So, I've just finished a deadline, and figured you'd like another update. This is the last Stark chapter of this instalment. So far, I'm planning for a total of 4 instalments if this continues to generate interest.

Cedric Glover – The North

Markas Stark was a pup: a babe still suckling at his mother's teat. And this was where our future lay? We were well and truly fucked. He'd be better served to wear one of his mother's gowns and let her don the armour and lead us into battle. We needed a Wolf to lead us, not this cowering cub.

I rode beside him, next to Cerwyn, Mormont and Reed. Mormont was a loyal bear to his master. A noble quality, loyalty. Those bloody Starks and their honour… it's a shame Markas wasn't the same as his father. He looked similar to him, though he was a little skinnier and his hair was a little darker.

Then again, Ben Stark wasn't a true northerner. He used to be, aye, back in his youth. Then he left the North to fight the Ironborn in the South. And he stayed longer, sending men to die fighting the Dornish – Stark and Bolton alike. We had no place down south; We were of the North, and the North was were we belonged. Let the milksops in the South keep their sunshine and games of court, we Northerners had home. Aye, Cerwyn was a beast, a demon on the battlefield, and Markas Stark was a little pup, but we were all Northerners. Some more than others, but every Northerner was worth twenty Southnors.

We led our troops, marching west to Castle Cerwyn. From there, we'd move to take White Harbour, then North to Hornwood. Fucking Markas Stark – we should've been marching straight to the Dreadfort. We should storm the castle and slaughter every Bolton we could find, tearing them out root and stem. Let the soldiers have Ilyana and her bitch Theodosia. Perhaps we would flay Raff Bolton – let him suffer every death he dealt us.

Then there was the demon himself that fathered the wretches. Alvar Bolton. Oathbreaker. Turncoat. He deserved death more than any of them. I'll admit, the rumours about his sister, Maryana hadn't been proven, but I was willing to wager the man had raped his own sister. The Bastard of Winterfell, Finn Snow, was probably his own. But, alas, Bennard Stark had claimed him as his own.

Ben Snow. The foolish sod. A weak wolf. He was strong once, but he placed too much belief in mercy. Northerners are hard men, free of any foolish Southern beliefs about politics. When Alvar Bolton had come knocking at the Gates of Winterfell some twenty years ago to demand the return of his sister, Benn was willing to return her due to some misplaced sense of 'honour'.

Alvar had once been a fairer man during his father's reign. He was still a Bolton, but I hadn't heard of much wrong with the man. As northerners went, he wasn't nearly as raucous as the rest of us. He was more like Ben: Calm and collected. But, just as Ben betrayed the North and travelled south to fight off a force of Ironborn, Alvar quickly became more like his own father. He was cruel and silent. Nothing like his prick of son, Raff. No, Alvar was the true Bolton: Calculating and harsh. I doubt he even cared for his own house. Alvar had one purpose, and that purpose was death.

My thoughts were cut short as Markas turned towards me.

"Lord Glover," Markas looked at the men, "how long would you recommend we rest at Castle Cerwyn?"

"A night," I replied, "though I would advise we march straight towards the Dreadfort…"

"If we attacked the Dreadfort, we'd be set upon all sides by their bannermen." Markas stated. "We'll first cut off their allies. And if we can persuade them to join our cause, we're turning his own army against him."

"Their houses are oathbreakers." Cerwyn joined our conversation. "Show them the sword or see it plunged into your back."

"That is what Alvar Bolton would do." Markas reasoned, "How can I fight against the Boltons if I would act just like them?"

"Terror is more absolute than mercy," I laughed, "did Aegon take Westeros by handing out daisy chains?"

"I am not a conquerer." Markas said firmly. "I am not here to wipe out Houses. If we can show that one house can turn against the Boltons, others will follow."

"When you're in battle, who do you want at your back? Men who have stood beside House Stark for centuries? Men who have bled for you? Who have died for your family? Or turncoats who will break faith when the enemy is at their gates?"

Markas fell silent for a moment, thinking about it. The little pup. He shouldn't be here. I should have been leading our forces. Not this boy whose only taste of combat was in fistfights as a child. He had been coddled by his mother, and had never been to battle, nor squired for a man in battle.

What a sorry collection of Starks.

Ichabod Cerwyn – The North

Markas was not a capable leader. Any man could see this. I had been a ward of Cayde Stark, as had Gyll Cassel and the lecherous old sod himself, Alvar Bolton. Six Northern men, counting Bennard and his younger brother, Adyn Stark. Six Northern men, all within a decade of each other, and all different. Gyll Cassel, the Redbeard and Adyn were brawlers whose pastimes entailed whoring and drinking. All the maids would swoon at the tales of the stout Northern wolves, wild and untamed. Foolish women. Bennard Stark, Alvar Bolton and I were different. We were more reserved, focused on learning how to rule beneath Lord Cayde Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and the honourable Warden of the North. It was a shame that Bennard never learned more from him.

I was there, the day Maryana Bolton returned with Bennard from the South, holding that silent sleeping babe in her arms. Nothing like Markas or Tylan, who were squalling brats. No, the first babe in Winterfell was silent enough one would think he was dead if it wasn't for those dark eyes staring up at you.

