In the sprawling opulence of Casterly Rock, a most unusual and extravagant scene unfolded within the chambers of Ser Gregor Clegane, known far and wide as "The Mountain," a man feared for his ruthless ferocity in battle but now, quite bizarrely, the master of a decadent harem. The lavish bedchamber, large enough to host a tourney was, on this day, filled with the soft giggles and cooing of The Mountain's collection of Lannister nobles. Each one, a vision of Westerosi beauty--they were all cream and gold, their sun-kissed hair shining like spun Lannister gold, the hallmark of their pedigree, while their fair skin superbly contrasted with the dark and brooding decor of the chamber. As the afternoon sun spilled through the stained-glass windows, casting regal lions dancing across the extravagant fur-laden bed, the young nobles lounged in carefree, undressed splendor. With the leanness of svelte courtiers who had never swung a sword nor bore a shield, they were all cheekbones and pretty pouts, abs carved in the likeness of the Warrior himself, matched with backsides that could have been finely sculpted by the Maiden's own hands. The centerpiece of this carnal congregation, Sir Gregor, a man of monstrous girth, marbled muscle, and a reputation drenched in blood, was completely incongruous amidst the delicate flora of his harem. Yet here he was, making the mammoth bed creak and groan in a rhythmic symphony as he coupled with one giggling beau--a lad whose cherubic face was flushed with the exertion of pleasure. "More lemoncakes, sweetlings?" boomed The Mountain's voice, startling a raven from its perch outside with its dulcet thunder. "Oh yes, Greggy!" exclaimed one cheeky twink noble, batting long lashes as he reached for a platter with sticky lemoncakes piled high. He dipped his finger in the sugary citrus glaze, extending it toward a companion with a suggestive smirk. "You simply must try the frosting!" The chamber was enveloped in a scent mixed of sweet lemon, spiced wine, and a musky undertone of pure masculinity. The twinks gorged on the honeyed treats with an appetite that seemed to grow with The Mountain's every thrust. The bed groaned a protest, as if begging for mercy, while Gregor's mighty fortress of muscle moved with a surpringsingly tender cadence. "By the Seven, do be gentle, Ser," one visage of twink perfection uttered with a gasp, as he popped a candied fig into his mouth. The fig was supple, burst with flavor, but alas, the remark appeared to fall on deaf ears for the gentle giant was enraptured, lost to the delicate world he had sown around him. At the foot of the bed, a pair of nobles gleefully engaged in a contest, seeing who could toss honey-roasted cashews higher and catch them with their mouths. Their laughter rang out, a sweet melody contrasting with the primal sounds of connection, a testament to the bittersweet symphony that is The Mountain's harem. Vases of exotic flowers trembled with each resonant creak from the colossal canopied bed, yet they could only dream of the beauty unfolding before their petals. Paintings of renowned and solemn Lannisters gazed down, their gilded frames quivering in silent, judgmental horror--or perhaps, hidden envy. As the day's light waned and the twink nobles frolicked, gossiping between bites of marzipan and sips of pear brandy, they rarely paused their luxurious indolence save for moments of breathless awe or titters at the insatiable Ser Gregor's passion. The room was a juxtaposition of innocence and satiety, virtue and debauchery--none more so evident than when an errant pillow, flung in frivolity, toppled a decanter of fine Arbor gold, spilling the liquid sunshine upon the chamber floor. And so the day continued, as evenings in Casterly Rock were wont to do, with The Mountain hosting his harem of hilarity. Yet whispers soon traversed the Seven Kingdoms of this merry band, and tales of the gentle giants and their gilded Lannister twinks would become the stuff of legend, jesters' tales, and wayward dreams.