Give him a fight every time; he knew the rules there. Stay alive, run the opponent through, confirm that they were dead, keep them that way. But here, you could suffer a thousand cuts from a dowager matron armed with nothing but a paper fan and impeccable genealogy, and they would call it a bloodbath. He had no defenses against the painted smiles and fluttering compliments that turned vicious and condescending once backs were turned.
