In the boudoirs of Casterly Rock, where velvet linings grace each corner and the sun pours through stained glass like liquid amber, there resided an ensemble as peculiar as it was resplendent: Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Snuggles, presiding over his treasured collection of glittering Lannister twinks. It was a peculiar sight to behold. Impeccably groomed and as lithe as new spring saplings, these pampered nobles lounged in a gargantuan bed, its posts carved with roaring lions and swathed in silk so fine not even the spiders who spun it could recall their craftsmanship. Their flesh, fair and smooth like cream freshly skimmed from the milk of a prized cow, glowed in the sunlight. Their ample physiques stood in stark contrast to the hulking mass of Ser Gregor, a veritable mountain range amidst rolling hills. Ser Lancelot the Limber, as renowned for his pliable waist as for his knack for spilling secrets, lay draped across silken pillows, a crystal goblet of Arbor Gold in one hand, a honeyed plum in the other. His marble-like torso could have been chiseled by the Smith himself, and his posterior, a triumph of the human form, was the subject of many a whispered conversation amongst courtiers. Beside him, Ser Jaime of House Boyish-Beauty, with lashes as long as the Queen's list of enemies and a rear as pert as a royal decree, was propped up on one elbow, indulging in a cake so airy it seemed a mere thought might dissipate it. "Gregor," he teased after a nibble, his voice melodious like a harp played at a feast, "surely you could crack open a walnut with those boulderous cheeks of yours." The Mountain, whose face was as stoic as the Wall, gave a rumble of laughter that shook the sweetmeats off the bedside table. "I could," he said with a wry grin, "but where would be the fun in that?" With an indulgent sigh, they all watched as Ser Gregor's attention turned toward Ser Tybalt the Tight-Breeches, who--despite his name--laid bare as the day he was born, his magnificently sculpted back catching the sun. With buttocks that would put the finest Andal steel to shame, Ser Tybalt was the jewel of the harem, and as Ser Gregor coupled with him, the bed creaked an ancient song of wood and wanton desire. The twinks chattered among themselves, commenting with amused reverence on the seismic activity their mountainous knight induced. "By the gods," Ser Lancelot exclaimed, his voice climbing an octave, "I do believe he's making the earth move for Tybalt!" Ser Jaime, sly smile playing on his plush lips, remarked, "Or is it Tybalt's thunderous applause we hear from below?" And there lay the bevy of beauties, laughing like silver bells tolling at a tourney, sweetmeats and snacks roundly ignored in favor of the bawdy spectacle before them. Their knight, his grandeur matched only by his improbable tenderness, adored each of his twinkling stars with an affection that made even the formidable Tyrion Lannister, on a rare visit to his ancestral home, pause at the chamber door and quip dryly, "Well, I suppose every beast needs his beauty, or in Gregor's case--a bouquet of them." And so the afternoon waned amidst giggling and gossiping, the bed's timorous timbre a rhythm section accompanying the symphony of decadence in Ser Gregor's plush and palatial parlor of affections.