Once upon a mischievous moon in the Seven Kingdoms, there stood a burly knight as proud as the Baratheon stag, known throughout the land as Ser Gormund the Girthy. With biceps the size of boulders and a chest that seemed to have been chiseled from pure Valyrian steel, Gormund was no stranger to victory. Indeed, following a war that left the tawny hills of the Westerlands trampled beneath his thundering steed's hooves, the knight found himself the master of a harem so comely it would make the Maid herself blush. Now, this wasn't your run-of-the-mill harem. Oh no! Ser Gormund, man of refined taste, ended up bedazzled not by the damsels of Lannister lands but by a gaggle of highborn, twink nobles, each as slender and graceful as Jaime Lannister at tourney and comelier than Joffrey before he learned his sneer. Yes, you heard it here first--Ser Gormund's harem comprised an exclusively Lannister twink consortium, drawn from the highest and haughtiest of ranks. As the sun splashed its final amber hues across the Red Keep, Ser Gormund's chambers were alight with the sounds of merriment and mischief. Coltish Leo of Lannisport, with his cascading curls of gold finer than any found in Casterly Rock's vaults, lounged upon sable furs, an exemplar of beauty with nary a garment to obstruct the view. Beside him lay Petyr, of the serpentine lithe form, nibbling on lemoncakes with lips that spoke only in honeyed tones. "Gormund, you brute," he jested, "these lemoncakes are as sweet as Loras Tyrell's tourney whispers, yet not quite as scandalous!" Around Petyr's waist, shadows played across his alabaster skin like whispers. His derriere was a celestial creation, a half-moon worthy of Lord Baelish's envy. Then there was comely Tybolt, choicest of the lot, with a roguish scar across his cheek, a testament to the playful sparring he enjoyed more than any afternoon's joust. Tybolt, whose body was all sinew and satire, made lounging an art form, and his buttocks--well, let's just say the sight would prompt the High Septon to write new verses about the Seven Heavens. While his harem lounged and giggled, Ser Gormund lay in his grand bed, a mountain of a man juxtaposed against the delicate beauty of his companions. Presently, he was engaged in the amorous conquest of sweet Jaime--not Kingslayer, but just as famed in certain circles. Jaime's azure eyes mirrored the lust of Balerion the Black Dread in flight, and Zephyros himself would covet his cherubic cheeks. "Are you enjoying your spoils of war, Ser Gormund, you fearsome rogue?" said Jaime, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, as Ser Gormund coupled with him slowly, a testament to his prowess. "More than a cask of Arbor gold, my pristine peacock," the knight grunted with a grin broad enough to shame the Joker of Flea Bottom. Outside the walls of their rapture, the other twinks exchanged idle gossip and delicate nibbles of candied figs, shared breathy tales of forbidden trysts among the court, while Jaime's rapture reached a crescendo beneath the titanic strength of Ser Gormund. As the night drew on, with the flames casting lusty shadows on their tableau of decadence, it seemed Ser Gormund's harem was a tableau of Westeros itself--a delicate balance of power, beauty, and the sweetness of exotic treats shared between the conquered and the conqueror on an evening steeped in delicious, bawdy comedy.