Under the blanket, his legs bent in ways that made Jon sick. As you say. It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. If she saw them watching, all her courage would desert her, she knew, and she would drop the bundle of clothes and run and cry like a baby, and then they would have her.
He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. They are coming, Catelyn thought. She turned away, shaking. His palms were cut where he'd grabbed at the blade.
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