It had taken the Freys three generations to complete their bridge;
when they were done they'd thrown up stout timber keeps on either bank, so no one might cross without their leave.
The timber had long since given way to stone.
The Twins, two squat, ugly, formidable castles, identical in every respect, with the bridge arching between, had guarded the crossing for centuries.
High curtain walls, deep moats, and heavy oak-and-iron gates protected the approaches,
the bridge footings rose from within stout inner keeps,
there was a barbican and portcullis on either bank, and the Water Tower defended the span itself.
One glance was sufficient to tell Catelyn that the castle would not be taken by storm.
The battlements bristled with spears and 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.
"Nor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle," Helman Tallhart said gloomily.