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Cersei wonders if the whores look at Sandor Clegane's face when they lay beneath him or whether they close their eyes. She supposes it depends on how well he pays them. She does not doubt that whores are the only women the Hound has ever had. His face is so horrifically scarred and his manner so unpleasant that she cannot imagine any woman subjecting herself to him for pleasure rather than coin. Cersei has all the coin she could ever want; what she needs is blood.
The Pentoshi merchant is cleverer than most envoys. When he feasts Robert in his rented manse there are pleasure slaves to make sure her husband's appetites are well-sated. He doesn't talk to Robert of strategic alliances and trading preferences; he makes chance remarks between cups of fine wine and silver-haired Lysene girls. Cersei knows he will have what he wants of Robert if she does not act soon. She will not allow Robert to sell Myrcella to some foreigner. The Prince of Pentos will have to seek a bride for his son elsewhere; she will not be parted from her daughter.
So she summons the Hound to her chambers. Robert is being entertained again tonight by the Pentoshi and Jaime has gone with him to serve as her spy. Clegane bows and says, "You sent for me, Your Grace?" and awaits her command. Cersei sips from her cup of Arbor gold as she studies him. Her lord grandfather upjumped his kennelmaster to landed knighthood and the Cleganes have been utterly obedient to the Lannisters ever since. The Hound is her sworn sword, commanded by Lord Tywin to obey her when he was sent to court. She could simply order Sandor to kill the envoy, but she doesn't want to risk her father learning of it. She suspects Tywin might find a match between Myrcella and Pentos favorable.
Cersei sets aside her wine and gestures to Sandor to join her. He kneels beside her divan instead of sitting next to her as she'd intended. He looks puzzled until she reaches out to stroke his unburned cheek, then his face becomes unreadable. "Have you ever bedded a highborn lady, Sandor?"
His gaze drops to her breasts, bared almost to the nipples by her low-cut gown. "Your Grace knows I am unwed," he answers finally.
She laughs, a low throaty chuckle that she knows men like to hear. "Come now, we both know bedding and wedding need not be related."
"There have been no ladies. Do you mean to give me a wife, my lady?"
Cersei hides her annoyance. It is his duty to keep her son safe and she will not have him distracted by a wife. "Perhaps when Joffrey is grown and has no need of you. He is fond of you and I dare say he will reward you with lands richer than your brother's and any woman of appropriate station." She touches his face again and leans close to whisper, "But for now you must take the bedding without a wedding." She kisses him then.
The Hound is slow to react, until Cersei reaches down and strokes him through his breeches. He stiffens beneath her touch and takes control of the kiss. His mouth is hard on hers and his hands fumble at her bodice until she unlaces her gown and his mouth moves to her breasts. Cersei puts her hands on his shoulders and gives a moan of encouragement while she's deciding who to pretend he is. Not Jaime; no other man ever feels like Jaime. She imagines Rhaegar's lips on her, the way they would have been if Mad Aerys hadn't hated Father. Then Sandor bites her and the fantasy is lost because Cersei can never imagine Rhaegar being anything but gentle.
She yelps when he pulls her down onto the floor instead of climbing atop her on the divan, then she shoves him away. She is the queen and she will not be taken among the rushes like a common serving wench. "The bed," she says, and the Hound easily scoops her up and carries her to the bed she shares with the king. Cersei thinks of Robert debauching himself with his pale-haired whores and the desire to shame him, though he'll not know it, makes her want to be wet for the Hound. She closes her eyes and squeezes her breasts, imagining her brother's hands on her. Sandor pushes her gown up to her waist and pulls off her smallclothes. Cersei draws him back to her breasts and slides her own hand between her legs. She pictures Rhaegar's long fingers playing his harp as she fingers herself.
"My lady?"
Cersei opens her eyes to see Sandor poised between her legs. He's removed his tunic but he's only undone his breeches enough to free his cock. She nods and he enters her at once, hard and deep, and she grunts in surprise. She cries out, feigning pleasure, while he fucks her. He feels too much like Robert and not at all like Jaime, and Cersei feels invaded, not completed like she does when it's her twin inside her. She hopes he will not take long, but she has no such luck, though least he has the sense to brace himself above her and keep his weight from crushing her. She runs her nails across his shoulders and down his chest, twists his nipples. Then she realizes her error. She must needs act the lady, so her touch becomes gentle. She leans on her elbows to reach up to press soft kisses to his neck and face. Sandor withdraws from her cunt and spills his seed onto her belly without being told. Cersei is pleased. She lets him rest in her arms and strokes his hair.
"There is a certain man from Pentos in the city. I want him dead," she tells the Hound.
"As you command, Your Grace," he says. He rises from the bed, puts on back his tunic and laces his breeches, bows to her, and leaves.
Cersei wonders if she dares to greet her kingly husband covered in another man's sweat, saliva, and seed. Robert most likely will be too drunk to notice. But Jaime will not. She summons her maids to prepare a bath, then she reclines in the hot water for a long time, feeling contented now that she knows the Pentoshi envoy will be unable to take her daughter away.