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.
Sir Stevron Frey, Lord Walder's heir, spoke for them.
The Freys all looked like weasels;
Sir 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."
"I 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."