Petyr Baelish's great-grandfather was a common wandering knight for hire. His grandfather, lacking land, served as a sworn knight, essentially a servant to his lord. By the time of his father, the family finally possessed a tiny, rocky island in the Fingers as their hereditary territory. Twenty years prior, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, the Baelish family forged a friendship with the Tully Duke. Petyr, as a young boy, was sent to Riverrun to be fostered, becoming a ward of the great lords.
Was this a heartwarming tale of a family's rise through the ranks?
Thirteen-year-old Petyr would never forget the shame he felt the first time he entered the unfamiliar yet magnificent castle. He only wore a black linen outfit, well-fitting but devoid of golden buttons, brooches, or embroidered threads, making him look inferior even to most of the servants. His family was unknown, and he ate food he'd never tasted before, unable to maintain the same decorum at the table as the Duke and his sons. He wandered the castle, aimlessly, timidly. He eventually found himself in the godswood, sitting with his head bowed, trying to recall his father's instructions to boost his courage, when a heavenly voice called down, "Hello there, little brother! We're family now."
He looked up. A beautiful girl with auburn hair, like an elf in the forest, her cheeks flushed, her lips like roses. She wore a creamy white velvet dress, a necklace of sapphires and rubies dangling from her chest. She extended her hand to him kindly, "I'm Catelyn, you're so cute!"
From that day on, he was in love with her. They grew up together in Riverrun. Edmure Tully, the future Duke, was like a brother to him, and Catelyn was his dearest love. They all called him Littlefinger. They played in the godswood. He happily ate the mud cookies she made. His little sister, Lysa, always asked him to pick her up and spin her around – their laughter was so harmonious. He always thought he was truly a member of the Tully family, or at least deserved to be until...
He realized that Catelyn could only be betrothed to the heir of a lord of the Seven Kingdoms. He subtly expressed his feelings to the Duke Tully, only to be told not to be so delusional. He confided in Edmure, who only laughed, thinking he was joking.
Birth, lineage. His true origins, lacking any power or influence, his family possessing only the wealth of a few dozen sheep, their crumbling castle perched on barren rock. The past, which he had thought faded, had always been there! What was he? Petyr, a scrawny little gray bird, raised among the peacocks! In the end, not a single one of the gorgeous feathers belonged to him.
At the banquet, Petyr once again stared at Brandon Stark, who had stolen his beloved. He knew this man had taken the virginity of a local woman in the North – but what good was it? The Duke Tully didn't care at all about the evidence he presented.
He understood with despair that his objections were meaningless. As long as the other man was tall, handsome, and, most importantly, held the vastest territory in the future, Catelyn would become the Duchess of Winterfell in the North, and bear him children. Why didn't he even have a chance to try?
He downed a large glass of wine, pain and resentment clawing at his heart. He watched Catelyn, and, by the gods, she was smiling at Stark! Her auburn hair, flushed cheeks, and lips like roses...
The flames of jealousy were fanned by the wine. He suddenly and loudly called out Brandon Stark's name, "I challenge you to a duel!!"
Everyone was shocked.
Lysa, who had been standing beside him, turned pale and desperately tugged at his wide sleeve, begging, "Oh, you're drunk! Poor Littlefinger!"
"No, I am not drunk." Petyr walked in front of Brandon, who was much taller than him. "In the name of men, in the name of Catelyn's admirer, I challenge you to a duel!"
Sixteen-year-old Brandon raised his heroic eyebrows, and burst out, "What did you say?"
The faces of the Duke of Tully and Catelyn immediately became grim. The Duke of Tully was afraid that Brandon would misunderstand Catelyn's reputation...
In the banquet hall, a single person began to clap. The Duke looked over and saw it was Prince Viserys. The young prince stood up from beside his brother and clapped his hands together, pa-pa.
The Crown Prince Rhaegar made no move to stop him.
Viserys spoke clearly, "This is a very courageous person. I do appreciate that. He's like a fearless knight. May I ask his name?"
The Duke was forced to awkwardly introduce his foster son, Petyr Baelish, from the Fingers.
"The Fingers? Where's that? I've never heard of it," Brandon Stark said with youthful arrogance, mocking, "Is it some backwater place? What's there? Sheep? Rabbits? Or people who can't afford trousers?"
Viserys said calmly, "The Fingers are in the Vale. Because of the constant strong winds along the coast. But I believe it's a strategic key—with a favorable wind, a navy could arrive and land smoothly on the shallows."
Petyr couldn't help but look at this noble Targaryen. He was a very handsome boy, defending his family with his words. He and his older brother, the Crown Prince, sat at the head of the table; they were dazzling, their hair seeming to glow.
Brandon raised his head proudly and said loudly, "Very well, I accept the duel. Anyone who dares to covet the Stark family's fiancée deserves a lesson."
The duel was scheduled for tomorrow. It was a minor event before Brandon's participation in the jousting tournament. Prince Rhaegar would be the judge for Gregor's duel in the opening match.
