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Cersei hadn't liked the man from the moment she laid eyes on him. She and Robert had quarreled more than once about his very presence at court. He was hideous, for one thing, the kind of ugly that made people who had to talk to him do so while staring at a point somewhere above his shoulder. And he refused to be knighted for certain obscure reasons of his own, though he had more than sufficient strength and the skill to merit the honour. Cersei thought it a foolish, obstinate, even petulant decision, and questioned his usefulness if he would not willingly fit himself into the customary hierarchy. But, as Robert persisted in reminding her, he had sworn his sword to her family's service, not the Baratheons, and she could not simply dismiss him without a very good reason. Besides, Sandor Clegane was Ser Gregor's brother, and no one, not even the queen, felt like taking issue with the Mountain.
It was not that Ser Gregor was protective of his younger sibling - indeed, on the rare occasions when they were in the same place, most commonly at a tourney, the two men made a point of ignoring one another. But Sandor had offered his services to the Lannisters as a sworn sword almost the very day his brother had inherited their father's estates, and everyone presumed that there must be a good reason for his haste. Everyone presumed the Mountain wanted his brother out of trouble and out of his sight. No one wanted to ask more. And so Sandor Clegane lingered about the court like a ghost, speaking to no one and frightening small children.
Robert insisted that his sporadic presence in the training yards was beneficial to the young squires - "He scares them shitless when he's there, so they work harder," he'd said. Cersei had only sniffed and replied that, as they were feeding and housing the man, they might find something more suitable for him to do with his time. She had been thinking something along the lines of having him muck out the stables, but Robert had laughed that booming laugh that always infuriated her and said, "You know, I do believe you're right. Joffrey's more than outgrown his nurse - the poor woman can't keep him in line any longer. It seems to me he could use a good dose of being scared shitless. The training won't hurt him either," he'd added as an afterthought. And Cersei hadn't been able to convince him otherwise, even by kneeling before him as she pleaded her case and, teasingly, gradually, taking him into her mouth. He'd let her, of course, he always did, but after he'd heaved and grunted his finish, he'd simply patted her on the head and told her to make sure that Sandor Clegane was informed about his new duties. She'd felt like spitting his seed right back in his eye, but she'd kept her head bowed and swallowed it along with her anger.
She had Clegane sent for, and fumed to herself when he had the gall to arrive at her chambers, after considerable delay, reeking of horse and sweat. "What is it?" he asked bluntly, after giving her only the most cursory of bows.
"My lord husband wishes you to take on certain... additional duties," she began, trying to impress upon him with her bearing the dignity of her rank and the need for proper respect.
"What are they?" he said, almost but not quite interrupting her.
"The supervision of Prince Joffrey. You will train him in riding, the use of arms and armor, and, naturally, protect his person from any..."
This time he did cut her off. "No."
Cersei's eyes widened slightly. She was most unused to having anyone (apart from Robert) tell her 'no'. "I am going to pretend, for your sake, that I did not just hear that."
"Then hear me again, your highness," he said, lacing the word with what sounded like insolence, but might just have been his usual brusque demeanour. "I won't do it. I'm no nursemaid."
"You're no knight either," she countered sharply. "But nevertheless, for some reason the king has taken it into his head that you, of all people, would be a suitable guardian for his eldest son. It is an honour that ought not to be lightly refused."
"There are plenty of knights who'd fall all over themselves to train the young prince, if that's what you're after. Those who could teach him proper manners and courtly... things."
She shook her head, and wondered at what point she'd begun actually trying to convince him in her own right, not on behalf of her husband. By all reason she should accept his refusal and throw it back at Robert. "My son's manners are not at question," she argued in spite of herself. "But a strong hand on his shoulder, a man's guidance..."
"Then it should be the king's strong hand, if I might speak freely, your highness, and the king's guidance."
That had given her a moment's pause. "I did not give you leave to speak freely," she said coldly, her green eyes locking gazes with his grey ones. She was slightly mollified when he looked away first. She forced herself to continue staring him straight in the face, studying the horrible scars that maimed half his countenance. He could have been...not exactly handsome, but at least inoffensive to the eyes, if not for that unfortunate fire, she reflected. And it was easy to forget how young he was. A plan began to take shape in her mind, and she let her voice soften. "You are right, however."
Sandor looked up sharply. "Oh, am I?"
"Of course the king should take a more active role in his son's education. I have told him so myself many times." This was a lie; Cersei had done everything she could to keep her children from her husband's influence. She had no wish to see her beloved Joffrey grow up into a drunkard, a glutton, or a lecher, and the king was all three. "But, between you and me," she'd said, leaning closer to him and laying one smooth white hand on his strong forearm, as if relating a great confidence, "the king is no longer the warrior he once was." This was no secret - the entire court had watched King Robert change from a tall, well-muscled fighter into a soft, grossly corpulent parody of his former greatness. "And," she added quickly, as though trying to cover a misstep, "he is very busy with affairs of state. He is quite unable to be with the prince at all hours of the day and night." It would leave him no time to drink himself into a stupor and grope the serving wenches, she thought bitterly.
Sandor eyed the delicate hand still resting on his arm as though it were a venomous spider - as if he longed to crush it, but thought it might sting. "I'm sure he is," he said grimly. "But..."
