Once upon a time in the gloriously twisted land of Westeros, there emerged from the ashes of war a burly knight with a beard as thick as the Kingswood and muscles that would put the Mountain to shame. Sir Rodrik the Robust, as he was jollily known, was not just any knight. No, Sir Rodrik was a man of tastes most peculiar, having taken a liking to the delicate and cherubic young nobles of House Lannister, whom he had captured after a rambunctious skirmish in the Westerlands. In a flamboyant tower of Casterly Rock, which he'd claimed as his personal palace of pleasure, Sir Rodrik held court in the grandest chamber adorned with silks of crimson and gold, the Lannister colors now repurposed to suit his lascivious lifestyle. It was here that he established his harem--a bevy of slender, doe-eyed Lannister twink nobles, with hair as golden as the wealth their lineage boasted. The chamber buzzed with the faint chit-chatter of these effete young men, lounging in bed au naturel, their alabaster skins creating a stark contrast against the bold tapestries of lions and stags. The air was perfumed with the rich scent of cinnamon and honey, emanating from the heaps of candied figs, honey cakes, and exotic fruits that lay scattered across the sheets like the jewels of a king's ransom. At the bed's heart sprawled Sir Rodrik, the girth of his torso alone outmatching the combined widths of his luxurious companions. Currently, he was engaged in salacious congress with one particularly coy Lannister lad named Petyr, whose giggles infused their coupling with an air of sweet innocence seldom found in these debauched times. Petyr's slender form moved with surprising delight under the ministrations of the mighty knight, his moans lost amidst the chatter and crunching of sweets. "Oh, just look at Petyr going for gold," chortled Joffrey No-Relation (a distant, less barbed cousin to the infamous boy king, rest his soul). Holding half a candied lemon like a monocle over one eye, he gazed at the spectacle with mock grandeur. "Makes you want to take notes, doesn't it, Jaime-With-The-Wavy-Hair?" chimed in another youth, lazily draping a leg over the side of their silken nest. Jaime-With-The-Wavy-Hair, currently busy untangling his perfect curls with a silver comb, lifted his eyes with unfeigned interest. "Oh, I don't know. The technique is sound, but I prefer a more--how shall we put it?--aesthetically pleasing partner." "Ha!" cackled Tommen-Not-The-King, a round-cheeked scamp with an inordinate fondness for pastries. "That's rich, coming from you, a lad so pretty that looking directly at you is said to give one a sweet tooth." Their jests and lively banter were the minstrels to Sir Rodrik's... exertions. The knight himself was too occupied to offer more than the occasional hearty chortle in response to the banter resonating around the chamber. His attention, focused and indomitable, made Petyr gasp and coo with pleasure, while the rest of the harem cooed in mocking falsettos. The young nobles sent playful glances towards each other, unbothered by the carnal display, each of them reflecting on their peculiar fortune. Here they were, Lannisters all, not starving in some dark cell or, Seven help them, employed in laborious toils. Instead, they lounged in luxury, their greatest worries being the choice between lemon cakes and sugar plums. With a burgeoning crescendo, the intimate tangle reached its peak; the grand bed shuddered like a warhorse upon the charge, and Petyr released a trill that would shame the most lyrical nightingale. Sir Rodrik, ever the gallant, bowed his head magnanimously as though to thank an imaginary crowd for their applause. "Well done, formidable knight," murmured Lancel-Less-Virtuous, lying prone upon a pile of velvet cushions. "Yes, quite the performance," Tommen-Not-The-King added, while playfully tossing a sugared almond into his mouth. Petyr, now disentangled from his ardent suitor, curled up next to Sir Rodrik with contented languor, as the burly knight grinningly grabbed a handful of honey cakes and flung them into the air. "My sweet Lannisters," Sir Rodrik boomed with mirth rich as the honeyed wine that frequently flowed through their quarters, "whoever catches the most, shall be the recipient of my next... um, knightly duties." And so, Sir Rodrik's harem engaged in a whimsical frantic scramble, laughing till their sides ached, as golden-haired nobles dueled for confections mid-air in a boudoir turned blithesome battleground. In the Seven Kingdoms, where winters were hard and summers fleeting, this eccentric menagerie of nobility found a peculiar slice of mirth--a song of sweets and fire, played out in the opulent bedchamber of Sir Rodrik the Robust, protector of his very peculiar spoils of war.