There was no time to celebrate the little Lady's arrival, but Sandor Clegane was a boon, and by the blood on his blade he can already assume he slaughtered a few Freys on the way in.

Hopefully

Robb seemed to have grown paler, but his bleeding had stopped. Marq Piper was still able to fight, Patrek Mallister as well. Domeric had a shallow cut on his cheek, and Olyvar and Perwyn were still in fighting shape. So they have eight men to protect Robb, Lady Catelyn, Dacey, and Arya.

Grey Wind, of course. It was not a truly terrible situation, as long as the battle in the camps were in their favor, they would yet live.

Criston was about to raise his voice as several dozen Frey soldiers sprinted through the clearing, their steel bared.

"Down!" A voice seemed to scream from the shadows, and every loyalist fell to the ground immediately as a rain of arrows felled half of the men present. Shadows danced and taut bowstrings loosed yet again, and another score fell. Criston roared from the ground and ran forward with his longsword skewering the nearest living man. His body catapulted both of them backwards as he continued his roar in the dying man's face. Spittle flew from his mouth, and in that moment it sounded like the angered yell of a grizzly.

"Here I stand!" He screamed as he hacked the next man at the knee, and saw another raise his poleaxe against him as a massive armored form barreling into the man then separated him into two at the waist. Gnarled greatsword sending sprays of blood everywhere.

"You Northerners are fucking insane!" Sandor yelled happily next to him as he cleaved an arm off. The Greatjon close behind them, killing another. Another volley of arrows soared around them, hitting every mark, and suddenly the yard was silent again.

Every arrow was a killing blow?

"Who's there!" Criston said loudly.

A man in a green cloak shrouded himself perfectly in the darkness, yet made his presence known. The black roaring lizard lion bared proudly on his chest, Howland fucking Reed had left the safety of his swamps. Two dozen others came from the shadows around them, and dropped to a knee.

"Your Grace, I have arrived to escort you to safety. The battle is still raging, but we have established a safety zone for the wounded." Robb weakly nodded from his sitting position, clearly needing medical treatment.

"Grab whoever you can, and go join the battle after I arrive at this safe area," Robb coughed weakly, and two crannogmen lifted him from the ground onto a makeshift stretcher.

"Happy to see you join us, Lord Reed." Criston said happily, having never met the man personally, though Howland seemed to take a step back upon his words, and looked at him with wide eyes.

Wait, why is he here? Maege and Robett were to get help passing the Neck from him. There is way too much shit going on!

"A bear upon a wooden throne, a crown of swords and a sea of blood." His eyes gleamed a bright crimson, "A dragon's roar, and the birth of a babe."

What is this?

"The King of Red and the King of Black. First of his name, and the last." Howland took a step forward and reached upwards to almost cup Criston's cheek. His hand shook, and he returned it to his side.

"It has been two and twenty years since I held you as a babe, I have seen your future in my dreams, as I have seen the past."

"What the fuck are you even talking about?" Criston said as he stepped away.

"Lord Reed? Are you well?" Lady Catelyn asks demurely.

"I am quite well, my lady."

"Perhaps… Should we get to the situation at hand? Leave the….. Dreams for another time?"

He even seemed embarrassed for a moment, "Of course, my lady."

Criston could only think in mute astonishment, what the hell just happened? Some of what he said was familiar as he had experienced it in his own dreams. Though what else he said…. Worrisome.

He would find time to dwell on it later, there was still war.

"Jon, Criston." Robb said weakly to the side, as his wounds were being cared for while the men prepared to leave with him on the stretcher, "Lead the men in my stead, Lord Reed will stay with me for my protection."

"We will kill every fucker we can, Your Grace." The Greatjon had an incredible bloodlust at this moment. "I'm going to go find little Jon then we shall join the battle!"

Sandor looked pointedly at the two Northern men, "Aye, you too then!" Greatjon clapped the similarly heighted Sandor on the back.

Criston nodded, then turned to Sandor, "Fight for the North, and for our King. You will be treated well."

Sandor did not respond, and he was no enemy.

They found little resistance on their way to where the Smalljon should be, he was holding a thousand foot in reserve while great reaching lines of men stabbed and slashed away. It was more of a stalemate at this point, with two massive walls of shield protecting each host, while outriders killed other outriders. That was what they last heart from Lord Reed a moment before they departed.

They did not find the Smalljon, and the reserve was not present, for they had already joined the screaming melee as the allied host savagely were pushing any forces towards the Green Fork. It's current was frightening at the moment, to say the least.

