[center][h3][i]Petyr Clegane[/i][/h3][/center]

He was young. Young and foolhardy if you asked his father. Petyr sat in his tent, finishing up the polishing of his armor before the melee. His father was with Sansa and Lord Tyrion, watching over the joust. Petyr was still uncertain about Knighthood in spite of what his father had told him up to this point. Of course he knew about his Uncle, the Mountain that rides. A monster, a brutal murderer and rapist Gregor Clegane was a mockery of a knight indeed. But there were many great ones as well. Barristan Selmy, Sir Dunkan the Tall and others who were knights in every sense of the word. As he stared into his breastplate Petyr thought about what he was doing. The Grand melee would have hundreds of knights and other warriors from all across the Seven Kingdoms and maybe even further afield, and while not as dangerous as a real battle a melee would result in deaths. Why do this? Why risk himself like this? Because he was a Clegane. Born of a warrior dynasty, the second generation of Cleganes. Already he was imposing, six feet tall and burly at the mere age of fourteen. He smiled, and began to armor himself.

As he armored himself he thought about his fathers lessons, on how to fight and survive. He looked to his choice of wepons once his armor was securely in place, it had been modeled off his fathers, much to Sandor's dissatisfaction. His father had scoffed at that, told Petyr the reason he was known as the pup was because he looked to much like his father already. Petyr didn't care, he claimed he just liked the look. He turned to the table on which his weapons were set. In the Melee you could only bring only one... his sword or his hammer. He walked to the table and examined both... in a fight with blunted weapons, perhaps a his hammer would be best. He picked up the heavy one handed weapon, tossing it in his hand he smiled, setting it back down in order to get the last piece of his armor. The Chainmail coif had been customized to cover all but his eyes. He had tied his hair in order to stop it getting caught in the mail to easily. He marched back to the table, picking up his hammer and the heater shield, the crest of house Clegane was displayed. And, for the final touch, Clegane picked up the long black cloak, clipping it to his shoulders he marched from the tent, ready to find his fame in the coming melee.

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[center][h3][i]Sandor Clegane[/i][/h3][/center]

Sandor was more nervous than he thought he would be. He had seen wars, terrible wars and death untold. Yet now, in a simple grand melee he was restless watching. Surely it wasn't that brat Petyr... he was one of he largest contestants and he had trained the boy himself. There should be nothing to worry about... yet worry he did. It would not be hard for one who knew Clegane well to tell he was mildliy distressed, muttering under his breath about 'foolhardy children'. He watched as the many knigths and warriors set to participate in the melee made their way to the grounds. He supposed he'd finally get to see what his son was made of.