularly religious, less so than many other Nords. That said, it would be fair to say that the younger generations, like Alsfur, were not the most devoted of servants to the Gods anyway. They'll take them up later, he mused. Even so, Jon had been especially cynical about the Gods, which was strange, seeing as he was one now. He'd laugh himself back into a grave if he knew. But then, he had to, being a God. The strange conundrum made Ralof smile slightly, and he drew strength from that. It doesn't matter now, anyway, he thought, echoing Jon's words.

Alsfur was standing on a rocky ledge, overlooking his men as the main force lined up in a battle column below on the stony path nestled between the two rocky walls that might be their death, or saviour. Ralof eyed them suspiciously, as if they were going to suddenly betray them. I've had more than enough of that for one lifetime. Siddgeir flashed back through his mind as well. Ralof's hands tightened at the thought.

The former Housecarl made his way up to Alsfur, who didn't acknowledge him at first, instead responding to a message from one of his bannerman. He sent the response off and turned to Ralof with a curt nod.

'What is it?'

Ralof sniffed at his tone. 'I was hoping to accompany you on the battlefield.'

'I already have a Housecarl.'

'An extra shield then?' Wood offered, slightly desperately.

'My father's?' he noticed, watching it with a dark glare. 'It didn't do him much good.'

'Alsfur,' Ralof snapped angrily, but the Jarl cut him off.

'Go find a place on the battlefield. I don't care where you go. Why don't you try and kill Silver-Blood. Fulfil your oath this time,' Alsfur finished icily.

That hurt. Ralof looked down, guilt washing through him. He wanted to get angry, but he wasn't Jon, and so with a small nod the former Housecarl turned away and trudged down to a lower section of the stone cliffs. Men were already grouping together in areas around the rocky spikes that provided cover, led by their Theyns and Carls. Ralof made his way to one of the main groups on the fringes, under the command of Thane Amol. The stocky man gave him a smile; at least someone knew his worth.

'Carl Ralof. It's good to see your face.'

The former Housecarl forced a smile. 'I can't say the same about yours.'

The Thane frowned, but Ralof moved away, further into the mess of pillars and spaces they were hiding in, so he was on the edge of the impending battle. Alsfur's fake column of men reached a little past his position; they were going to reach the end of the valley soon, where Silver-Blood would no doubt cut them off at some point ahead. It was a small gamble that they wouldn't leave the ambush groups behind in their march, but they had little other choice.

Ralof settled down and watched as clouds lent an overcast feel to his already pathetic mood. He sighed, and trained his eyes on the path behind the column, which had began to move. Suddenly, a dot of black appeared on the path. It quickly started resolving itself into a huge force of men, all fully armoured and ready to move. By the time they noticed Alsfur's men were also armed, it would be too late. It seems not even Thongvor Silver-Blood can think of everything. Even so, as they marched quickly, he could see they were going to far outnumber Alsfur's own army.

Ralof drew his greatsword clumsily, and drew back into the rocks to hide himself. Silver-Blood was approaching at speed, and horsemen began to pick their way from the infantry and race towards Alsfur's column. Instantly, Ralof knew if those horsemen hit, it would all be over; they would create such disruption among Stormcloak's force in one clean charge, that there would be no coming back. Ralof looked for Amol, but he couldn't see him now, hidden as he was among the rocks. His head snapped back round as the drumming of hooves on the stony floor grew louder. The ambushers, us, have to hold until the main force engages Alsfur's, but if we stay…

Racked with indecision, Ralof watched as the horsemen drew nearer, before making a snap decision, and a massive gamble. He quickly pulled several men waiting near him, and told them what to do. The horsemen were drawing nearer and the men of Alsfur's column were starting to turn with horrified expressions and wide eyes as they beheld their coming doom. The horsemen were almost on them when Ralof leapt forward, out of the rocks.

Everything slowed as Ralof fell; his heart was beating faster, and his blood hammered through his body. Only now did the fear begin to leach his strength, but it was a futile method of self-preservation, because he was already among them. With a roar, Ralof swung his greatsword, down into a man's shoulder, where it stuck, trapped halfway through his body. They both fell to the stone ground, stumbling the horse, and for a moment Ralof curled up, waiting to be crushed, but the charge never came. His men had followed him, and broken the horsemen's impetus, while the men of Alsfur's column screamed war cries as they attacked the horsemen viciously, not letting them get over the surprise. As Ralof picked himself up, he saw Silver-Blood's infantry closing in. To his relief, Amol had held back with most of his men, and they waited now, as the main force approached Ralof and his men. The Carl turned to the column as the cries of battle began to ring out from the other side of the path, obviously the second Silver-Blood force. They glanced back nervously, but Ralof caught their attention.

'Lines, now!' He wrenched his greatsword from the dead man, and raised it, ready to fight. 'Don't give an inch, and Talos help me, we will avenge the Dragonborn!'

The men took up the cry of Dragonborn and Stormcloak while Ralof replaced his greatsword for his axe and shield. Silver-Blood's men broke into a run as they drew closer, and launched themselves into Ralof's hastily formed line.

