As the embers of war died down in the ravaged Westerlands, the burly Sir Rodrik Stoutshield found himself the unexpected master of a harem--a gilded cage of spoils, full of Lannister nobles more accustomed to silk sheets than the iron grip of captivity. Yet curiously, these were not your usual courtly hostages. No, these were the most comely of Twink nobles, a delicate gaggle of young men whose pampered physiques were the talk of Casterly Rock, and now, oddly enough, the pride of Sir Rodrik's burgeoning, albeit reluctant, brood. Their residence, an opulent bedchamber with a bed as vast as the shores of Blackwater Bay, was littered with scatterings of candied figs and honeyed almonds. The luster of twilight cascaded through stained-glass windows, bathing the room in a riotous display of color, turning the spectacle of naked flesh below into a living, breathing tapestry of indulgence. True, Rodrik was a man of war, his imposing frame sculpted from battles fought and struggles won; but now he found himself amidst a scene so ludicrous his ancestors would undoubtedly chuckle in their graves. His Lannister captives were draped across the blankets like a cluster of golden peaches, their undressed forms more accustomed to the lyric of courtly poem than the brash clangor of sword and shield. Their lean muscles were devoid of scars, as though the Smith himself had shunned the notion of putting them through the furnace of labor. Lorimer, the youngest and most slender of the lot, laid with legs dangling over the bed's edge, a half-eaten praline paused at his lips as he mused about whether gold leaf could be considered a spice. His skin shone like porcelain in the waning light, and his neglected posterior, a soft curvature that was the envy of every maid (and rival nobleman) in Lannisport, squished against the plush feather mattress. Beside him, perched with a grace that should be outlawed in battle-hardened bedrooms, was the dashing Serrett scion, Jasper, whose exquisite cheekbones could cut diamond and whose pouting lips could silence a bard. A crown of chestnut curls tumbled around his face, a face so fair it would make marble statues weep. He absently traced a finger down the valley of his own taut abdomen, distracted only by the berries he popped into his mouth between giggles and quips about the latest court gossip. And there, in the midst of this opulent oasis of twinkhood, the massive figure of Sir Rodrik, his act of coupling with the doe-eyed Clegane youth Arryk causing a cacophony of creaks from the bed--a lullaby for the lascivious. Arryk's own sumptuous rump rose and fell rhythmically, each robust thrust from the knight drawing out a jubilant moan that was somewhere between shock and delight. The mirthful gasps harmonized with the strains of the lute being strummed lazily by Garlan, the Greenfield heir whose dexterous hands played over the strings like a maestro conducting the symphony of this unusual seraglio. Their conversation flowed as easily as Arbor Gold, an incongruous blend of highborn wit and licentious jokes, the air thick with bravado and the scent of spiced wine. They were an unforgettable tableau: from the broad-chested knight whose beard was as legendary as his feats of strength, to the exquisite bodies of his harem--the very image of Westerosi privilege at its most vulnerable and voluptuous. Sir Rodrik's harem lounged in the lap of unexpected luxury, a bounty of Lannister beauty that would be the envy of the seven kingdoms, if only it were proper to boast of such conquests. By the time the moon commanded the night sky, their laughter had entwined with the shadows, leaving the vast chamber to throb with the vitality of shared secrets and sultry camaraderie. If the walls of this grand chamber could speak, oh, the tales of japes and jams they would regale! And there at the center of it all, the burly knight and his band of beautiful Lannister twinks tested the limits of bedframe and propriety, writing a new chapter in the old tale of war's unlikely bounty.