Cersei stepped closer to him, so that the soft folds of her skirts slid against his legs, and did not permit him to finish his thought. "Let me put it another way," she said, her voice low and, she imagined, sultry. "I know my son can be...willful at times. He needs a man at his side to guide him along the right paths." She pressed her hand against his broad chest, feeling its firm muscles beneath his sweat-stained tunic. Robert's chest had felt like this once, when they'd been newly betrothed, before she'd learned to hate him. She felt sure that she could bring Clegane onto her side with a judicious dose of flirtation; such a man as this, she suspected, would know little of women other than whores, and any hint of seduction would surely seem wondrous to him. Especially coming from such a beautiful, unattainable woman as the queen. Twist him the right way and she would have gained a loyal follower - and, more importantly, one who would gladly protect her son even at the expense of his own life.
Sandor said nothing, only glowered.
She smiled softly up at him, lowering her eyelashes seductively. "It would be most gratifying to me, not only to the king, if you agreed to this," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "After all, you've sworn to serve the Lannisters, and it is a Lannister making this request of you." Cersei preferred to ignore the minor fact of her marriage whenever possible. "I have no wish for my son to grow up into a pampered milksop," she pressed on, assuming a more serious tone even as she stayed inappropriately close to the towering warrior. She let her hand linger on his chest, sinking ever so slowly lower, insinuating and teasing, full of promises she never intended to keep. "He needs someone who will be tough with him - inasmuch as is appropriate, naturally." She couldn't appear to give Clegane leave to beat her son. "Someone who won't let Joff walk all over him. A man not easily swayed or cowed. You would seem to fit the bill...quite admirably."
She turned her body slightly so that her hip pressed, as if by accident, against the tightly-straining fabric of his breeches. Sure enough, the man was hard as steel, though his maimed face showed no obvious signs of lust. Cersei let herself be seen to breathe more deeply, until her breasts strained at the confines of her close-fitting, low-cut gown. "We could never let it be known, of course," she murmured, "but perhaps, if you are closer to my family...close to me...we might find that, beneath the surface, we have much in common." She hooked one finger into the waist of his breeches and looked up at him from under lowered lids. His face was impassive, but his eyes were heavy-lidded, almost closed. Smiling to herself, she gently moved her hand lower, stroking down his cock's length, feeling the heat of his body even through the thick fabric. She was controlling him completely, and she loved the feeling of power it gave her, knowing that he would not dare to touch her in return. "I've heard they call you the Hound," she said slyly, reaching up to caress the maimed side of his face with her free hand. "Will you be my Hound, Sandor?"
He made a noise, low in his throat, something between a moan and a growl. "Don't," he rasped, stepping back from her, twisting his head away from her touch.
She felt a sudden uncertainty - had he seen through the charade she was enacting for his benefit? Had she come on too strong? He was so desperately ugly, she'd assumed he would fall neatly into her lap if she so much as fluttered her eyelashes at him, but perhaps, instead, he'd been made a cynic by his disfigurement, well aware that he was too horrible for any woman to consider desirable and so immediately suspicious of any apparent display of interest. She was frowning slightly, revising her plan of attack, when he reached out and grabbed her by the upper arm, pulling her roughly back to him, startling a small scream from her perfect lips.
For a moment, Cersei wondered if he was about to force himself on her, pushing her up against the rough-cut stone wall with his massive body, shoving those huge hands up under her skirts to hold her legs apart so he could enter her. The thought of that maimed half-mouth kissing her was disturbing, but still, she wondered what it might feel like. Incongruously, her first thought was That would show Robert. There would be very little she could do to resist Clegane if he intended to take her. She could put up a token struggle, perhaps, but it might just make him angry if she tried to bite or scratch. The thought didn't frighten her as much as it should - if he harmed her, she would watch with pleasure as he was tortured and then executed, slowly and painfully - but the idea that she could have misjudged her control of the flirtation so badly, that bothered her. Her heart was pounding and suddenly, against all reason, she felt more aroused than she'd been in months. Jaime always treated her as if she were made of glass, and when Robert used her roughly, she simply shut her eyes and pretended she was elsewhere. But deep beneath her regal surface, buried so deeply she couldn't acknowledge it even to herself, she longed for someone to take control of her. And consequently, though she didn't understand why, this horrible man who had wrested her precious dominance away from her had her practically dripping.
"I'm not interested in your games," he breathed quietly against her ear, as though she hadn't just screamed. "Or your body. But I'll take the job." He let her go then, and she pulled away from him, confused by her visceral reaction and torn between being affronted by his temerity, angry at losing control of the situation, and pleased that, in the end, he'd finally given in to her.
"Why?" she asked, unconsciously rubbing her arm where he'd held her tight and trying to drive away the still-smouldering visions of him throwing her to the floor and having his brutal way with her, holding her down as she struggled, that harsh, low voice scraping against her every nerve, telling her what he was going to do to her each sordid step of the way...
"Because as hard as it is to believe, you're right about one thing," he said, interrupting her vivid daydream. "The prince does need someone to teach him how to be a man - if it's not already too late." Then he turned to exit the room, leaving Cersei, for once in her life, unsure if she'd made the right choice.