Sir Broderick the Burly, as he was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, was a knight of considerable repute and even more considerable girth. His shoulders were as broad as the Iron Throne was uncomfortable, and his renown for single-handedly turning the tide of several melees was only surpassed by his famed voracious appetite--both at the feasting table and, as rumor had it, in the less chivalrous corridors of the night. Following a most strenuous and sweaty skirmish in the waning days of a lesser conflict against the Westerlands, Sir Broderick found himself the unintended protector and companion of an uncommonly attractive and exceedingly loyal gaggle of Lannister retainers. They were the sons of merchants, minor lords, and one particularly memorable bard, and to behold them was to gaze upon a gaggle of golden-haired Adonises. With the war concluded and the lion's standard bested, these fair-haired lads had grown rather fond of the giant knight who had captured them--not with chains, but with the promise of safety and the curious magnetism of his husky laugh and bear-like embrace. They fell into a peculiar sort of kinship, one born out of necessity, but tempered with an odd tenderness. On a night that sparkled with stars like diamonds on a velvet cloak, Sir Broderick's tent was aglow with an assortment of sweetmeats and pastries splayed across silver platters, testament to his soldiers 'spoils. Amid this scene of decadent repose were his Lannister companions, lounging in varying degrees of undress upon silken cushions and furs so plush they'd make the direwolves of Winterfell howl with envy. They each had names as melodious as their laughter: Seraphin with his cheekbones so sharp they could cut a silence, Petyr the Playful whose emerald eyes sparkled with mischief, and fair Jaqen with tresses that cascaded like the waterfalls of Riverrun. They were the perfect complement to Sir Broderick's roguish charm, fawning over him with a doting that was as theatrical as it was genuine. As they lounged, they daintily nibbled on sugared dates and honeyed figs, swapping bawdy tales and recounting the foibles of high-born lords with a wit sharper than Valyrian steel. Their laughter was a song, a delightful counterpoint to the soft grunts and sighs emanating from the knight who was--somewhat incongruously--engaged in amorous congress with the smallest of his companions, the sprightly twink named Lancelot (who, despite his name, bore no relation to the famous knight but had won many a horse race in Lannisport). With Sir Broderick's size, the sight was rather akin to watching a fortress engage a minstrel, but their camaraderie made the scene as charming as it was absurd. "Careful, Sir Broderick," Seraphin chided from his reclined position, smirking as he popped a grape into his mouth. "You mustn't squash our dear Lancelot; remember, he's the only one of us with a singing voice that doesn't sound like a cat in a well." "A cat in a well?" Petyr remarked, golden locks spilling over his shoulders. "I do believe my serenades could tame a shadowcat, thank you very much." Amidst the playful banter, Sir Broderick simply offered a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled like a distant storm over the Summer Sea. He bestowed a kiss atop Lancelot's perspiring brow--a gesture more tender than the image of a knight and his conquest deserved--and winked at his captive audience. Their evenings were a juxtaposition of the carnal and the comedic, a minstrel's ballad with bawdy verses hidden beneath its lilting refrains. King's Landing may have known Sir Broderick as the fierce bulwark against foes, but in his personal pavilion, he was the gentle giant among lions--or in this particular instance, lion cubs--who had found unexpected companionship in the aftermath of conflict. There, Sir Broderick and his wanton wardens of the Westerlands crafted a tale that singers would unlikely ever croon, but in the hush-hush whispers of serving girls and the blatant boasting of passing bards, the legend of the Burly Knight's Lannister harem would live on to elicit chuckles and blushes from the highborn to the common folk across all of Westeros.