Author's Notes: This was going up tomorrow... but the weather outside is frightful, and the fire inside is.. now wait a minute... and the computer inside is so delightful, so I'm posting this chapter early. Ish.

I've never written a bitchy villain before... I've written a sympathetic Cersei once, and I just gotta say, this was a whole lot more fun to write! It's liberating writing a villain! If you've never written from a villain's POV, do it, at least once! Hope you all enjoy it too.


"I need you to do me a favor." the Lioness purrs, trailing a finger down the Hound's chiseled chest, looking at him like a piece of meat while never making eye contact. She never did throughout the years, always making sure to display the fact that he was beneath her notice, beneath her contempt: always with the high chin, and cold eyes anywhere but on his; beneath her yes, but still usable.

The Queen Regent came to his rooms hours after Sansa had left; dawn had come and gone, and it was mere hours before the trial by combat would commence. From one of her hands she dangles a wine skin, from the other dangles a vague promise: loose, yield or die, and she'd make his sacrifice quite worthwhile.

Cersei was naturally impeccably dressed with rich cloths of crimson and gold, while he, abnormally, had not truly readied for the day. He had spent the hour of the Nightingale thinking of the Little Bird, and of her "favor". Sansa's proffered flagon of wine still lay somewhere in his room, unopened. He had only just grudgingly got out of his bed and put on a pair of breeches before having to open his door again, to another woman with a "favor".

The lioness continues to trace his bare chest while pleading her case. "My brother, he cannot be declared innocent. He is an abomination, would you not agree? He has been the fool in my family all his life, and has sent Myrcella, my daughter, to Dorne! If let to his ways, he'd have all my family spread to the winds, and take Casterly Rock for himself!" She hisses the final word.

She takes a calming breath before continuing, "He has not been kind to you either. After all, look at what happened to your sister? And he sent you to fight within the fires, while he commanded from behind the walls, safe and cool." Her hand goes further south, and he finds it hard to concentrate. He is a man, after all, little used to human contact of any kind. And what the Little Bird had started was seemingly not finished.

The lioness purrs in confidence, thinking she has the upper hand. It irks him, her cool confidence as the cat with the cream, the bird in its mouth, his Little Bird, and he knew her cruelty had no bounds. He snatches her wrist, causing her to gasp in pain, "I don't give a fuck about your brother. This is about my brother, Gregor," he lies, "and I aim to see him dead, before I die."

Ignoring the pain, Cersei counters, "Think about it," she coos, wiggling her hand from his, "If you do not yield the fight, I will have you stripped of your cloak, your rank, and have you banished from King's Landing." She walks around him, trailing her hands over his collarbone, around to his shoulder blades, then up to his shoulders, finally kneading them quite deliciously as she had experimented on cousin Lancel; Sandor is surprised at how good it feels. She leans up to whisper in his good ear, "Yield, and I will yield." And she licks his whole ear, before gently biting it.

Sandor says nothing, disgusted by the woman but unable to refuse the queen, yet: her offer is not worth Sansa's life, but her ministrations cause his body to react against his will. As usual within the presence of a conniving woman or whore out for his money, he gets angry.

Cersei takes his silence for hesitation. She walks around him again, trailing cool hands on his shoulders, before leaning in to kiss him by way of promising more. She's shocked when he turns his head, giving her his burns which she narrowly avoids grazing.

Staring at his corded neck, Cersei takes a moment to wonder at his game. He does nothing to refute her, or to acquiesce. Thinking to entice him some more, she leans in again to kiss at his neck, just below his scars, trailing her hands down his hairy chest. His own paws grasp her waist, bringing her stomach against his hardness, grunting his appreciation when she bites him.

Smirking, she leans back from him, admiring his muscles that were more defined then Robert ever hoped to be, yet not as lean and beautiful as Jaime. "You yield, I yield." She states again, feeling that bedding the Hound wouldn't be so bad after having felt his hardness against her, feeling her own lusts spiking in reciprocation. "Afterwards, I might even reward you with a wife. You would like that, would you not?"

She's shocked when he shoves her against the wall, leaning in smother her in his shadow. Quickly, she schools herself to be pliant, accepting, willing... leaning her head back to bare her neck and arching her breasts to please him; lessons learned from bedding the coarse Kettleback brothers.

