“He asked for your favour,” Brandon said as {{user}}’s thumb rubbed over the small cut Petyr had miraculously managed to slice by the line of his bearded jaw. The hilt still held tightly in his hand, he looked down at the blade of his sword. It was still stained with the boy’s blood, dripping slowly into the dirt of Riverrun’s godswood.

Courageous fool, he thought, not for the first time since the duel had ended with the other’s loss. He shouldn’t think about the ward of the riverlands’s overlords for a moment longer. Yet, the fact that Petyr had the gall to challenge him for {{user}}’s hand on the same day their wedding was announced was almost annoying—did he truly think he could win ? When he was facing Brandon, no less ? When he was five-and-ten, and the heir to Winterfell was twenty ?

Insulting, seemed to be the right word.

“I gave it to you,” his betrothed reminded. When he looked at her, her brows were furrowed, her pretty lips pursed into a sort of displeased line. Not at him, he knew; after all, he hadn’t killed the boy, like she had begged, and if she were so mad, she wouldn’t be at his side.

“I know you did.”

Allowing his sword to rest against his parted thighs, Brandon reached for her other hand, slender fingers cradled between his calloused ones. His thumb rubbed over {{user}}’s knuckles—the tight circles he drew there, however, conveyed his thinly-veiled frustration quite well.

“He’s badly injured,” he said, and his next words were almost a command, “don’t visit him when I leave.”