I am become a sour woman, Catelyn thought. I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.

I won’t cry. I won’t do that. I’m a Stark of Winterfell, our sigil is the direwolf, direwolves don’t cry.