It was fate. Petyr Baelish stood no chance against Brandon, who had received the best knightly training in the North. Viserys watched Lysa, who was on the verge of tears, and Catelyn, whose face was a mixture of embarrassment and worry—losing wouldn't be life-threatening. Catelyn's request would ensure that.
Viserys didn't have the time or the inclination to continue paying attention to Petyr. All his thoughts and intelligence were focused on his brother's event tomorrow: his brother had to be safe, sound, and absolutely without fault.
Because his brother was an honorable knight, Viserys resisted the urge to find viper venom to coat the Valyrian Steel Sword. He carefully cleaned his brother's equipment for the match: armor, saddle, sword—if Robert saw this, he would understand how perfunctory he had been before.
He examined the black helmet again in the candlelight—and then, a reliable, warm embrace appeared behind him.
"Brother," he tilted his head back, gently nuzzling like a silver-haired big cat.
Rhaegar leaned down and kissed his forehead. He praised his brother as the best squire, who would definitely become the best knight one day. Today's words about the importance of the island were outstanding, since the Targaryen family landed on Dragonstone.
Viserys understood that his brother wanted to make him feel relaxed. So, he took his brother's hand and said to him, "Brother, after you get married and are made a prince, you must station troops and train them on Dragonstone. That's your domain, your power! I see that the other dukes all have their own troops, and the Targaryen king—must also have an army he has personally led for many years."
Rhaegar kissed his ever-worried younger brother again, "I will." However, when he thought of marriage, his purple eyes darkened, and only he understood the sigh of melancholy in his heart.
The next day, the circular arena outside Riverrun was packed with spectators. Prince Viserys sat in the front row without hesitation, close enough that he could jump over the stone pillar fence and down two steps to reach the center of the arena. The huge, flat sandstone floor was inlaid with a pattern of a large trout, which reminded him of "fish on the chopping block" – Viserys frowned, gripping his small silver side sword tightly, planning that if anything went wrong, he would rush down and stab Gregor, or be killed by him. He looked at Barristan, who was standing below as a guard, and thought that in such a situation, the Kingsguard wouldn't just stand by, would they?
The side door opened, and Crown Prince Rhaegar, wearing gleaming black Targaryen armor with the three-headed dragon, entered the arena steadily, holding the family's Valyrian Steel Sword in one hand, amidst a frenzy of cheers.
On the other side, Gregor, his shield was an oak board with an iron border bearing the emblem of the three-headed black dog, his armor was thick and heavy like a tank, and with his greatsword in hand, everyone was shocked by the pressure this burly giant gave off as he entered: he was perhaps the most burly man in Westeros!
Viserys stood up nervously, looking at his brother, then at Gregor—cold sweat streaming down his face uncontrollably.
At this moment, the Crown Prince walked towards the nearest spectator seats, the noblewomen in the audience were especially excited: according to custom, before the knight's tournament, the knight could ask a certain woman in attendance for a token to wear on his person to show that he was fighting for that person. They didn't know who would have this honor and be favored by the Crown Prince. They were extremely nervous, their expectant eyes blinking—
However, Rhaegar stopped in front of his brother, Viserys, and smiled, reaching out his hand to him.
Oh, it was the little prince. The people present didn't find it too strange. The Crown Prince had announced that he didn't have a beloved yet, and it was reasonable for him to fight for his brother today. Viserys, on the other hand, was stunned and didn't understand.
"Viserys, give me something of yours. I will wear it always," Rhaegar had to tell him.
Viserys immediately started patting himself down frantically—he couldn't find anything in his haste and, in a moment of inspiration, simply drew his silver sword, cut off a lock of his silver hair, tied it together, and wove it into a ring, which he fastened around his brother's wrist.
"Brother, I am with you, in life and death," he declared firmly, his purple eyes wide, straining to look at the radiant figure.
Rhaegar stood against the light, his silver hair and black helmet too dazzling, so Viserys couldn't see his expression. But was his brother smiling? He kissed the token on his wrist and turned to walk toward the arena.
Barristan watched the young prince and began to think again, it's a pity he is not a princess... otherwise, how perfect.
The jousting began.
Rhaegar didn't attack rashly. He stood firm, feet spread shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, taking a T-stance to maintain balance and move fluidly in any direction, the tip of his Valyrian Steel Sword pointed at the ground—
In Gregor's eyes, this was a golden opportunity to attack. He swung his greatsword at the Crown Prince! Rhaegar quickly moved his feet aside, and as the greatsword slashed down, the Valyrian Steel Sword's blade angled upward, shearing through the steel armor, and a gash opened across his chest in a jarring sound.
The Crown Prince moved swiftly, leaping out of the reach of the giant sword. Gregor roared as he swung his sword in a series of chops. The Crown Prince moved his right leg to the right, and at the same time, brought his steel sword down at an angle—Viserys recognized the theory, using the strong part of the sword to block an incoming strike, which would push aside the weaker part of his opponent's greatsword—it was the principle of leverage in action.
However, the Mountain's strength was immense. Even though Rhaegar was mentally prepared, he felt his grip on the sword go numb, almost losing hold of it. Silver hair gleamed around his wrist as Rhaegar quickly drew back his sword, and Gregor's greatsword was already slashing toward his head again.