The impact was like the force of a battle-ram, and the Stormcloak men fell back, trying to hold up their shields. Ralof swung his axe wildly and it threw a man back as the soldiers began to hold their positions, and present an unbroken shield wall. Ralof edged forward, Jon's shield shining as it took its place among the others.

'Push!' Ralof shouted and the men threw their weights behind their shields, while stabbing and hacking with a variety of weapons. Silver-Blood's charge was gone, and the fight became a frenzied melee as each side tried to gain dominance. Ralof's blood was pumping fast now, and he could feel the energy running through his arms as he hacked at faces and hands with his axe. Before long, his armour was specked with blood.

Ralof glanced up at the rocks, but Amol hadn't moved yet, as were his orders. We just need to hold out a little bit longer. They were giving ground slightly, so as to better trap Silver-Blood. Wood turned his attention back to the battle as an ugly Nord appeared above his shield and tried to wrench it away. With an angry snarl, Ralof cut down with his axe, severing his fingers, and he fell back, howling.

'Hold!' he cried, throwing out his shield and knocking down a few men, who screamed as they were trapped underneath the press of stamping feet. Heat started building up in the enclosed space, and sweat began to run down Ralof's brow. Worse than that though, he realised they were losing.

It was a steady process, slow, but lumbering like a giant, unstoppable unless something changed quickly. The ground they had given had set off a chain reaction, and now they were beginning to be crushed back into the force fighting on the opposite side of the path, which would see them all down into oblivion if something didn't change. Ralof glanced up at the cliffs, but still Amol didn't move, as their force was pressed back into the other, like two waves crushing the object trapped in the middle. That's us, Ralof reflected drily.

The Silver-Blood men could already sense victory; it might take hours, but it was going to happen, and they pressed forward with renewed vigour as Ralof's strength began to seep away. They had been fighting for longer than he thought, and his muscles were beginning to weaken.

Suddenly, a shield flashed out and caught his jaw, swiping a long gash along it, where his helmet failed to protect him. Ralof let out a growl, ignoring the sudden pain, but he was pushed back. A sword cut his arm and he let out a cry, before a hammer glanced off his shoulder, sending a wave of red pain through it. The former Housecarl stepped back, stumbling, and he fell. The press crushed him from above, but he managed to force himself up as it suddenly stopped and became still. In front of him, Ralof could hear the cries of men; cries of surprise. He forced himself up and forward to see Amol's men laying waste to everything around them. However, the Silver-Blood men were rallying, and Ralof was damned if they were going to lose this chance.

'Forward now! Fucking forward! Kill them all!' Wood broke from the line and started laying out around himself wildly, tearing men apart as he screamed and swiped. The men started following his example, and the Silver-Blood men fell back with cries of terror, as Amol's force started pressing forward, taking on the strain of a line formation. But that was already breaking up. Some Silver-Blood men had been left behind in the attack, and as Amol took on the main force, small skirmishes started taking place in the gap between Alsfur and Blackmoore's side, and Amol's.

Ralof turned, to see a man watching him. His nose was bloody, but otherwise he was unhurt, and he held a longsword in his hand, with a shield in the other. Before he could do anything, Wood moved forward, swinging with his axe. The man caught it on his shield and thrust out with his sword, but Ralof knocked it aside. They fell back, testing each other's movements, and then the other man stepped forward, feinting to Ralof's left, before sweeping his leg. It was all the Carl needed. Wood ignored the feint; it was too obvious, and slammed down his shield to catch the strike to his shin. At the same time he swung out his arm, catching the man's neck, just below his helm. He fell, choking pitifully on his own blood, and Ralof thought how lucky he was that the men hadn't been wearing a gorget. But that's the preserve of the rich, and the Housecarls. A spasm of guilt flashed back through his mind, but it was quickly broken by something else.

Ralof turned at the sound of the horn and his eyes quickly locked onto the banner; the Jarl of Markarth's sigil. Silver-Blood. He started moving forward, but then a sound caught his ear and he instinctively ducked, under the heavy axe that flew over his head. Without hesitating, Ralof swept out Jon's shield, whipping out his attacker's legs from under him. He fell to the stone with a crack and Ralof's axe followed him, burying itself into his brain with a sharp smash and spurt of blood and bone. Carl Wood yanked it back up, and looked around. His heart sank as he noticed Alsfur.

The Jarl had been pushed back and his entire side had dissolved into a frenzy of one on one fights. Even as he watched, Alsfur emerged from the sea of warriors, retreating quickly. The Nord he was fighting came out after him, leading a savage attack. No helm covered his face, and Ralof recognised him instantly; Thorek Silver-Blood.

He was dressed in mail now, with a grey surcoat, embroidered with silver thread covering his chest, the sabre-cat of Markarth picked out in black. Plate covered his shoulders and arms, and a sturdy shield was on his right, with a flashing silver blade in his left. It was that sword which led the way, whipping out towards Alsfur's face as he tried to back-track, huddling beneath his own shield, lashing out occasionally to fend off the young Silver-Blood. It wasn't enough though. Behind him, Thongvor Silver-Blood had appeared from his men, urging them on. Ralof might be able to reach him, if he was lucky, and then he could avenge Jon. Hot fire ran through his blood at their thought, but then he glanced back at Alsfur, and his breath caught. My oath, or Jon's son? There wasn't a real choice.

