In the sprawling verdant hills of the Westerlands, where gold hemorrhaged from the mines like ale from a drunkard's flask, Sir Gerris of Broadchest stood triumphantly amidst the rubble of a freshly quashed rebellion. His armor, a lustrous cascade of steel and leather, hugged his mountainous physique like a needy squire. The spoils of his victory? A harem of Lannister twink nobles, each a delectable specimen of Westerlander beauty, whose soft golden locks caught the sunlight as if spun from the very gold that lined their family coffers. They had found themselves in the bedchambers of a half-toppled keep, though none seemed to mind the mild breeze that swept through the crumbled walls--least of all, Sir Gerris. The burly knight filled the room with his presence, a sturdy oak amidst a grove of willowy saplings. At the room's center lay an enormous bed, salvaged from the keep's wreckage, now groaning under the carnal congress of mirth and flesh. The knight's bristly beard brushed against a wispy-haired twink's impeccably sculpted jawline as he whispered sweet nothings with a voice like gravel down a well-worn path. This was Lancel, the slender and sylphlike, whose eyes flickered with coy mischief as he nibbled on a honey-drizzled fig, the juices trickling down his chin with an impudent disregard for cleanliness. To Lancel's left, lounged Jaime--not to be confused with the Kingslayer, though one could argue his devastating cheekbones were guilty of murder. Legs entwined like the vines of the Arbor, Jaime's laughter bubbled through the air as he indulged in lemon cakes too sweet for any but the most hedonistic of palates. His pert buttocks bore the faintest of blushes, a testimony to the rousing games of "claim the castle" that had unfolded in the dim hours of the morning. At their feet, dear comely Tybolt rested, his cherubic features alight with a euphoric glow that only excessive consumption of spiced wine could afford. A cascade of fine silks, stolen from the stashes of a fallen Lannister matriarch, obscured nothing of his lithe form, his limbs splayed with a languid grace. As the most intrepid of the harem, luscious Terry, draped across the knight in a tangle of limbs, felt the exhilarating quake of their union. The bed creaked and complained beneath them, echoing through the hollow chambers like a bard's ballad--a symphony of wood and desire. Each push from Sir Gerris sent ripples across Terry's alabaster skin, his glistening frame quivering with delight, while his brethren of the bed giggled and cooed at the performance. The room reeked of spilt honey, liquor, and the sweet musk of heated bodies. Through the open ivy-choked windows, the sound wafted far and wide, reaching the ears of peasants and nobles alike. Some shook their heads in disbelief; others winked knowingly at each other. After all, who would dare challenge the whims of Sir Gerris of Broadchest, when he had laid low the lion's pride and picked up its cubs for a most peculiar sort of petting? In between seismic thrusts and sprawling feasts of candied grapes and sugar-dusted scones, the knight and his troupe engaged in banter as delicate as their slender waists. They shared tales of their upbringings--how they pranced and preened in courts of intrigue, now finding their greatest thrill as ornaments in the burly warrior's boudoir jamboree. Alas, the knight and the twink nobles were blissfully unaware that the very bed which served as their den of iniquity was not built for such enthusiastic endeavors and was but a thrust away from collapse. And when that final monumental heave came to pass, it was accompanied by the clatter of splintering wood and a cacophony of shrieking delight. Lying in a comely heap amid the ruins of their exuberant exertions, the entwined lovers were left only microscopically less beautiful with their hair tousled and cheeks flushed; they decided henceforth that the floor was a perfectly suitable alternative for further exploits. For in the warmth of their shared laughter and the endless splay of legs and arms, Sir Gerris of Broadchest and his harem of Lannister twink nobles were, against all odds, a rather convivial family forged in the fires of war and wantonness.