A Way With Words

Chapter 4

"That is a foolish idea!" The Septa scolded him as he hastily put the armor on. "You cannot go against the Stark man. He will kill you."

Petyr ignored her, envisioning his victory. He would win Cat's hand. He knew it.

"What would your father say?" The Septa added.

"My father is not here." Petyr snapped, adjusting his breastplate. "I make my own decisions. Who are you to make them for me?"

"I am not making your decisions, Petyr. I am simply warning you against this unsensical decision."

With sword in hand, he began to stride towards the outdoors. Seeing the man, more than twice his size, he began to regret every decision. Edmure scowled in his direction. He had been the first to claim the position of Brandon Stark's squire.

"What are you, a boy of twelve??" Brandon guffawed. He gestured to Edmure.

"Yes, m'lord?" Edmure asked, submissively.
"Take my armor off. I won't need it for this boy." Edmure did as he ordered.

"I'm a boy of fifteen." Petyr tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. It still felt heavy in his hands despite the months of practice. "May I have your favor, Lady Catelyn?"

"No. I rather give it to my betrothed." Catelyn looked directly at Brandon Stark. Her response made him furious. She would rather give her favor to her husband rather than her brother?

"Shall we begin?" He scowled, raising his sword. The Stark man agreed.

Instead of taking the first move, Petyr watched as the man barreled through and he sidestepped with ease. Confidence surging, he raised his sword higher, swinging.

Pain shot up his non-sword arm and he sucked in air.

"You have time to yield, Petyr." Brandon Stark explained, pointing the bloodied tip of his sword at Petyr.

"No. I will not." Petyr rammed his shoulder into the Stark, only to fall. He felt warm blood on his abdomen and his shoulder. White spots danced in front of his eyes.

"Yield!" He heard Brandon shout. When Petyr refused to respond, he felt another burning laceration on his side.

"Yield." He shook his head in response. Blood filled his mouth, the taste of iron growing stronger by the minute.

"Yield!" Petyr was on his knees, blinded by the pain and still refusing to yield.

"Yield!" This time, it came from Catelyn. Without looking, Petyr sensed her anxiety and nervousness. "You still have a chance to yield!"

The butt end of the sword hit his forehead, nearly knocking him unconscious. Yet, he stood up, staggering as he approached Brandon Stark, listening to the deep breathing of the man.

"I will give you one last chance to yield, Little Lord Baelish." The Stark grunted.

"I. Will. Not. Yield." Petyr stammered on his words. They had fought down the bailey and into the foot of the stream. His blood had turned the clear water a light shade of red.

The pain was excruciating this time. The sound similar to tearing paper, his chest plate did little to stop the blade from penetrating both skin and muscle. Chainmail snapped under the force and embedded itself into his flesh.

"Cat!" he cried out towards her, but Catelyn Tully hid behind the body of her betrothed. The shallows of the stream caught him and began to drown him. Petyr, incapacitated, thrashed and flailed for even a single intake of air. Brackish water irritated his dozens of wounds and he finally settled at the bottom of the stream, a mixture of blood and water filling his lungs.