Beneath the high-vaulted ceilings of Casterly Rock, amidst a chamber kissed by golden sunlight that streamed through stained-glass windows, Sir Bertram the Burly lay on a bed as immense as his reputation. The sheets were woven from the finest Myrish silk, caressing every contour of the ample, muscular body sprawled upon them. Bertram, once a fierce knight of impressive stature and girth, had won a most peculiar sort of victory in the wake of war--a harem of exquisite Lannister twink nobles, whom he had taken captive after the latest kerfuffle with the Westerlands. Their delicate forms adorned the bed like gems set into the crown of a king. Their lithe physiques, the epitome of noble breeding, were sculpted as if the old gods themselves had chiseled their features from the purest marble. Each had hair that rivaled the golden sheen of House Lannister's lion sigil and faces that made maidens swoon and hardened soldiers blush. The first of these noble beauties, Ser Loras the Lithe, lay on his front, his pert, aristocratic derriere placed toward the heavens as if offering a silent prayer to the gods of splendor. One couldn't help but compliment the perfect curvature, a canvas for the afternoon sun to cast enchanting shadow play upon. Next to him, Lord Petyr 'the Pout' of Pounce sat cross-legged, popping candied figs into his mouth with the sort of grace that could only come from years of courtly conduct. His cherubic face was aglow with the mirth of their peculiar situation, while his lavender eyes twinkled with mischief suitable for his moniker. As the sumptuous confections passed from hand to hand, their laughter and gossip permeated the chamber, filling it with a warmth and vivacity far removed from the gloomy image one might have of post-battle repose. In the center of it all, Sir Bertram attended to Jaime, the youngest and most fair-faced, whose green eyes seemed to snare the flickering light of nearby candles, reflecting them back as emerald fire. The knight, behemoth and bearded, contrasted the delicate figure of his bedmate vastly, his hands the size of hams, yet gentle as a mother's touch. With a sulfurous grunt, Sir Bertram coupled with Jaime, whose slender legs entwined with Bertram's tree-trunk thighs as if he were a climber scaling a great oak. Their dance was not one of bloody battlefields and clashing steel, but of much more carnal exploits. The bed groaned in protest beneath their antics, a choir to the symphony of playful jests and saucy quips exchanged by the nourished audience around them. "I daresay, Sir Bertram, don't squish our lovely Jaime," Ser Loras teased, "elsewise we shall need to butter the windows to retrieve him from beneath thee!" Chuckles echoed, harmonizing with the rhythmic creaks of their passion. Lord Petyr, still indulging in candied figs, chimed in, "Truly, Bertram, your embrace is like that of an overly affectionate bear, and Jaime but a delicate fawn in your midst." Jaime, amidst his breathless giggles, managed a quick-witted retort: "A fawn maybe, but one with antlers, my lords, should you fancy a contest of hoof to hand!" The room was awash with their revelry, as hours slipped by in murmurs and mirth. Sir Bertram and his Lannister nobles, an unlikely fellowship, found themselves in a post-war peace most sweet--mingling desire, laughter, and companionship in the opulent stronghold that was Casterly Rock.