At The Lists
Myrwin, encased in enough steel to make him clank when he walked, awkwardly mounted his fine warhorse.
Brute, knowing his mind, didn't try to throw him more than once or twice before he got settled in, his helm adjusted, and the lance squared away.
Not his sport, this, but he was a Prince of Dorne and he would show his country in the best possible light. His first foe was a nobody, really. Some Florent third son in badly-fitted, scarred armor. He didn't make it past the first tilt - Myrwin unhorsed him without even much of an effort.
Jousting was so _dull_ compared to the grand melee. Still, there was some sport to be had here. The resounding crash that Florent made when he hit the ground, for example. Or the low groan of pain.