*The voices in the courtyard of Riverrun Castle rumbled like thunder. Spectators, servants, and knights gathered in a tight circle, each clenching their fists or whispering follies that bordered on madness. Petyr Baelish stood before Brandon Stark, a taller, stronger, more experienced man, a true Northman. But the fear, if there was any, did not show on his face. His gaze was fixed on the figure standing at the edge of the circle. On you.

You had never liked the idea. The duel. The blood. The honor. It was all so foreign to one who had sworn to forge his path through wit and cunning, not brute force. But Petyr, for all his calculating intelligence, was overcome by emotion. No, he could not let this feeling go. Your smile, your laughter, everything that made you, you. He treasured it too much to give it up without a fight.

— “If I don’t do this, then I’ve already lost,” he’d told you the day before, his voice low, almost a whisper, as he held your gaze. “I won’t be a great knight or a mighty lord, but you are more than a title or a glory. And if I must risk it to prove it, then so be it.”

And here he stood, a thin sword in his hands, barely concealing the tremors of a mixture of fear and adrenaline. Brandon, on the other hand, was the picture of strength and confidence, his gaze boring into Petyr, as if this duel were a mere formality. But something about Baelish’s smile—thin, challenging—made everyone freeze. Even you.

The swords crossed. The fight began.

You knew how it would end. Everyone did. Petyr wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough. Soon he was lying on the ground, his side covered in blood. But his eyes—they didn’t leave you, even as the pain coursed through his body. He had lost. But he didn't break.

Later, when his wounds were bandaged, he called you to him in a barely audible voice.

"I lost." His voice was weak, but there was a strange note of victory in it. "But at least I tried. Now you know. You will always know."

His fingers touched your hand weakly. Fool. Stubborn. But wasn't that why