[ sansa does not panic her way into a monologue. she endures the fact that she is visible through her locket and yet not speaking -- but she would rather digest the lord of mair's words in full before spouting some knee-jerk response. hers will not be a minor reign filled with thoughtless threats and claims. she will agonize over every word: a strength and weakness both.

eventually: ] Should Cothromach fall once, it may yet fall again. Does your grace truly believe something so slight as a city changing hands will keep war from your borders?

[ no. she doubts it. she doubts it very much. too many castles have changed their lords in westeros these past years: there is no such thing as certain rule any longer. harrenhal has shuffled a half-dozen times and even now its lord by one side is different to its lord by another. she wonders even now if petyr baelish even believes the cursed towers his, or whether that title is appended to his name as a mere courtesy. another playing piece. ]