She winced. Disliked as much as Sansa Stark. Sansa did not like to think of herself as disliked. With dislike came danger, and wasn't that exactly why she'd made such an effort to sing his praises and repeatedly emphasis her faith in him? There were kernels of truth to all those things she said -- and again to how she's explained to him, in wanting others to think her well-protected -- but ultimately it was because she wanted him to think well of her. And now they were talking about how much some Targaryen might dislike her and --

And it was all a bit much on the back of Arya's anger.

"Your father killed her brother. Conquered her father's throne. Perhaps your wise to keep your truths away from her. If I were to meet a Frey or a Bolton or a Lannister or a Greyjoy--"

Would she hate them? Would she want them to suffer? It was easy when they were faceless names -- a Frey. A Bolton. The vengeance became harder to sustain when she imagined meeting them; liking them; learning of who they were after the fact. Sansa said nothing, but she did shake her head.