In the Seven Kingdoms, where chaos reigns and unlikely bonds are formed, Ser Gregorius the Burly--known across the land for his brawn and his particular taste in companions--sat victorious in his newly claimed keep, nestled in the rugged hills of the Westerlands. After toppling the golden lion's pride in the most unconventional war the Westerlands had ever seen--using cupcake catapults and confetti canons to demoralize the enemy--Ser Gregorius had taken a harem of high-cheekboned, slender-waisted Lannister twink nobles as his spoils. Their golden hair shimmered against satin sheets like spilled coins--a king's ransom in flirtatious glances and coy smiles. The keep's great bed chamber had since been remade into a den of silk and sweetness. The air held the saccharine scent of candied lemon and honeyed figs, artfully arrayed within reach of long, lithe fingers. Ser Gregorius's bed now served as the centerpiece, a colossal construction of mahogany and down feathers, occupied by the boisterous knight and his delicate courtiers. Among them lounged Jaime Jr., the spitting image of the Kingslayer but with larger, more doe-like eyes, and a pout that could seduce a septa. His rear was as shapely as the hills of his home, drawing many covert glances from the others, all of whom possessed heartbreakingly high cheekbones and buttocks that could've been used to forge the roundest goblets. Beside Jaime Jr. lay Loren, the cleverest of the bunch, who was nibbling on a candied fig as if he were whispering sweet nothings into its sugary core. His abs rivaled the carvings on the finest statues in Highgarden, and his tousled tresses invited playful tugs from his comrades. Across from them, splayed out like a Boticelli painting, was Tyland, whose fair skin contrasted starkly against a heap of black velvet pillows. He nonchalantly crunched into a wafer, a devilish twinkle in his emerald eyes. Ser Gregorius, his barrel chest barely contained by a robe that was just a size too small, was in the midst of coupling with Thom of Lannisport. Thom's legs were as sculpted as any column in the Great Sept of Baelor, and his face, with lashes aflutter, betrayed his feigned innocence. As the knight grunted and sweated, the nobles around him gossiped and giggled, trading stories of their former lives of luxury, now swapped for a new, peculiar adventure. "Remember, my lovelies, pile your plates with sweets, but never your hearts with troubles," Ser Gregorius bellowed between his ardent efforts with Thom. Thom, continuing his best impression of an unbothered aristocrat, merely adjusted his position and reached for a sugar-glazed date, exclaiming, "A knight's stamina! As commendable in combat as it is between the sheets!" The room erupted in laughter, harmonizing with the sounds of Ser Gregorius's exertions. Between the carnal rhythms and the tickling of their funny bones, the twink nobles found a strange camaraderie in their shared fate. For in that extravagant bed, judgments melted like the confections upon their tongues, and Ser Gregorius the Burly, with his odd harem, ruled over a little kingdom far sweeter and more satisfying than any won by spear or sword. And though the Westerlands might remember the war with a sour taste, within those chamber walls, it was nothing if not delicious.