The reddish-brown walls of Riverrun were brimming with festive cheer.
The halls were draped with colorful ribbons for the upcoming wedding, and the air was thick with the sweet aroma of roasted meat and freshly brewed mead.
Brandon Stark—the heir to the North, known for his fiery temper—paced anxiously like a direwolf trapped in a cage down the carpeted corridor. He should have been immersed in the joy of soon marrying his beautiful bride, Catelyn Tully, accepting the blessings of guests.
But at this precise moment, his willful sister had disappeared.
"Lyanna!" Brandon's low growl overpowered the joyful music in the distance. His fist slammed heavily onto the cold stone windowsill. "That mad girl! Where has she gone crazy off to at a time like this!?"
Anger burned fiercely in his gray eyes, almost bursting forth.
He imagined the moment he found her—he would grab her shoulders and shake her hard, then give her a sound spanking like disciplining an ignorant pup, and lock her in the coldest, dimmest tower room of Winterfell for three whole months to let her reflect on responsibility and family honor!
Outside the window, the turbulent river rushed endlessly, as if sensing the sudden storm and eager to carry ominous news to the south.
Just as the anger in Brandon's chest burned hottest, every nerve vibrating with Lyanna's willfulness, a reckless thing collided with his blade.
It was a thin and small figure, almost like a boy not yet grown, looking insignificant before the tall Stark heir. Petyr Baelish—a minor character mocked and ignored by everyone, fit only to be called "Littlefinger." During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, his father had befriended Hoster Tully, so Petyr was sent to Riverrun as a ward.
Petyr held his head high now, his clever eyes burning with a near-foolish, mad courage completely incongruous with his physique.
His voice might not have been loud, but it pierced clearly through the stagnant air of the corridor. Every word was like a slap of provocation: "Brandon Stark," he shouted, with a laughable formality, "I challenge you to a duel. Only the victor—is worthy to take Catelyn Tully as his wife."
In an instant, the air seemed to freeze. This absurd challenge was like throwing another spark into a volcano about to erupt.
This sudden duel was irresistible as iron law. In Westeros, once a challenge involving honor and life was issued, no one could refuse, and no one had the authority to stop it. It hung like a cold contract between the two competitors.
The location was chosen in the lower courtyard of Riverrun.
The rough stone pavement bore witness to countless years; towering walls cast cold shadows, shrouding the venue in a grim atmosphere. Curious and nervous servants and knights crowded the surrounding corridors and windows, whispers rising and falling like tides.
Young Edmure Tully, Catelyn's brother, stood beside Brandon with pursed lips, serving as his second. His eyes held a mix of loyalty to his brother-in-law and unease about this conflict.
When the scrawny Petyr Baelish stepped forward, wearing only a helmet, breastplate, and a thin layer of mail, Brandon Stark snorted coldly. A trace of impatience, even contempt, flashed in his eyes. He waved his hand without hesitation, ordering his squire to unbuckle his fine arm guards, pauldrons, and extra armor piece by piece, throwing them onto the cold stone ground with heavy clangs.
He would end this absurd provocation quickly, on equal terms.
Sunlight glinted off the cold edges of blades. A duel of disparate strength was about to unfold in this ancient courtyard.
The pre-duel ritual was shrouded in suffocating silence.
Petyr Baelish turned to the stands, gazing burningly at Catelyn Tully. Summoning all his courage, he asked her for a token of blessing—in knightly tradition, this symbolized a lady's favor.
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But Catelyn avoided his fervent and humble gaze. Her heart tightened with guilt and worry. She knew there was no suspense in this duel, and knew even better that the frail Petyr had absolutely no chance of defeating the powerful heir of the North.
She didn't even glance at Petyr. Instead, she stood up silently and firmly, walking toward Brandon Stark.
Catelyn's two elder brothers had died in infancy, so before Edmure was born, Lord Hoster had treated her like a son. Her character was resolute and mindful of the big picture; she knew what should be said and done at such a time.
Under the gaze of the crowd, she handed a meticulously embroidered pale blue handkerchief to her fiancé.
On the soft silk leaped the symbol of Riverrun—a trout embroidered in silver thread, a gift she had sewn herself. "For honor," her voice dropped very low, becoming a plea only Brandon could hear. "He is just a foolish child, but I love him like a brother. If he dies, I will be very sad. So please... show mercy!"
Brandon looked at his fiancée and nodded.
Just then, an unexpected figure moved. Catelyn's younger sister, young Lysa Tully, suddenly rushed out from behind the stands. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes shining with a reckless, almost blind light. She rushed to the edge of the field, almost stumbling, and stuffed a small, ribboned favor into Petyr's hand, completing the ritual he craved but failed to get from another.
In this moment, the choices of the two Tully sisters, distinct as the waters of different rivers, foreshadowed the vastly different torrents of their future fates.
The duel was barely begun before it neared its end.
Brandon Stark was like a direwolf pouncing on a fawn, his offense berserk and merciless. Every swing of his sword brought a dull wind sound, forcing Petyr Baelish back step by step, from the stone pavement of the castle courtyard all the way to the slippery water stairs.
The clash of blades rang incessantly. Brandon's sword fell like cold rain, making Petyr stagger, unable to parry effectively. Blood soon spattered on his simple mail.
Brandon stopped his attack more than once, his low voice mixing impatience with a rare restraint. "Yield, boy! You've proven your courage—but that's enough!"
But Petyr always struggled to stand firm. With a stubbornness bordering on stupidity on his bloodied face, he shook his head and raised that laughably small sword again.
Finally, in the shallows where river water covered his ankles, Brandon lost all patience. With a fierce backhand swing, his longsword tore the air, piercing precisely and viciously through the ringmail and leather lining of Petyr's breastplate. The blade sliced through the soft flesh below his ribs, cutting a wound deep enough to show bone.
Petyr convulsed violently, his sword dropping from his hand. He staggered back a step, bright blood surging out instantly, dyeing the river crimson.
Petyr fell heavily between blood and water. Pale fingers tried futilely to cover the wound, blood still gushing from between them. Yet he seemed not to feel the pain. His unfocused gaze still stared stubbornly at Catelyn on the stands, his lips moving weakly, murmuring, "Catelyn..."
Brandon sheathed his sword and stood, his chest barely heaving, only a few strands of brown hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He looked down at Petyr curling in pain in the water. There was no pity in his gray eyes, only a layer of cold, undisguised disdain.
He knew his sword perfectly. The force and angle of that backhand strike were precisely controlled within the range of punishment rather than killing—enough to pierce iron rings and leather, slicing open flesh to let this boy who didn't know the height of the sky bleed enough and taste bitterness, yet absolutely not damaging internal organs or endangering his life.
The clear river water was dyed a shocking crimson by the blood continuously seeping from under Petyr, blooming like a gorgeous, cruel flower in the water.
Staring at the spreading red, the fire of rage burning in Brandon's chest due to Lyanna's disappearance seemed finally somewhat quenched by this cold river water and the challenger's blood, venting a trace of the suffocating heat. He took a deep breath of air smelling of water and rust, as if finally able to breathe.