https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8gfqs1-NuE&ab_channel=MeekMill

Tytos had gone up against Jack Whent over seven tilts. He had chosen a fine desiter, with a midnight black mane to boot. Tytos had adorned simple plate armor and a full helm. He had ridden seven times, and on the final round, he had levied his lance into Jack Whent’s chest, driving him into the dirt. He was smiling brightly under his visor. This was nothing but the first step of accomplishment for the young boy. He would succeed in this joust, and make his name known. He would, and he’d make his father and Tywin proud. Aye, he’d give a wreath to a fine lady in that crowd. He was sure of it after he made it past the qualifying round. He turned his steed back letting the rest of the tilts take place as he only drank water and ate very little, taking a seat on a small bench, his head down in rest.

Little Erwin Clegane had participated in the Melee, using his small body, trying to dodge and weave fully grown men swinging blunted blades. He was literally surviving for his life. A man swinging a sword at his head, as he tried to deflect in time. The seven be great, Erwin had actually managed to starve off the attacker. Erwin dropped his guard and ran like hell to a corner in the arena. A sword was swung into his chest, slamming Erwin into the ground, and his wind knocked out of him. He couldn’t breathe. Erwin was going to die in this suit of armor, and it was all because of his brother!

Tytos heard his name called to the lists, readying his horse, hearing the name “Arryn”. A great house? Tytos was going up against a great house? Seven hells. Tytos closed his visor with sheer determination. The joust was a flash in the boy's life. It all happened so quickly. He was fending blocks off from Jon Arryn’s lance, yet one always seemed to get to him. He wasn’t going to win this one, and Tytos knew it. He readied his lance, which would be the last ride for him in this tournament. He was going to try and unhorse Jon Arryn, a last-ditch effort to drive all of his force into his lance. It backfired on him. Maybe Tytos had lost his footing, maybe he wasn’t strong enough, or he was just too inexperienced. He was the one sent flying in the air. He rolled in the dirt for what felt like an eternity. His nose repeatedly bashed into his visor as he had gone unhorsed. He felt a warm drip emerge out of his nose, but he couldn't stop it. All he could taste was copper, and his face getting wet.

Erwin had managed to get up, facing a man he would later know as Ormund Yornwood. He had swung his sword into the Yornwoods foot repeatedly as a means of survival. He continued to bash at the Yornwood, somehow winning that battle and knocking the bigger knight out. Erwin rushed to continue, hoping to just get knocked out at this point. He didn't have any more fight in himself. His wish was delivered as a man wearing a Bolton sigil bashed his head in with ease, Erwin not even having a chance to fight back. Erwin’s last memory of that melee was watching the Bolton walk off with a cool swagger, returning to the melee.

Tytos found himself taking his visor off as his face smeared in crimson, and his nose kept contributing to the color. After a long enough fixing of his broken nose, he had found himself watching over Blackwater Bay…next time there was no time to lose. He had gotten beat by a Fowler, because he as a boy had decided to go against grown men. And he didn’t earn anything from it but a broken nose, and Erwin a minor concussion. Tytos dropped on all fours and started to push himself down, and then up. Aye…he wouldn’t fail again. He continued to push up and down, dressed in an easy-to-wear cotton shirt and regular breeches. He then started to run up and down the docks, until past sunset, this was a new era for the dogs. And all they had to show for it was a failure.