Once upon a mischievous moon over the war-torn Westerlands, a burly knight by the name of Sir Gorthax the Voluminous had achieved an unlikely post-war feat. As a brawny man with a beard that could hide a family of squirrels, Gorthax had unconventionally claimed his boon from the battlefield: a harem of preposterously pretty Lannister twinks. Said twinks were of such angelic allure that the very sun seemed to blush when it laid its rays upon their golden locks. Their physiques were as if chiseled from the creamy marbles of Casterly Rock itself, each muscle a testament to leisurely luxury and a strict regimen of genteel fencing. Their faces had been tended by the realm's greatest aestheticians, bestowing upon them cheekbones sharp enough to slice the tension in King's Landing's throne room, and eyes twinkling with the mischief of a hundred court jesters. As for their derrieres, the bards would sing tales of high cheeked and taut wonders that could have been mistaken for polished apples had they not been attached to the nobles themselves. Each time they paraded about (which was often), the chambermaids would sigh and the squires would stumble, utterly entranced by the hypnotic sway that was the signature gait of the Lannister lineage. This peculiar day found Sir Gorthax and his collection of twinkling nobles within the cavernous comfort of his lavish bedchamber, the walls of which quivered in gossip-provoking delight at the sight unfolding. The delicately decadent bed, large enough to house a small tournament, creaked rhythmically, a symphony to the passions that unfurled. The chosen twink of the hour, Ser Lothario with hair like spun Lannister gold, had the knight's attention. Gorthax's mighty frame, carved from boulders of masculinity and sealed with the sweat of valiant clashes, dwarfed the slender young man. Yet, Sir Lothario met the knight's ardor with a defiant grace that only a Lannister could manifest, tempered with a coy smile and saucy glint in his eye. Meanwhile, the rest of the lithe noblemen lounged amidst a sea of feather-soft pillows and silken sheets, their natural adornments eclipsing the room's velvet drapes and jeweled chandeliers. They languished in their idleness, nibbling on candied dragon fruit and sugar-spun confections as if they were critiquing a royal feast. "Ser Bertram, do pass the honeyed almonds," purred the one known as Ser Ambrose, an arched eyebrow playing at impossible heights upon his fair forehead. "Only if you promise not to spoil your supper, darling Ambrose," chided Bertram, his firm hand reaching out with the bowl, causing ripples across his sculptured chest. Their conversation hummed on--a melodic blend of banal gossip, airy flirtations, and the occasional wicked jest about the size of Ser Gorthax's--ahem--greatsword. Gales of laughter pealed from them like the finest silver bells, notes teasing one another amidst the cacophony of creaking bedposts and heavy breaths. It was an absurd reprieve, this collection of finery and sweaty chivalry, a tableau vivant of delights overlooked by a weirwood painting whose eyes seemed to peer elsewhere, perhaps out of modesty, or simply in search of a harp to accompany the riddle of sounds. And so the legend of Sir Gorthax the Voluminous and his harem of Lannister twinks was woven into the tapestry of Westerosi lore--a tale to tickle the lips of many a rosy-cheeked tavern wench and inspire blushing stammers from the most stoic of knights. For in a land of dragons and ice, it was the union of might and mirth that left the world utterly enchanted.