A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

swords and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.
    The Greatjon began to curse and swear as soon as he saw what awaited them. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence. “That cannot be assaulted, my lords,” Roose Bolton announced.
    â€œNor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle,” Helman Tallhart said gloomily. Across the deep-running green waters, the western twin stood like a reflection of its eastern brother. “Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not.”
    As the northern lords studied the castle, a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by four of Lord Walder’s many sons. Their banner bore twin towers, dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder’s heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser Stevron, past sixty with grandchildren of his own, looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet he was polite enough. “My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this mighty host.”
    â€œI do.” Robb spurred his horse forward. He was in his armor, with the direwolf shield of Winterfell strapped to his saddle and Grey Wind padding by his side.
    The old knight looked at her son with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolf. “My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here.”
    His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.
    â€œYou must not do this, my lord,” Galbart Glover pleaded with Robb. “Lord Walder is not to be trusted.”
    Roose Bolton nodded. “Go in there alone and you’rehis. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes.”
    â€œIf he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will
all
share his meat and mead,” declared Ser Wendel Manderly.
    â€œOr let him come out and treat with Robb here, in plain sight of his men and ours,” suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.
    Catelyn Stark shared all their doubts, but she had only to glance at Ser Stevron to see that he was not pleased by what he was hearing. A few more words and the chance would be lost. She had to act, and quickly. “
I will go
,” she said loudly.
    â€œYou, my lady?” The Greatjon furrowed his brow.
    â€œMother, are you certain?” Clearly, Robb was not.
    â€œNever more,” Catelyn lied glibly. “Lord Walder is my father’s bannerman. I have known him since I was a girl. He would never offer me any harm.”
Unless he saw some profit in it
, she added silently, but some truths did not bear saying, and some lies were necessary.
    â€œI am certain my lord father would be pleased to speak to the Lady Catelyn,” Ser Stevron said. “To vouchsafe for our good intentions, my brother Ser Perwyn will remain here until she is safely returned to you.”
    â€œHe shall be our honored guest,” said Robb. Ser Perwyn, the youngest of the four Freys in the party, dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a brother. “I require my lady mother’s return by evenfall, Ser Stevron,” Robb went on. “It is not my intent to linger here long.”
    Ser Stevron Frey gave a polite nod. “As you say, my lord.” Catelyn spurred her horse forward and did not look back. Lord Walder’s sons and envoys fell in around her.
    Her father had once said of Walder Frey that he was the only lord in the Seven Kingdoms who could field an army out of his breeches. When the Lord of the Crossing welcomed Catelyn in the great hall of the east castle, surrounded by twenty living sons (minus Ser Perwyn, who would have made twenty-one), thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons, and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards, and grandbastards, she understood just what he had meant.
    Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His newestwife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years, walked beside his litter when they carried him in. She was the eighth Lady