As the Westerosi sun dipped low upon the shimmering Goldenrose horizon, casting its fiery crimson cloak upon the day's end, the delicate sound of breezes whispering through the leaves of the Reach was abruptly disturbed by the rustle of two figures--Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, and Lancel Lannister, the recently pious turned hedonist--and the unmistakable murmur of rivets of cloth slinking down supple, battle-hewn thighs. Bare as the day the Mother had delivered them into the world, Loras with the grace of an antelope and Lancel with the caution of an acolyte unused to such wanton liberation, they tiptoed on the lush grass, grinning foolishly at one another, their post-coital contentment coloring their cheeks more than the evening chill. As they made their descent towards the crystalline pond--a secretive bath known only to some playful nymphs and a rather judgmental squirrel--their pale, moon-blanched posteriors seemed to dance like twin jesters performing for the Gods themselves. Loras' was a sculpted affair, muscled and taut, crowned by a bold tracery of a rose tatoo, while Lancel's reflected his newfound affinity for overindulgence, softer and whiter than a gently boiled egg. They dipped their toes into the invigorating spring, sending ripples through the water, like whispers of scandal stirring through the court. Loras dove elegantly, his body slicing the surface like a blade, while Lancel entered with the poise of a toppled sept. Submerged in the cool embrace, they glittered like the stars awoke in the firmament, their bodies golden and resplendent in the fading light. Mid-splash and giggle, Lancel's brow creased, his azure eyes flicked towards Loras with a hint of sheepish appeal. "Brother Tyrell," he began, as a knight might request a joust, "might I beg a boon? I sense an ill wind approaching, and it hopes to claim sanctuary in the wild." Loras, his laughter folding into a smirk, waved an airy hand. "Let the tempest roar, Ser Lancel. The gods themselves shan't begrudge a man his comforts." Thus encouraged, Lancel, his cheeks inflating like the bellows of a blacksmith, straightened his back. The pond held its breath. With the concentration of a maester in the lab, Lancel summoned the storm within till the moment broke and, with the thunderous regality of a collapsing keep, he released. A ripple so fierce followed that the surface of the pond broke into a thousand sparkling gems of laughter, and yet beneath, an agony of bubbles roared to the surface. The very fish, kissed by this most foul wind, began to float to the top, their bellies turned skyward as if appealing for mercy from the Seven. Loras, bending over in unbridled mirth, struggled to draw breath. "Ser Lancel, you've felled more with your rear than some men do with their sword!" Wiping tears from his eyes, and still chuckling, Loras paddled over to the floating victims of the odorous assault. "Yet waste not; we shall dine like kings this eve on your catch. Lancel's Fart Fish, we shall call it. 'Tis a feast that bards will sing of for ages!" And so it came to pass, under the waxing hues of dusk, that the Knight of Flowers and the once pious Lannister huddled together, cooking a hearty meal of the oddly-perished fish by the pond--an untold tale of laughter and lewdness that even the most gossipy birds dared not chirp about till the end of their days.