Once upon a time in the Seven Kingdoms, as the autumn leaves began to fall with as much grace as King Robert's drinking etiquette, there commenced a grand and tumultuous war against the Westerlands. It was a spectacle of crashes and clangs as metallic beasts in the guise of men clashed amidst a cacophony of ferocious roars--a battlefield no less ferocious than a Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths. It was here that the legend of Sir Buford the Burly was forged, a knight so broad and brawny that it was rumored his armor had to be crafted from the Iron Throne's spare backrests. With each swing of his sword, Sir Buford sent Lannister soldiers flying as if they were mere leaves adrift on a particularly irritable autumn breeze. As the war came to a clattering close, the gravitational pull of Sir Buford's hulking victory was such that it attracted a rather peculiar group of captives. Four Lannister twink nobles of such unequivocal beauty they could've easily been mistaken for Jaime's long-lost reflections. Their physiques were like sculpted marble, with lean muscle that danced under their flawless porcelain skin with every subtle movement. Their faces rivaled the finest art in Kings Landing; high cheekbones, full lips, fleetingly cocky smiles that melted the hearts of maids and madams alike. And their behinds--by the old gods and the new--were peaches so plump and perfect they would make the Arbor's finest blush with envy. In the unlikeliest of spoils of war, these pretty four--Lancelot the Lithe, Percival the Pretty, Tristan the Taut, and Galahad the Glossy--became members of Sir Buford's harem. Unbeknownst to many, Buford's burly exterior housed a warm den of gentle love and delights that his comely companions now indulged in. One particularly amusing evening, as the golden light of the setting sun streamed through the stained glass of Sir Buford's chambers, the captivating quartet was lounging in bed--au naturel, for they cared not for the scratch of Westerlands spun fabric against their silken skin. They lounged amidst mountains of pillows as they nibbled cheekily on candied almonds and lemon cakes sweet enough to compete with their own alluring whispers. Galahad, the most audacious of the lot, with hair like spun gold, lounged with an air of unabashed decadence, fanning himself with a leaf from the godswood tree, for even the breeze sought his blessing to caress his skin. Lancelot was regaling his captivated audience with a tale as sweet as the honeyed wine he sipped, about a mishap involving a joust and a tailor made for a perfect fit that left little to the imagination. Tristan and Percival were in a heated debate over who had the more sculptural posterior, an argument presented with such earnest that it could have puzzled Maesters for centuries. Tristan insisted on the prominence of his peach, whereas Percival claimed the divine curvature of his backside could sway even the straightest arrow. Meanwhile, Sir Buford the Burly's attention was on the delightful task at hand--or rear, in this case. The knight was in the middle of coupling with the effervescent Lancelot, whose laughter mingled with euphoric gasps as Buford handled him with the finesse of an artist painting his magnum opus--each stroke a brush of pleasure that left the lithe noble breathless with mirth and ecstasy. "Careful, Sir Buford!" warned Tristan amidst his own laughter, "Too much revelry, and Lancelot is liable to tell a tale so ribald we'll have the septons blushing all the way to the Eyrie!" To which Sir Buford bellowed a hearty laugh that shook the four-poster bed like a thunderclap, for he was a force of nature who could cause a stir with but a hearty chuckle. As the evening wore on, the merry banter danced in the air, mixing with the fragrant aroma of spiced wine and warm wood. The harem of delectable Lannister twinks relaxed into bliss, their knightly protector coupling with them in turn--a noble night of lust and laughter, where the Game of Thrones was exchanged for the Game of Moans, and where Sir Buford the Burly proved that wit might be sharp, but a burly knight's embrace could conquer even the most playful of hearts.