Catelyn had been worried about Sansa. She'd been worried about both her daughters, but Sansa in particular. Arya was strong in the way Ned was strong--blunt, obvious--but Sansa was different. Sansa was more like she herself, and thus it was sometimes hard to tell if anything was really wrong with her.

It didn't help that now of all times she was self-conscious of scars. Arya had seen her enough that at least they were likely no longer shocking, but she had seen Sansa so rarely that she knew her appearance must be distressing. While she was no longer some sort of monster out of legend, she looked very little like the mother Sansa had once known.

She was still, when Sansa entered the room--still as only the dead can be, and worried though she was she was also proud of how Sansa carried herself. Proud, and pained; her daughter had had to grow up far too soon, and far too violently.