As the raucous echoes of merriment spilled through the echoing halls of Clegane Keep, the chamber of Ser Gregor - famously known as The Mountain - was a sight that would have set the septon's scrolls alight with fervid reprimands. It was a tableau most extravagant, for upon the vast expanse of a bed, hewn from the heart of a thousand-year oak, lounged a collection of the realm's most delicate and fetching Lannister twinks, each adorned with nothing but the softest sheen of afternoon sweat (and perhaps a few strategically placed rose petals for the truly scandalized). These pampered nobles, slender and boyish, were visions of Westerosi charm. Their golden lion manes had been meticulously coiffed to frame their angelic faces: high cheekbones kissed by Lannister gold, sapphire and emerald eyes twinkling beneath flawlessly arched brows. Each of them was taut and lithe, their supple bodies glistening like wet summer peaches in the dappled sunlight streaming through the high arched windows. Their perky, round derrieres - the envy of innkeepers' daughters and the toast of courtly sonnets - were as much on display as their languorous repose would allow, the delicate curve of each backside whispering promises of noble lineage and squats well-squatted. At the epicenter of this diaphanous assemblage of highborn excellence was Ser Gregor himself, a colossus of sinew and scar, the very mountain from which his moniker was mined. The juxtaposition was nothing short of comical, the monstrous knight coupling with a svelte noble, whose slender legs were wrapped around The Mountain as if he were naught but a maypole at a bawdy festival. The bed groaned a lugubrious lament with each of Ser Gregor's thunderous advancements, a creaking paean that seemed in comical protest at the exertion of its duty. At one corner of the bed, a handsome young man, Jeston Lannistwink, twiddled a lock of his flaxen hair and nibbled on a lemon cake, his sky-blue eyes watching with amusement as his companion, Petyr Pettibum, squeaked with an inflection that climbed the keep's stone walls with each enthusiastic embrace from The Mountain. Another, named Lyonel Lusciouslocks, was prone on his stomach, legs kicking idly as he took delighted bites from a honeyed fig, the gentle rise and fall of his pert rear paradoxically harmonious with the rhythm of the bed's arduous creaks. "Ahhh, sweetness," crooned Ser Gregor between labored breaths, his deep rumblings a stark counterpoint to the dulcet tones of his companions. "You Lannister lot have more sugar in your veins than all the confectioners in King's Landing." "Oh, Ser," replied Jeston with a grin that shimmered with mischief, "we're simply providing you with your daily serving of fruit. Think of it as, ah, preserving your health." Exchanges of coquettish quips and decadent treats continued, the air filled with laughter as light as the crunch of a sugared almond between Lyonel's pearly teeth. Sweetmeats and gentle roars mingled in a symphony that was as much an absurdity to the ear as the scene was to the eye. And then, with an almighty crack that echoed like a clap of thunder on the plains of the Reach, the great bed of Clegane gave its final groan and splintered beneath the weight of The Mountain's passion. The twinks tumbled in a graceful avalanche of limbs and laughter, a harem of highborn hilarity collapsing into an undignified heap upon the chamber's Myrish rugs. There they lay in a tangled sprawl of noble flesh and finery, sweetly snickering as the chamber slowly grew still, save for the tickling of crumbs from demolished pastries dusting the air. Only the intermittent chirp of a cricket outside dared to comment on the aftermath of The Mountain and his mirthful Lannister lads.