In the aftermath of a raucous battle that left the Westerlands humming with the lamentations of defeat, Sir Cedric the Burly - a knight as renowned for his broad chest as his questionable diplomacy - found himself in the unexpected position of "Twinkmaster-General." Gifted with an unusual war prize, he was given charge over a harem of cherub-faced Lannister twinks, each more delicate and saucy than the last. Known collectively (and rather unimaginatively) as the Golden Fawns, they were a small army of pampered former nobles - now Cedric's to command. The most grandiose chamber in the war-battered keep had been transformed into their shared boudoir, a once-mighty war room rendered into a den of silken pillows and fluttering tapestries depicting the most flamboyant moments of Lannister lore. Under the gazes of painted lions, the twinks lounged languidly, supping on candied fruits and honeyed meats. They were au naturel, their golden curls and rosy cheeks contrasting the severe grays and browns of the war-weary stone around them. In the center of this brocade of boyish beauty reclined Sir Cedric, a formidable mountain of a man whose idea of foreplay was often a hearty slap on the shoulder and a bellowed jest about siege warfare. Currently, he was entwined with Loras the Lithe, whose wiry frame seemed intent on proving that he could indeed couple with the gargantuan knight without being squashed into a Lannister pancake. Loras, with a twinkling eye, cooed sweet nothings that danced the line between genuine adoration and tongue-in-cheek mockery, but Cedric, permanently stuck on the more literal end of the spectrum, seemed receptive nonetheless. The other Golden Fawns looked on with a mixture of bemusement and envy. "Do be cautious, Loras," trilled Jaime the Jocund, his voice clear and tinged with a mirth unbecoming of his fallen House. "If Cedric sneezes, you might just be flung into the next kingdom." "Lannisters sometimes pay their debts via air-mail, it seems," quipped Renly the Rake, balancing a sugared fig on his perfectly sculpted chin. Petyr the Pert, with a wink as smooth as the summerwine in his grasp, rose gracefully and sauntered over to the coupling pair, unaffected by the salacious display. "Loras, my dear," he said, drizzling a trickle of honey onto the arm of the otherwise occupied knight, "let us not forget that while your attentions are otherwise engaged, you're meant to be regaling us with the tales of your ancestors' grandeur." "Verily, Lord Twinkmaster," concurred Tommen the Tease from his plush divan, "there's little point having a golden lion in the room if it's not going to roar for us." Loras huffed, managing to roll his eyes and smirk simultaneously, before whispering exaggerated exploits into Cedric's already flushed ears. The burly knight's laughter boomed throughout the chamber like a barrage of catapults at a castle wall, causing the nibbling Fawns to bounce slightly on their assortment of cushions and quite nearly upsetting a tower of teetering sweetmeats. "Tell me, Loras," Cedric growled jovially between chortles, "was it a Lannister who invented the catapult, or just the concept of being launched into the sky?" "A Lannister," declared Loras proudly, pausing his activities for dramatic effect, "never reveals his secrets." As the night progressed, the chamber became a tableau vivant of mirth, mischief, and indulgence. Sir Cedric, with his mighty arms and bombastic laughter, set a tone of rowdy camaraderie, and his Golden Fawns wove a gleeful tapestry of wit and innuendo around him. For all the odd pairings the war had produced, none was quite as extravagantly peculiar as the burly knight and his Lannister twinks, proving once again that in the game of thrones, you never know when you'll go from fighting for your life to frolicking in bed with your former enemy's most cherubic offspring. And so it was that the legend of Sir Cedric the Burly and the Golden Fawns was born, a tale to be whispered with a smirk and a wagging finger wherever stories of unlikely unions and uproarious laughter were told.