Ralof started sprinting towards Alsfur and Thorek. He pushed aside men, and replaced his axe with his greatsword, ready to deliver a finishing blow. He swung it up and around, towards the back of Thorek's head with a bloody grin. Amazingly though, the other Nord dodged to the side and let it hit the ground, before slamming down his shield to hold the greatsword din place, and then spun, whipping out his sword.

Ralof let out a cry of surprise and ducked, but before he could move, Thorek kicked him. Hard. The former Housecarl fell to the ground, and the wind was knocked out of him. He coughed, and started crawling back as Thorek advanced. His grin was arrogant, and he spun his sword idly. All of a sudden, Alsfur grabbed him, and tried to plunge his sword into Silver-Blood's back, but he was too quick. Thorek twisted him over, and Alsfur slammed against the stone, rolling slightly, his sword falling away.

Ralof took the opportunity and rushed forward, lifting Thorek with a blind roar, and then throwing him down, driving in his knee as they fell. Silver-Blood let out a cry as it rammed into his chest, and Ralof drew his dagger, plunging it down with all his strength. Thorek caught it with one hand, the quickly threw his other hand up to support the weight, dropping his sword. He can't have been much taller than Ralof himself, but he was very strong, and he held it as Alsfur advanced to finish him. Thorek's eyes flitted to the new danger for only a moment, before he suddenly pulled the dagger down, and Ralof with it, whipping up his head to crack it against Wood's face. It was well placed and the Carl fell back, holding his nose as a strange swooping pain made him feel sick. Blood leaked from his nose, but he managed to brush it off, fuelled by the thought of danger.

Ralof pulled himself up, drawing his axe and holding his nose gingerly. Another whoosh of pain swept through him, and he grimaced, making his way towards Thorek. By this time, Silver-Blood was facing Alsfur with his sword in hand, parrying a rough thrust to his stomach. He grinned when he noticed Ralof and struck out forward, throwing Stormcloak off balance, and then swung his sword to cut down Wood.

The Carl brought up his axe and blocked it, jarring his arm, before dodging back to avoid the next swing. His nose was on fire now, and blood ran freely down into his mouth. Another burst of pain, this one icy cold, flicked up his arm, indicating the presence of a cut. Thorek was too fast though, and he moved like a water dancer, back and forth, never staying still. Ralof knew he'd have to break out or face the same fate as Alsfur.

With a cry he caught the flat of Thorek's blade between his axe and hand, the palm covered in strip of thick leather, then shoved his weight forward. It threw Silver-Blood off, and Ralof seized the advantage, swinging forward wildly. Quick as a bloody snake though, Thorek dodged, and caught Ralof in a headlock. The Carl tried to twist free, but it was too late. Silver-Blood's grip tightened, and Ralof thrashed, panic soaring through his mind, even as it darkened. Thorek readied himself to break Wood's neck, but then Alsfur was there. Silver-Blood pushed Ralof up to guard himself, and Stormcloak managed to divert his blade. Thorek dropped Wood, much to his relief, and swept up his sword, as a horn echoed through the gory battlefield. Silver-Blood frowned, and stepped back, before turning away and running to join his men. It took Ralof a second to realise what was happening, as he lay sprawled on the ground, but when it did, he couldn't believe his ears. It was the sound of retreat; for Thongvor Silver-Blood.

Ralof felt a presence next to him, and looked up to Alsfur's hand by his side. He took it, and Stormcloak pulled him up. They stared at each other for a while.

'Congratulations, my Jarl,' Ralof began, but Alsfur cut him off by hugging him. Wood was dazed for a second, but then he returned it and they broke apart, grinning like fools.

'Thank you, Ralof. I owe you my life.'

He turned sombre as he remembered Jon. 'I owe you a lot more.'

'No, you don't,' Alsfur said fiercely. They fell silent for a few seconds, and Ralof looked around. The men were taking up the cries of victory, and it sounded all around them. The Thanes and Theyns would be here soon to honour their Jarl, and battle leader. He looked around, drinking it all in for a second, before asking the question that had been on his mind since he had spotted Alsfur fighting Thorek. 'Why were you so broken up?'

Alsfur turned grim, and his voice took on a bitter note. 'You can thank Thane Blackmoore for that cock-up.'

'What?' Ralof asked, surprised. 'That doesn't seem like him.'

'The man's a coward,' Alsfur concluded in a tone typical of Jon. 'I'll see him in court for treason.'

'No, you can't be serious,' Ralof objected, but Stormcloak cut him off again.

'Maybe I not,' he agreed. 'But something has to be done. I can't figure it out until we get to Windhelm. From there, I'll see what's happening.'

'Don't be hasty, Alsfur.'

'I won't,' he promised, looking dismal. 'What will I say to Erik and Tavia?' That last question was quiet, but before Ralof could answer, the Thanes had arrived, and he was pushed back into the background again.

Please, please review! This took a while to write, and I've got exams coming up, so reviews would really make my day!