In this thread, we write in the style of George R. R. Martin.

The feast was a grand affair, a veritable orgy of indulgence that would have pleased even the most gluttonous of kings. Platters of Crunchwrap Supremes, golden and crisp, lay stacked upon the long oak table, their warm, flaky shells bursting with seasoned beef, molten cheese, and tangy sour cream. Bowls of nacho fries, dusted with fiery spices, were passed from hand to hand, each guest eagerly reaching for the next bite, their fingers slick with the grease of indulgence. Towers of Doritos Locos Tacos, their vibrant shells the color of a summer sunset, were piled high, each one a delicate balance of crunch and flavor, a promise of fleeting pleasure. Chalupas, stuffed to bursting with tender meat and fresh lettuce, were devoured with abandon, their sauces dripping down beards and chins, staining the fine linens. And at the center of it all, a great cauldron of Baja Blast, its strange, unnatural hue glowing in the candlelight, was ladled out into goblets, the sweet, fizzy nectar slaking the thirst of those who had eaten their fill and still craved more.
 
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Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up, she was shitting brown water. The more she drank the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew.
 
He saw her in the lit bedchamber, by the voluptuous bed, naked and ravishing.
"I know I must not do this" he said wih a firm indignation "so I propose ye leave these quarters while ye still can"
His mind was worn out by the petty politics and maddening murders yester, reverting him to a docile yet conscious state. He was not looking for conflict, he was looking for a good nights rest.
"Ne'er will I leave, we were born of one, we grew up as one, we will consummate as one. That is prophesy, that is politics and to defy is heresy. We must serve our higher purpose, even if our instincts and earthly morals dissuade us" said she with an unholy fire in her eyes as her figure became ever so frightening.
The perturbance was but a minor one, a pebble in the ocean, it was not enough to awake a leviathan. Solemnly he ignored said words and started preparing himself for bed. Just as he undid his clothes, revealing his scared shoulders and chiseled chest, she lunged at him with her conniving claws. Suddenly his wild instincts flared as his eyes widened and his face fumed. He grabbed her hands with a furious velocity, pulling away the nails which dug into his lower torso, and heaved her onto the bed. This was no longer a docile man, this was a savage beast. As she attempted to get up, startled by the event, he lunged onto her, exerting his entire frame onto hers.
"IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH WAS IT? THE THINGS MY FATHER DID, THE THINGS THAT I DID, THE THINGS YOU WERE GRANTED, THEY WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH. THE WENCHES OF THE WORLD WILL ALWAYS SEEK THE IMPOSSIBLE, TO CROSS THE BOUNDARIES OF REALITY, TO SATISFY THEIR CURIOSITIES NO MATTER HOW SICK AND OTHERWORLDLY THEY MAY BE. WELL NOW YOU WILL HAVE IT AND WE SHALL SEE IF ITS WHAT YOU REALLY DESIRED"
He pulled her hands backwards, kneeling on her thighs, and grabbed her shoulders. She was experiencing a world of hurt but not suffering as she had realised she got what she wanted. He undid his sheepskin garments and ripped open her paltry clothing like a chunk of meat. He ravaged and defiled her, approaching something close to madness fuelled by animalistic rage, on the verge of tearing her body to shreds. She could not help but make lustful otherworldly sounds, sounds which sound more animal than human as her body started convulsing and bleeding. But she was satisfied for her needs were met, the deed was done and the prophesy was fulfilled. That was the cost of politics, a melding of the obscene and the savage to maintain a semblance of order.
 
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Something that sounds weird or bad out of context but kind of works when you remember it's the fucking middle ages.
 
In the shadowed corners of the digital realm, where the blue bird sings its siren song, many a soul has found themselves ensnared. The struggle to stay off Twitter is akin to the battles waged in the Seven Kingdoms, a relentless and unyielding war. Each notification is a raven bearing news, each tweet a whisper of courtly intrigue or a call to arms. To write my next tome, such notions are but shadows in the night.
 
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