"I am certain my lord father would be pleased to speak to the Lady Catelyn," Sir Stevron said.
"To vouchsafe for our good intentions, my brother Sir Perwyn will remain here until she is safely returned to you."
"He shall be our honored guest," said Robb.
Sir 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, Sir Stevron," Robb went on.
"It is not my intent to linger here long."
Sir 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 Sir 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.