One week later, Alvar Bolton journeyed to Winterfell. Maryana had been promised to Elryn Umber, and how can a Lord control his people when he can't control his own sister? Bennard had been arrogant in his actions – fathering a bastard with her and keeping her unwed yet housed in Winterfell. I can still see his face; full of fury once he discovered she was there, clutching a babe.

Many would say Alvar Bolton started the war, but it was Bennard who had taken his sister. Alvar threatened to call his banners and storm Winterfell unless he was returned his sister and her bastard. Regardless of what he had done, Bennard was still a Stark. Honour compelled him to act.

We talked throughout the night about what we would do. The Redbeard wanted to cut off Alvar's head and stick it on a pike for threatening war. Gyll Cassel wanted to ride home and rally his own men. Adyn Stark, the wildest of them, wanted to march to Alvar on his own and slaughter all he could find, for Adyn was the younger of the Starks, but more unpredictable and tempestuous than any I had heard of. But, Bennard was lord. He listened to me.

I bid Bennard return the girl to Alvar, lest he marry her. 'Marry the girl. Join houses with the Boltons and send the bastard to be raised at Cerwyn, between the Dreadfort and Winterfell.' But, Bennard refused to marry the woman. He kept saying it was 'too soon. Too soon to marry.' And at the mere mention of sending his bastard away, Bennard growled for me to leave, but not before declaring he would not risk war, and he would return Maryana to Alvar Bolton.

The next day, Alvar stood in the Winter town, next to Elyrn Umber, Jacke Hornwood, Chrys Manderly and Clyd Flint. We arrived, a cart pulling the body of Maryana. I was the one who had found her – hanging from the rafters above her squalling bastard. Alvar wept and howled at the skies, and once his tears had dried, his sorrow turned to anger. He demanded his sister's bastard, and Bennard refused, stating he had acknowledged the boy. And Alvar, in losing a sister (and possibly more, if one believed the rumours) so shortly after a father had also lost the last part of her. And all he had left was fury.

Alvar drew his sword and bawled at Bennard for satisfaction. But Bennard refused. Gyll and the Redbeard tried to strike, but Bennard called for peace. The wolves had bared their teeth, and all that stood between them was Bennard. But Bennard was no great warrior. And he was burdened by honour. I suppose that, in Alvar's mind, he had already been struck. Maybe it was Bennard impugning his sister's honour. Maybe it was the rage at her death, or the refusal to return her bastard. Or perhaps it was then that Alvar truly gave in to cruelty. Alvar drew his sword and struck Bennard, severing two of his fingers.

Bennard fell backwards, and as the Redbeard tried to advance on them, he still called for peace. A damned fool – once a sword has been drawn and blood has been spilled, there is no hope. Oathbreakers must die, and nothing Bennard said could have changed that. True, Gyll, the Redbeard and I were sworn by oath to heed his commands.

But Adyn was a Stark. And, as such, he had inherited the arrogance. Perchance, he was truly mad. A boy of nineteen, drew his sword and marched towards Alvar, against the protests of his older brother. 'If he seeks blood, he has found it.' Alvar had responded that the boy had done him no wrong, and that his grievance was with Bennard. But Adyn was too young to understand politics and courtesy. He pointed his sword at the man, and called him craven. Bennard had begged for his brother to put his sword up, but Adyn declared Alvar a 'sister-fucking cunt'. But it was when Adyn informed Alvar that Maryana hanged herself to escape his torment that Alvar rushed towards Adyn, their swords ringing through the Winter town. And upon that first, strike, we all clashed together. Umber and Cassel, Flint and Glover, Bolton and Stark.

Adyn fought bravely, cursing and screaming as he threw himself forwards. But Alvar was older, and had experience with the Wildlings on his side. After a few short minutes, he stuck his blade inside Adyn's gut and out of the back of his shoulder.

Bennard was a man possessed. With only one good hand, he drew his ancestral blade, Ice, and charged at Alvar. No matter how much training or experience one has, it's nothing next to the untethered rage I saw control Bennard. He took one of Alvar's eyes before he was scurried away by his bannermen.

One and twenty years had passed since then. Bennard married Margareth Cassel and fathered three Starks with her. Alvar wed Ilyana Umber, lest he incur the wrath of another Northern house, and she bore him two demons by the name of 'Bolton'. It was only seventeen years later that the war officially started, with the exile of Finn Snow.

Although no-one knew what truly caused his exile, and I couldn't truly care much. He had started this war as much as Bennard Stark, Alvar Bolton and his whore sister. Bennard had failed to listen to me, and it had cost him his life and plunged our home into chaos. Markas was the same, never wise to his counsel. Blood would tell. As surely as Alvar Bolton had became the same beast as his father, Markas had become the same fool as his father.

I didn't like the Starks. In fact, if it was not for the oath of my forefathers, I may have taken up arms against them. But I had sworn an oath. The North remembers it's oaths. And so, with a heavy heart, I trod along on my mare, towards the destruction Markas Stark would bring forth.

Yeah, this is longer than the recent chapters. I figured it was a good time to properly explore the background of the War in the North. The next chapter is called Blood of the Dragon.