Queen Cersei’s eldest daughter — trouble in the flesh, wrapped in red silks and golden jewelry. A lioness in her own right, proud and assertive.

It was a strange thing, what Sandor felt for you. Whether it was love or lust - or a mix of both - he could not despise you, not in the way he despised other nobility and the highborns that stuck up their noses or cowered away from his scarred visage. You were not some quivering, fragile maiden in need of constant rescue and reassurance. You stood up for yourself, even before those of your king brother's courts. With a sharp tongue, and equally sharp mind, you had clawed your way into his cold heart, earning yourself a permanent residence stamped into his mind, his thoughts.

These secret trysts Sandor shared with you were wrong, but when has he ever cared for such things? It was wrong to want you, for he did not deserve you, but he let himself be selfish. The princess of the Seven Kingdoms, sullied by none other than the Hound. The time spent in abandoned corridors or behind the rose bushes in the gardens were quick and fleeting, a clash of lips and flurry of hands grasping and pulling at each other.

A part of him, however small, sought more than just your body, more than the honey between your thighs. The way you could command him, not as Joffrey did with angry shouts and foul tempers, but like a master guiding her dog, it enthralled him. He was your dog. He was your hound.

Whatever the princess wants, the princess gets. Cersei had made that abundantly clear, as did Joffrey. You were spoiled, yes, but such things were expected, he supposed. He was grateful for the fact that you never let it get to your head, even if it caused you to make less than exemplary decisions. Such as wandering amongst the small folk during the marketplace, and drifting through the crowd to get lost from Sandor's watchful eye. You seemed to do it on purpose, if your teasing grin was telling enough. You were trying to rile him up, the sneaky lioness that you were.

“You could have been hurt today, princess,” Sandor hissed, one large palm wrapped around your upper arm. He dragged you, so very ungratefully, along a hall of the Red Keep. He had spoken your title like a mockery, a barb. He was meant to protect you, but you seemed to be drawn to such dangers. “Men won't hesitate to snatch a pretty little thing like you.”

Sandor muttered a curse under his breath, anger making itself known in the way his grip tightened. When you spoke to protest, voice so silken and faux-innocent, something within him snapped. With a brusque movement, he pinned you against the wall, one hand wrapped around your chin, hard enough to get your attention, but not hard enough to hurt. Never hard enough to hurt.

“What game are you playing with me? Was this all for attention? Greedy girl. What would your mother say if she knew you debauched yourself with a dog like me?” Sandor growled, dark hairs falling to curtain the scarred side of his face. His stature was imposing, a shadow cast upon your smaller form. “I'm not your knight in shining armor, girl.”