Her years in the North, with its bitter cold, simple way of life, and blunt manners, had worn away the refinement and grace she had once possessed as a southern noblewoman.
Of course, they had also made her words and actions seem overly direct at times, even stubborn, almost foolish on certain occasions.
But that was not true stupidity. It was another kind of survival wisdom, shaped by her surroundings.
In the North, the South's elaborate maneuvering and scheming often amounted to little before snowstorms and real blades. Strength alone mattered most.
Even now, however, Catelyn remained perceptive at heart. At least her judgment of the situation and her insight into people had never truly faded, and both were sharper than those of her children, who had grown up in the North.
Now, faced with a flight of dragons that blotted out the sky, she swiftly suppressed her instinctive dread, her thoughts racing.
She saw her son Robb standing in the courtyard, his back looking particularly lonely and burdened as he gazed up at the sky. She strode over to him and reached out to clasp his cold, rigid hand.
Her own hand was just as cold, but her grip was reasonably steady.
"Robb, you are a Stark, the Duke of Winterfell and the Warden of the North. Do not panic."
Her voice was quiet, but held a trace of resolve. "Judging by the way they're flying, they probably don't intend to attack Winterfell. Viserys must have come for something else this time. He may be here to help, perhaps with the Ironborn, but he certainly hasn't come to wage war."
Catelyn herself could not be entirely certain, but as a mother, and as one of the oldest pillars of House Stark currently in Winterfell, she had to offer her