Once upon a time, in a particularly salacious corner of Westeros, there dwelt Sir Thaddeus Thunderthighs, a knight as notable for his brawn as he was for his preference for dainty companions. Having triumphed in a war against the troublesome Westerlands, good Sir Thaddeus, citing the ancient and seldom acknowledged right of "Finders Keepers," laid claim to his spoils of war: a harem of Lannister twinks, each more delicate and golden-haired than the last. These angelic lads, liberated from their formerly straightforwardly arrogant lives, now lounged leisurely amidst satin sheets and plump pillows, their alabaster skin contrasting against the deep burgundy of the bedchamber. Their wardrobe changes involved little more than draped silks and some strategically placed feathers; a far cry from the ostentatious garb of Lannister lineage. A half-eaten platter of lemon cakes rested upon the broad chest of Sir Thaddeus, the hunky knight who appeared much like a furry mountain in a scene of rolling hills. With one beefy arm wrapped around a twink named Petyr--with hair so lustrous it could have been spun from gold--Sir Thaddeus was regaling the others with poorly remembered tales of his battle exploits. "And there I was," he boomed in his not-so-indoor voice, "standing atop a hundred slain enemies, or perhaps it was just a small hillock; the details elude me." Beside them, lounging languidly as they basked in post-war laziness, were the other twinks: Jaime--no, not *that* Jaime, just coincidentally named so--Tommen (again, mere coincidence), and Lancelot (who insisted, much to everyone's amusement, on the 'lot' being pronounced 'luh-TEA'). The twinks were mostly inattentive to Sir Thaddeus's bloviating, more concerned with the crystallized honeycomb and candied figs that their burly protector had procured for them. When it came to sweet treats, they were as ravenous as a pack of direwolves in a butcher shop. "Pass the sugar dust, would you, darling?" Petyr called out, each word dripping with drama and mock pedigree. Lancelot, with a smirk, extended a dish with such exaggerated grace that it rivalled even the most pompous of court dancers. Tommen was in the midst of a delicate yawn when Sir Thaddeus, without warning, hoisted Petyr up onto his lap with an ease suggesting the lad were but a feather. With a playful growl, Thaddeus nuzzled Petyr's neck, eliciting a giggle that rang out like a bell summoning the Seven Kingdoms to tea. Jaime, whose attention had been captured by a wayward fig that had rolled provocatively close to the room's edge, piped up, "Do take care not to squish our dear Petyr, Sir Thunderthighs! We've grown rather fond of him." The mirthful scene continued as Thaddeus, ever the gallant brute, engaged in a tender coupling with Petyr, their intertwined forms a concoction of muscle and whimsy. Sir Thaddeus was an attentive lover, catering to each of his companions' proclivities and ensuring that everyone's goblet was full of Arbor gold. Their laughter filled the bedchamber, where the stone walls were far more accustomed to echoing the solemn decrees of lords past. As the candles burned low, these freed Lannister twinks enjoyed a life of comfort, each grown as plump and satisfied as the fattest cats of the Red Keep. And so, in a world where dragons fly and winters can last lifetimes, let us leave the burly Sir Thaddeus and his harem of pretties, snuggled closely together, a tableau of indulgence and affection in a realm where gentle whimsy was not so often found. It was a rare, sweet moment of silk against steel--in the arms of the knight Sir Thunderthighs and his beloved Lannister lads.