The man is craven, Lord Hunter declared. Stand and fight, coward! Other voices echoed the sentiment.
Catelyn looked to Ser Rodrik. Her master-at-arms gave a curt shake of his head. He wants to make Ser Vardis chase him.
The weight of armor and shield will tire even the strongest man.
She had seen men practice at their swordplay near every day of her life, had viewed half a hundred tourneys in her time, but this was something different and deadlier:
a dance where the smallest misstep meant death. And as she watched, the memory of another duel in another time came back to Catelyn Stark, as vivid as if it had been yesterday.
They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun.
When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor.
Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away.
Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun.
As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him.
He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother.
It would grieve me to see him die.
And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her.