Yet again, Criston was approached by one of his many captains, Webber. He bowed, "My Lords, the initial melee was the bloodiest of fighting. We overwhelmed them soon after with our numbers. We have rough estimates right now but we have under 3,000 dead or wounded. Unfortunately the battle has caused many wounds in our men and they have been switching regularly with fresh troops. The Freys have incurred less severe initial losses, but a fresh idea in the battle could change that."

"Good, we have control of the Eastern Fort, and we have several more crannogmen going for the West, slowly working into it. Rally whatever wounded you can who can still fight, and break our calvary away from battle and find mounts. The horses have scattered but we have time to gather while we push more towards the Green Fork."

Webber nodded and sprinted off, men already gathering around Criston at the sight of him. So many sigils littered the field, dead, dying, or soon to. More would survive, as long as they were careful.

No plan survives the start of a battle, but plans never hurt.

10 minutes later, they had gathered 592 mounted men, the horses were not even all for war, but they will take what they can get. He hopes it will be enough. Jon had sprinted towards the melee a few minutes prior and Sandor was next to him the whole time.

He gave clear instructions to him, wait until the horn is blown, they were to give ground until they were within the perfect kill zone for a cavalry charge.

Hopefully, because the few I have is already not enough

I will fight with what I have.

He could spy the Smalljon in the distance, cleaving a man's hand off. His father and Sandor beside him, the three giants cutting a swathe in the enemies. The Greatjon was yelling something, and they began the creeping retreat. He quickly disappeared from the battle with his gathered horse, creeping away in the woods.

They would retreat almost to the edge then begin a mass scatter within it, his cavalry will harry any stragglers left outside of the forest. Though they would be absolutely stupid to follow them in, it was a risk they would take.

It turns out oddly enough, that most of the leading Frey's were killed or wounded. The Frey host being held together by a few bastards, presumably. It was a happy occasion, until the anguished roar of the Greatjon filled the forest.

Criston was not there however to hear, the pounding of hooves echoing in his chest as any spears and lances gathered were lowered. The horns were blown again, to signal their approach. The roar of 600 men filled the air and the beating of hooves shook the earth.

"For the North!" Criston roared the loudest, "For the fallen! For the living!" They were a mere 100 feet away from the thousands of slowly moving Frey men, "For honor! For revenge!"

50 feet

"Show these fuckers how we fight!"

10 feet

"For the Starks!"

He couched his lance, it's point driving into the heart of the nearest man. It splintered explosively upon the impact and he reached for his sword. He hacked a dozen men, until a Frey man drove a spear into the breast of his horse. He rolled painfully, the bandages on his arm were filthy and his blood flowed freely yet again, he had no time to think as someone dove atop of him and luckily stabbed their dagger into one of his many sewn in steel plates.

He drove his free gauntleted fist into the man's chin, and swung again, feeling the jaw crack under his attack he left the man to die. The mounted horsemen charged again, felling more with this pass then the first. Horses screamed and shrieked, and several dozen mounted men were now on foot.

He ran through another man with his longsword, it's blade slick with gore, so much so he was worried he would eventually lose his grip if he was not careful. A loyal man, with his sigil stood beside them.

"My Lord! Now would be a good time to retreat!" Criston agreed of course, they would be swarmed in only a few moments, though the chaotic chase into the woods left the Frey lines scrambled. It would be a simple retreat.

He hadn't realized he was screaming, his horn blaring, and his blade thick with gore flying from his grasp. The retreat had sounded just a few minutes ago, yet more chaos ensued. They had formed ranks quickly and were fighting as they retreated backwards. The screams of death and chaos were louder in the forest, yet it felt they were in the greatest of hells.

He stabbed into the armpit of a man who punched into his gut with a morningstar, his gambeson absorbing most of the blow. The fierceness of the fighting made his head spin, it was not his first battle. It will not be his last either, but he never felt more worried in his life. He gripped onto a sword that had fallen from one of his men, horns were blown in the battle in the woods. War cries left the mouths of the men behind and in front of him as they saw the Greatjon, with his gnarled greatsword thrusting his sword into a man with so much force his body left the ground.

Fuck it. We fight, we die, if we survive, we will truly be alive.

"Fuck it! Fucking kill the bastards!" He was met enthusiastically, and he kicked the nearest enemy in the chest and drove his blade through his open mouth.

They had fought for the better part of an hour, thankfully the Frey's routed, losing their nerve after seeing how many losses they had taken. He was thankful, for he had taken some more minor wounds, and the amount of wounded they had was mind boggling.

They had won the day, they had won the battle. There was some resistance still in the West Castle of the Twins, that was only a matter of time. It was time to gather the dead and the wounded, and begin to heal.

The Greatjon had found some spears and men to heft a body he was carrying behind him, his eyes were wide as the lifeless corpse passed him.

The Smalljon had been beheaded, and his father had suffered as he watched.