The three surviving towers command the causeway from all sides, and any enemy must pass between them. The bogs here are impenetrable, full of quicksands and suckholes and teeming with snakes. To assault any of the towers, an army would need to wade through waist-deep black muck, cross a moat full of lizard-lions, and scale walls slimy with moss, all the while exposing themselves to fire from archers in the other towers." She gave her uncle a grim smile. "And when night falls, there are said to be ghosts, cold vengeful spirits of the north who hunger for southron blood."
Sir Brynden chuckled. "Remind me not to linger here. Last I looked, I was southron myself."
Standards had been raised atop all three towers. The Karstark sunburst hung from the Drunkard's Tower, beneath the direwolf; on the Children's Tower it was the Greatjon's giant in shattered chains. But on the Gatehouse Tower, the Stark banner flew alone. That was where Robb had made his seat. Catelyn made for it, with Sir Brynden and Sir Wendel behind her, their horses stepping slowly down the log-and-plank road that had been laid across the green-and-black fields of mud.
She found her son surrounded by his father's lords bannermen, in a drafty hall with a peat fire smoking in a black hearth.