Had she grown up in Westeros, she would have recognized the girl's features at once as those of a Tully of Riverrun. All the stories in the world and she's still painfully ill-prepared to meet with someone from her homeland. It bristles at her, that she'd been forced to stay away this long. That she should know every face to match every name. Alas she does not for now, though she is given a helpful hint as those blue eyes linger over the pods containing children with long faces and dark colouring; the hallmark of the Starks of Winterfell, Tyrion had mentioned.

Violet eyes watch her carefully, she not at all put off by just how much taller the girl is than she.

Then she turns her head and almost as one, they gaze upon the visage of Cersei Lannister. To know her fury is shared is as a sort of vindication as it sparks in her eyes, which narrow in a gaze of utter disgust. This woman's husband had felled her brother at the Trident. Her brother, next to her, had killed her father. Her father had cared nothing when her sister-in-law, nice and nephew had been slain. And now, if she could, she would command Drogon to render her asunder with dragonfire.

The fate she deserves. Her knuckles turn white, and she shakes her head. "That would have been more of a mercy than she deserves. Which is none."