Title: Sir Gregor's Gilded Gaggle In the aftermath of the rambunctious ragtag rebellion of Riverrun, a burly knight known across the Seven Kingdoms as Sir Gregor the Gallant found himself in a rather peculiar situation. Having valiantly vanquished the valorous vassals of the westerly Westerlands, Sir Gregor gained not only glory but also a particular prize he never expected-- a harem of Lannister twinks. The sun rose over the horizon, spilling golden light through the gauzy curtains of the sumptuous chamber in the once-formidable Casterly Rock. The chamber, which now smelled faintly of roses and more distinctly of the previous night's escapades, was populated by a whimsical array of Lannister loot and lavishly luxurious lads lounging languidly across the silken sheets. As the striking knight himself, a mountain of muscle with a beard as thick as the Kingswood and a hearty laugh that could shake the stones of Storm's End, Gregor the Gallant was seated amidst his newfound paramours. Each exquisitely fair and distinctly unburdened by clothing, the lithe young lads were feasting on lemon cakes--their delicate fingers dusted in powdered sugar--candied figs, and honeyed wine of such golden hue that it rivaled their Lannister locks. "Ser Gregor, do be a dear," purred Joffrey, an impish twink with eyes as green as wildfire, "and pass the candied almonds. War may make for weary days, but this company certainly sweetens the nights." "You jest with words as well as you do in jest," bellowed Gregor heartily, coupling with a particularly rosy-cheeked, golden-haired youth named Tybolt. Tybolt was at present attempting to balance a morsel of honey-coated pastry between his lips, his efforts met with sweet entanglement as the brawny knight moved with the grace of a warhammer during courtship. Another member of this peculiar posse, Lancel, who was once mistaken for royalty based on his cheekbones alone, quipped with a sly twinkle, "Truly, war is hell, but Sir Gregor's bedchamber is a slice of the Seven Heavens." Their laughter filled the room, twinkling more than the finest crystal from the Arbor. These sons of Lannisters found themselves in quite the incongruous tableau, sharing intimacies and indulgences with a man whose arms could each grapple a lion, should the sigil of their house dare to leap from their banners. Indeed, Sir Gregor, valiant in battle and vigorous in bed, was an unexpected patron of the arts--the particular art being the curation and care of his beautiful bevy of bedfellows. He listened to their gossip about courtly intrigue as he fought his own battle of the bedsheets, a battle that involved neither steel nor shield, but stamina and strength of a different kind. "Lysa insists that her marmalade is superior to all," chuckled Tommen, his slender frame curled up with a book of bawdy poetry, "Yet without the zest, it is as dull as a Dornish sermon." "Ah," grunted Sir Gregor between affectionate heaves, "but nothing is less dull than our current endeavors, eh?" Indeed, nothing more bizarre or bedazzling had the stone halls of Casterly Rock witnessed. Sir Gregor's Gilded Gaggle, as they were playfully dubbed by a bard who dared not stay for fear of being pressed into service, carried on with their revelry well into the day. As the knight rose later, his conquest of companionship laid bare before him, he raised a goblet in toast and roared, "To the spoils of wars and the warmth of sheets! May our enemies always be beneath our boots and the Lannister lads beneath our... care." As the echoes of his laughter danced off the walls, the harem of Lannister twinks raised their goblets in kind--because in the game of thrones, you win or you die, but in the game of love and lemons, you either win or wake up with a hangover draped in golden-haired beauties. Sir Gregor, champions of both, simply grinned his rugged grin and prepared for another round.