A Game of Thrones: The Story Continues Books 1-5: A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows, A Dance with Dragons. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

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      That bore Walder Frey’s seal beyond a doubt, Catelyn thought bitterly; hold back, wait, watch, take no risk unless forced to it.

      “If he’s been fighting the Lannisters, perhaps he does mean to hold to his vows,” Robb said.

      Catelyn was less encouraged. “Defending his own lands is one thing, open battle against Lord Tywin quite another.”

      Robb turned back to Theon Greyjoy. “Has the Blackfish found any other way across the Green Fork?”

      Theon shook his head. “The river’s running high and fast. Ser Brynden says it can’t be forded, not this far north.”

      “I must have that crossing!” Robb declared, fuming. “Oh, our horses might be able to swim the river, I suppose, but not with armored men on their backs. We’d need to build rafts to pole our steel across, helms and mail and lances, and we don’t have the trees for that. Or the time. Lord Tywin is marching north …” He balled his hand into a fist.

      “Lord Frey would be a fool to try to bar our way,” Theon Greyjoy said with his customary easy confidence. “We have five times his numbers. You can take the Twins if you need to, Robb.”

      “Not easily,” Catelyn warned them, “and not in time. While you were mounting your siege, Tywin Lannister would bring up his host and assault you from the rear.”

      Robb glanced from her to Greyjoy, searching for an answer and finding none. For a moment he looked even younger than his fifteen years, despite his mail and sword and the stubble on his cheeks. “What would my lord father do?” he asked her.

      “Find a way across,” she told him. “Whatever it took.”

      The next morning it was Ser Brynden Tully himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he’d worn as the Knight of the Gate for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his obsidian fish still fastened his cloak.

      Her uncle’s face was grave as he swung down off his horse. “There has been a battle under the walls of Riverrun,” he said, his mouth grim. “We had it from a Lannister outrider we took captive. The Kingslayer has destroyed Edmure’s host and sent the lords of the Trident reeling in flight.”

      A cold hand clutched at Catelyn’s heart. “And my brother?”

      “Wounded and taken prisoner,” Ser Brynden said. “Lord Blackwood and the other survivors are under siege inside Riverrun, surrounded by Jaime’s host.”

      Robb looked fretful. “We must get across this accursed river if we’re to have any hope of relieving them in time.”

      “That will not be easily done,” her uncle cautioned. “Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred.”

      “Damn the man,” Robb swore. “If the old fool does not relent and let me cross, he’ll leave me no choice but to storm his walls. I’ll pull the Twins down around his ears if I have to, we’ll see how well he likes that!”

      “You sound like a sulky boy, Robb,” Catelyn said sharply. “A child sees an obstacle, and his first thought is to run around it or knock it down. A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot.”

      Robb’s neck reddened at the rebuke. “Tell me what you mean, Mother,” he said meekly.

      “The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll.”

      “What toll? What does he want?”

      She smiled. “That is what we must discover.”

      “And what if I do not choose to pay this toll?”

      “Then you had best retreat back to Moat Cailin, deploy to meet Lord Tywin in battle … or grow wings. I see no other choices.” Catelyn put her heels to her horse and rode off, leaving her son to ponder her words. It would not do to make him feel as if his mother were usurping his place. Did you teach him wisdom as well as valor, Ned! she wondered. Did you teach him how to kneel! The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms were full of brave men who had never learned that lesson.

      It was near midday when their vanguard came in sight of the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had their seat.

      The Green Fork ran swift and deep here, but the Freys had spanned it many centuries past and grown rich off the coin men paid them to cross. Their bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast; the Water Tower rose from the center of the span, commanding both road and river with its arrow slits, murder holes, and portcullises. 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. 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. Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder’s heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser 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.”

      His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.

      “You must not do this, my lord,” Galbart Glover pleaded with Robb. “Lord Walder is not to be trusted.”

      Roose Bolton nodded. “Go СКАЧАТЬ