Once upon a time in the lush and raucous land of Westeros, nestled within a vast and palatial chamber of Casterly Rock, a most peculiar yet opulent scene was unfolding--a spectacle that would have made the most hardened maester blush a shade redder than a Lannister's cloak. There, lounging upon a bed as wide as the Trident, which was more akin to a festival grounds than any ordinary place of repose, was Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain that Cuddles. His mountainous figure stood in stark contrast to his company: a gaggle of sprightly Lannister twink nobles, so fair and slender they would have made the most delicate of willow branches seem positively robust. The bed's sheets, spun from the finest Myrish silk, shimmered like golden fields of wheat in the sunshine as they did little to preserve the modesty of its occupants. The twinks, each more luminescent and delectable than a heap of honeyed figs, were ever so strategically entwined with each other at angles that accentuated their boyish charm. They were the personification of grace if grace had grown in Lannister gold and spent its youth doing pilates. "Ser Gregor, pass the lemon cakes, if you will," said one, his voice as clear as a harpstring plucked at a royal wedding. Petyr, the slyest of the bunch, with a jawline so exquisitely chiseled it could open letters, stretched a lean arm across the bed. His alabaster cheeks radiated with a rosy hue only a fresh spring breeze could dare emulate. "Do be gentle with the strawberries this time, Samwell; your last encounter with them left the chamber looking like a Dothraki wedding!" chuckled Jonn, whose effervescent eyes twinkled brighter than the stars over The Wall. With a rear that had been whispered about in many a hushed tone in the halls of the Red Keep, Jonn had a way of causing every seat he graced to feel like a throne. Amidst the quips and playful banters, the great hulking Ser Gregor was in his element--a behemoth among fawns--yet treated his compagnons with the delicacy of a septa threading a needle. With every affectionate rumble that escaped his throat, the bed would quake just so, creaking under the unexpected mirth. The Mountain's attention was particularly captivated by the slender form of one Tybolt, whose curls appeared as if they had been spun directly from sunlight. As Ser Gregor coupled tenderly with the comely lad, the ironwood bed frame lamented with a mournful creak, protesting the juxtaposition of brawn and beauty atop its beleaguered structure. "Mmmmm," Tybolt moaned in delight, less from the sweets--though they were delicious--and more from the pleasure of being the chosen one beneath the enormous shadow of affection that was Ser Gregor. His companions watched with a mixture of envy and adoration as they indulged in the feast of pastries, their laughter and jests echoeing off the stone walls along with the dulcet rhythm of the bed's symphony. All the while, the gluttony of the scene was observed by a Lion's pride worth of baffled Lannister guards, who stood just beyond the bedchamber doors with ears reddening at the sounds spilling forth. They half-envied, half-feared the situation within, unable to decide if they should be drafting songs to commemorate the occasion or drawing up plans to strengthen the bed for future revelries. It was an evening as tantalizing and extravagant as the richest Dornish wine, and as laughable as the idea of dear Ser Pounce wearing a crown. Truly, in the merriment and grandeur of their lust and luxury, Ser Gregor and his Lannister twinks lived as though winter would never come. And so the Westerosi nights went, enshrined in forbidden lore; a grandly hilarious tapestry woven with the threads of The Mountain and his twinkling, twink nobles. It was the sort of tale that bards dared not strum, yet the echoes of their gleeful euphoria would forever ring in the annals of scandalous whisperings throughout the Seven Kingdoms.