They heard the Green Fork before they saw it, an endless susurrus, like the growl¹ of some great beast. The river was a boiling torrent², half again as wide as it had been last year, when Robb had divided his army here and vowed³ to take a Frey to bride as the price of his crossing. He needed Lord Walder and his bridge then, and he needs them even more now. Catelyn’s heart was full of misgivings⁶ as she watched the murky⁷ green waters swirl⁸ past. There is no way we will ford⁹ this, nor swim across, and it could be a moon’s turn before these waters fall again.  As they neared the Twins, Robb donned his crown and summoned Catelyn and Edmure to ride beside him. Ser Raynald Westerling bore his banner, the direwolf of Stark¹⁰ on its ice-white field. The gatehouse towers emerged from the rain like ghosts, hazy¹¹ grey apparitions¹² that grew more solid the closer they rode. The Frey stronghold was not one castle but two; mirror images in wet stone standing¹³ on opposite sides of the water, linked by a great arched bridge. From the center of its span rose the Water Tower, the river running straight and swift below. Channels had been cut from the banks, to form moats that made each twin an island. The rains had turned the moats to shallow lakes.  Across the turbulent waters, Catelyn could see several thousand men encamped around the eastern castle, their banners hanging like so many drowned cats from the lances outside their tents. The rain made it impossible to distinguish colors and devices. Most were grey, it seemed to her, though beneath such skies the whole world seemed grey.  “Tread lightly here, Robb,” she cautioned her son. “Lord Walder has a thin skin and a sharp tongue, and some of these sons of his will doubtless take after their father. You must not let yourself be provoked.”  “I know the Freys, Mother. I know how much I wronged them, and how much I need them. I shall be as sweet as a septon.”  Catelyn shifted her seat uncomfortably. “If we are offered

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