Catelyn Tully may have taken on the Stark name, worn their furs and honor like a second skin, but this beautiful girl of hers—she is no wolf, Petyr thinks.
He watches her; makes a quick catalogue of the auburn shades of her hair, the gleams of silver at her throat, the inflexions of her voice.
When the lance snaps and Ser Hugh lies choking on the red bubbles of his blood, her eyes are pale stones. He makes note of that, too. She is no wolf, he thinks again; adds, and smiles, to himself—but she might just survive.