He thrusts his hips against her, harshly, almost like he wanted to hurt her, a large paw rising to grip her neck just shy of being painful. "Yes." she breaths, suffocating but able to say that much. Part of her wonders if he is doing this on purpose, before she remembers that this beast, her Hound, was unable to think, let alone be gentle, so she would have to endure. Perhaps it would not be as good as his size promised... but Robert was the same, she was used to it.

"Yes." she repeats, "You want this," she moans for effect, "I want this too." she lies. She grabs at his hand that has been bruising her breast, moving it to her mouth and sucking at a digit, before releasing it slowly from her cherry red, plump lips. "Just imagine the pleasure we can have... later, after my brother and his annoying wife's demise."

He stills for a moment, and she wonders what she said wrong. Then:" You have no intention of giving yourself to me, do you?" he all but growls. Though she is already against the wall, he pushes her harshly, causing her head to bounce against the hard stones, and he distances himself from the queen; "You can take your offer, and shove it! This is not the first time you've done this, isn't it? How many other men have you done such? Don't lie, I can tell! "

Chin high, wildfire eyes glaring over his shoulder, she hisses that he cannot treat the queen in such a manner.

"And you can no longer treat me like a dog." He replies, anger lacing every word. "I am done with you Lannisters. Win or die, I leave King's Landing, and you can find another dog to do your bidding, to mount you like the bitch you are!"

Stunned, Cersei looks to Sandor for the first time ever, seeing in his eyes what she has never noticed before: his anger, fury, and danger (and if she cared enough, would have seen hurt too). It scares her, more then his scars, or imposing figure, or the fact that they are in his room, his territory.

"Have it your way," She hisses, able to hide behind her own brand of anger, but still wishes to get away as quickly as possible, "You can forget about any favors the Lannisters have bestowed upon you, or ever will!" And she storms away.

She hears him laughing as she goes down the hall, but inside her there is a malicious voice that whispers, We'll see who has the last laugh!

Back in his room, Sandor throws the cheap wineskin that Cersei offered into the fire. While the leather crackles and burns, he takes up Sansa's favor, noticing for the first time the blue ribbon tied around the flagon's neck. Thoughts of Cersei fading away, he smiles at the ribbon, tracing the silken strand between two coarse fingers. Had Sansa not been there first, he imagines his resolve to refute Cersei would have been weaker.

Irritation ebbing away, happy that he refused the queen and was able to stay true on his course, he opened the crystal flagon, sniffing at the rich contents that obviously belong to Tyrion's private stock, and remembered that he is to defend the Imp as well. No matter, he though, for Sansa is more important than the half-man right now.

All of a sudden, the fire roars to life, turning a sickly shade of purple. Stunned, he watches the purple flames dance and climb upon the fuel that was Cersei's wine, before they calm and turn into regular orange flames.

He takes a swig of the Dornish wine, fueling his own anger that the queen thought to poison himwith wine, after he had saved her worthless son's life from the same thing. She must have known he would not have helped her, or had thought to have a secondary plan. He can only be thankful that he had another's favor to drink, or else he might have drunk of Cersei's just for spite. There is nothing to do now but win, and it strengthens his resolve to defend Sansa, the only woman (since his sister) to have come to him for more then just his sword. Though still young and naive, she is far more worthy then the jaded hag that had just left his room.

He remembers his impatience towards Sansa earlier, and cringes. Better for her to give up her innocence when happy and comfortable, and not to suit his needs, or hers. By comparison with recent events, Sansa had given him all that she could, and it was enough. More then enough: his heart swells in remembrance.

Remembering that Sansa had always reached out to his burns, even before he had gained her trust and friendship, and it was always to comfort him, never in any sort of show of favoritism or to take something of him. The first time he had mockingly called her a Little Bird, was the first time she had touched his scarred cheek: he is no true knight. Aye, even then, she started to see his own worth, little as it seemed. And while Cersei would probably give more then Sansa was comfortable with, Cersei's touch held less affection then Sansa's. Gods, Sansa had even kissed his burns!

Sansa might still be a girl, barely a woman, and she has fears on such carnal deeds, and fears of the repercussions. However, the Little Bird wants him, wants him; that is not a lie. He would question why she likes him so, but if he is to die before tomorrow dawns, such questions are pointless today. He does not yet know of her sweet honey; but her silken hands, her Maiden kisses soothing his angry burns and furious nature, those are far better then the Crone's useless gifts.

Finally dressed, armored, and armed, Sandor takes a final look at Sansa's favor, before tucking her blue ribbon underneath his chain mail and breastplate, just above the three stitched dogs and his heart.