"We're talking now," Lord Frey complained.
The spotted pink head snapped around.
"What are you all looking at?" he shouted at his kin. "Get out of here.
Lady Stark wants to speak to me in private. Might be she has designs on my fidelity, heh.
Go, all of you, find something useful to do.
Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out."
As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall,
he leaned close to Catelyn and confessed, "They're all waiting for me to die.
Stevron's been waiting for forty years, but I keep disappointing him.
Heh. Why should I die just so he can be a lord? I ask you. I won't do it."
"I have every hope that you will live to be a hundred."
"That would boil them, to be sure. Oh, to be sure.
Now, what do you want to say?"
"We want to cross," Catelyn told him.
"Oh, do you? That's blunt. Why should I let you?"
For a moment her anger flared.
"If you were strong enough to climb your own battlements, Lord Frey, you would see that my son has twenty thousand men outside your walls."