..."A clash can block any blow from above." The words from Queen Visenya's journals, which he had read, flashed through his mind in the space of a lightning strike. Rhaegar nimbly stepped forward and to the side, deflecting the greatsword, and the Valyrian Steel Sword thrust toward Gregor's face—the Crown Prince realized the tip of the sword hadn't pierced the helmet, and immediately transitioned into a thrusting attack.
This time, the sharp blade pierced Gregor's raised armpit—when he raised his sword to strike, the gap in the armor where the joints were protected only by a thin layer of metal became the weakest point.
Rhaegar felt the unusual sensation of the sword tip—the Mountain was wearing a layer of chainmail under his plate armor, but this intricate network of metal rings was still no match for the priceless Valyrian Steel. He pulled out his sword, the tip stained with blood, and he had wounded Gregor.
Great strength, a terrifying reach, high defense, and brutal madness: the Mountain had shed the first blood in the arena.
Viserys's lips trembled. He had seen his brother's advantages clearly: more agile and flexible, combining offense and defense, and the weapon he wielded cut through metal far better than the Red Viper's spear.
The two fought again.
Gregor's heavy plate armor was scored with many cuts. He roared and howled like a beast, gripping his greatsword, constantly hacking at the crown prince.
Every defense should be an opportunity for attack. The silver-haired dream queen, perhaps Visenya, perhaps Alysanne, or someone grown up, someone only existing in his dreams, seemed to blend light and shadow, layering the glory and love of the Targaryens as she stood in the arena, telling Rhaegar. See clearly, the opponent looked like an ox, a giant wild ox, with huge horns, striking upwards.
"Curb hit." The figure wearing the queen's crown said.
Prince Viserys saw his brother's sword make a movement like a modern windshield wiper. Then, he stepped forward, away from the direction of the sword's strike—
Rhaegar moved with his footwork, jumping out of the attack range, and slashed downwards, swiftly changing the direction of his sword, the Valyrian Steel blade aimed at Gregor's hand!!
No, not a slash! A lift!!
The sword's edge angled downwards, the slender blade precisely inserted into Gregor's forearm armor from behind!! This glove-like armor didn't tightly fit the forearm, and Rhaegar seized the opportunity when the gaps were wide open!!
The Valyrian Steel pierced flesh and blood, lifting into bone as if splitting a crisp cucumber.
Prince Viserys's greatest fear was realized: the sword was stuck in the bone. Fortunately, Rhaegar forced it free, yanking his sword from the enemy's flesh and bone.
The Mountain's armpit, which had been bleeding, was now useless. His sword hand was effectively crippled. The brute let out a painful howl, but still didn't fall. He switched hands, holding his sword with the other. His eyes were bloodshot, glaring at Rhaegar – he wanted to crush him!
Barristan, seeing the young prince's tense expression, as though he might faint at any moment, couldn't help but speak, "Your Grace, this man named Gregor is not skilled in swordsmanship. The Crown Prince, myself, even Arthur Dayne could defeat him. The reason he appears so formidable is entirely due to his strength, physique, and heavy armor. If one were to compete with him in strength, like Robert Baratheon, injury is certain. But look, the Valyrian Steel Sword is incredibly sharp. The Crown Prince's mind is clear, his actions are calm; he already knows what opportunities to seize to win."
Yes, is that so? That's right. The Red Viper would have killed the Mountain long ago if he'd been decisive.
Sure enough, the injury slowed the brute's movements. Rhaegar struck again, plunging his sword into the gap between his knee and the toes of his foot.
Gregor swayed, collapsing in the center of the trout emblem. Though he still held his greatsword, he seemed unable to wield it.
Rhaegar stood, sword in hand, gazing at the man on the ground. Gregor tried to push himself up with his elbows, crawling forward… he was getting closer…
"Brother!! Watch out!! Watch out!!!" Prince Viserys screamed hysterically!!!
Gregor swung his sword towards Rhaegar's knee! It was a wild strike! But the Crown Prince seemed to anticipate it, meeting the blow with his own elbow, and drawing his sword across!
Crimson, stinking blood gushed out like a fountain! The arm that had been gripping the greatsword was severed from the body!
"You attacked royalty, and injured my brother. An arm for an arm," Rhaegar declared coldly, his sword pointed at Gregor's head.
The hysterical Little Prince had already climbed onto the railing, and Barristan had to stop him from jumping down. Viserys glared at Gregor, who was wailing on the ground – The Mountain had one hand severed and the tendons of the other hand slashed, his blood pooling and staining the trout emblem in the center of the arena – "Brother won! Won!!" A clean sweep!!!
Gazing at Rhaegar, who held his sword like a god, Viserys's eyes ignited, his hysteria turning into fanaticism. A raging fire burned in his heart, and the string of nightmares he had feared finally, finally, vanished into smoke and ashes – his brother's offspring wouldn't be crushed by those vicious hands, the Red Viper Prince wouldn't have his head smashed – even the most dreaded thing, the blood-soaked Ruby Ford, would be consumed by the flames of a world-altering inferno.