Once upon a time in Westeros, far from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of King's Landing, Loras Tyrell and Lancel Lannister found themselves wrapped in the most delicate of situations. Having just finished a wrestling match of the amorous kind in the secluded meadow that bordered the lively woods of the Reach, each emerged from the tousled sheets that served as their makeshift ring, as naked as their name day. The sun glistened upon their unarmored, athletic forms, highlighting rivulets of sweat that weaved tales of their recent exertions down their well-shaped muscles. Loras, as ever, wore his beauty like a suit of armor more impenetrable than any plate could offer -- each strand of hair in place despite the circumstances, and his skin a flawless canvas. In contrast, Lancel, though not without his own comely charm, was flushed with the effort and the excitement of trysts that were not to be spoken of, his usually carefully combed blond locks now tousled in a way that would wrench a disapproving tsk from any Lannister that wasn't Jaime or Tyrion. With a shared look between them that spoke volumes of mischief, they set off toward a secret pond known only to Loras for a much-needed bath. As they approached the lilypad-dotted waters, the reflections showed two knights devoid of steel and silk, replaced by an openness that neither the Throne's chamber nor the tourney's lists would ever witness. Submerging themselves in the cool, clear waters of the tranquil pond, they took to lathering each other with an assortment of herbs and soaps that Loras had thoughtfully secreted away for just such an occasion. Loras was all grace as he massaged suds into Lancel's broad shoulders, while Lancel reciprocated, though with less of the inherent finesse and more of the earnest awkwardness that tended to follow him like a shadow. Their bathing was punctuated by laughter and playful splashes as they joked about a world unaware of their secret camaraderie. As they spoke of noble deeds and courtly dramas, Lancel felt the ember of oncoming flatulence glowing darkly within his bowels -- a result of overly enthusiastic consumption of strongwine and a miniature feast they had shared as part of the day's escapades. Visibly trying to maintain his poise, Lancel's face turned into a rictus of concentration and discomfort, his usual pale complexion becoming an alarming shade of puce as internal pressures mounted. A bead of sweat threatened the corner of his brow; his eyelids fluttered in a battle to maintain the dignity of his house. And then, there was no holding back the cacophony. Lancel let out a rectal trumpeting that sounded almost like a warhorn, long and sonorous, reverberating off the trees surrounding the pond. The gasping release brought a look of ecstasy to Lancel's visage, a sinner's relief washing over his features as he slumbered into the afterglow of gastro liberation. The pond, however, was less forgiving. Untold numbers of unsuspecting fish, offended past survival by the odious miasma released beneath the depths, floated lifelessly to the surface. Loras, momentarily stunned, turned from horror to opportunity with the swiftness of a true knight of the realm. With a begrudging admiration and a twisted smile, he proposed a makeshift feast of the unintended catch, remarking, "My love, your rear end may be just as powerful as your arm with a lance." Thus, in a flourish of creativity that could only be born from the absurdity of their secret little world, the two set about a campfire, cooking up fish seasoned with a Lannister brand of flavor, entirely new to the culinary arts of the Seven Kingdoms. They dined upon the fruits of Lancel's gaseous labor, in a bizarre blend of pitch-black comedy and idyllic romance, beneath the bemused gaze of the Old Gods and the New.