As the golden light of dawn crept through the crimson drapes of the bedchamber, there was a picturesque scene that would've made any wandering bard pluck their lute in delight; Ser Gregor Clegane, rumored throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his brutish strength and fearsome visage, lay amidst a veritable feast of Lannister twink nobility, their golden hair and cherubic cheeks aglow. One, who went by the name Lionel--his lean frame a sonnet of Lannister pride--was strewing rose petals upon the monstrous knight's armored feet. "Art thou certain this will not provoke ire, my mountain?" he cooed, his voice sweet as the lemon cake he nibbled. "Quiet, my petite lion," boomed Gregor, his voice like thunder hoarsely echoing through the Casterly Rock. "Your tender ministrations only fan the flames of pleasure." Another, Ser Jaime the Younger--no, not that one, but rather his comely fourth cousin twice removed, with emerald eyes and a behind that could have been sculpted by the Smith himself--reclined languidly atop Ser Gregor's chest. "Oh, what merriment!" he sighed, examining a candied fig with princely regard. "One would think we alpha twinks ought not to cavort with a man who can crush skulls, yet here we are, nibbling sweets." Nearby, Tommen the Trim, an upstart with a visage so beautiful it could have caused discord at court, chimed in between bites of his dainty honeyed biscuit. "Yea, and here I waste time at the sept, when I could be confessing desires to our Gregor's abs, a veritable altar of carnal worship." An impish giggle resonated through the chamber as Gregor shifted, causing the bed to groan from the strain, like the very earth trembled beneath the Mountain's might. And with Loras the Lithe, whose nimble grace and peach-perfect posterior were oft whispered about in hushed tones, the giggle became a deluge. For at that moment, Loras found himself the chosen one, coupling with the mountainous knight. Loras, ever the wit, exclaimed, "Oh! One would think I were jousting upon a horse made of molten wildfire, so fierce is the thrust!" "Aye," huffed Gregor, his face betraying a rare hint of mirth. "And you handle the joust as though it were tourney's end at the King's Landing!" "Let us wager," proposed Renly the Radiant, perched to the side, his eyes agleam with roguish mischief. "Whose cheek can withstand the spank of Gregor's gauntleted hand?" The proposition was met with gasps, a few snickers, and Lionel's sudden clutch at his rosebud lips. "A game most dangerous, my lords. Shall we dance this dainty lance-play with the Mountain?" They all knew it was folly, foolhardy with a hint of frisk. But as the morning wore on, and the chamber echoed with the salacious chorus of creaking wood, laughter, and the clinking of sweets on silver plates, it was clear there were worse ways to idle away an hour in the lavish courts of Casterly Rock. "My loves," Gregor intoned, looming above them like a menacing, yet oddly tender, gargoyle. "In the battlefield of sheets and fondling hands, ye have proved your mettle." As the merriment came to a peak, with the bed shrieking in protest beneath the ensemble of fetching and lithe nobles, echoed by the rhythm of Gregor's mountainous fervor, it was evident to one and all that the Lannisters not only always paid their debts but, with the right incentive, could indeed bring even the fiercest warrior to heel--or, in this case, to swoons.