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Catelyn

           Onastonyoutcropoflandhigherthanthesurroundingcountry,theypassedalord’spavilionwithwallsofheavysailcloth.Catelynrecognizedthebanner,thebullmooseoftheHornwoods,brownonitsdarkorangefield.

           Justbeyond,throughthemists,sheglimpsedthewallsandtowersofMoatCailin...orwhatremainedofthem.Immenseblocksofblackbasalt,eachaslargeasacrofter’scottage,layscatteredandtumbledlikeachild’swoodenblocks,half-sunkinthesoftboggysoil.NothingelseremainedofacurtainwallthathadoncestoodashighasWinterfell’s.Thewoodenkeepwasgoneentirely,rottedawayathousandyearspast,withnotsomuchasatimbertomarkwhereithadstood.AllthatwasleftofthegreatstrongholdoftheFirstMenwerethreetowers...threewheretherehadoncebeentwenty,ifthetaletellerscouldbebelieved.

           TheGatehouseTowerlookedsoundenough,andevenboastedafewfeetofstandingwalltoeithersideofit.TheDrunkard’sTower,offinthebogwherethesouthandwestwallshadoncemet,leanedlikeamanabouttospewabellyfulofwineintothegutter.Andthetall,slenderChildren’sTower,wherelegendsaidthechildrenoftheforesthadoncecalledupontheirnamelessgodstosendthehammerofthewaters,hadlosthalfitscrown.Itlookedasifsomegreatbeasthadtakenabiteoutofthecrenellationsalongthetowertop,andspittherubbleacrossthebog.Allthreetowersweregreenwithmoss.

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