Round and Round We Go

Fic: Round and Round We Go (4/?)

By Elizabeth5

Pairings: Robb/Sansa, Jon/Sansa

Rating: T, maybe eventually more

Triggers: Some allusions to abuse, Starkcest.

Summary: Sansa, Robb, and Jon escape from the powerful Lannister mob family and go on the run with a traveling carnival but soon learn that the past isn't an easy thing to leave behind.

Author's Notes: Thank you, thank you, thank you for the feedback, the follows, and the reviews! It's super nerdy how much they make my day. As usual, some dark and angsty stuff to follow. You have been warned.

#

Sansa attempted to twist away from the group of leering men gathered around her, but Joffrey caught her by the chin, forcing her to look back.

"What would the noble Starks think if they could see you now, I wonder?" he taunted.

Sansa blinked and tried her best not to cry. It only egged him on, to see her tears, she knew. But this… this struck to the very heart of her fears, hit upon the very thing that kept her awake, tossing and turning at night. Not what Joffrey or any of the Lannisters could possibly do to her, for she had been numbed far past that point of pain… but what her family would think if they could see her now. How they would despise her.

Joffrey laughed, goaded on by the jeers of his friends watching on. "It's only too bad we already killed your brothers and father. If I'd only thought ahead, I would've kept them around for a bit. Made them watch.

"They wouldn't even let you through the door anymore, whore," he pressed on, a hot whisper now against her ear. "They'd have to burn everything that you touched."

#

Sansa woke with a start, staring up at the rooftop, waiting for her heart to stop hammering. Breathe, she instructed herself. Breathe.

She hadn't thought she made any noise, but then, across the room, Jon cleared his throat. "Okay?" he asked quietly.

There was no need for his hushed tone, Sansa saw as she rolled over too find Robb's cot predictably empty. For that, at least, she was grateful. She didn't know what she said aloud in her sleep, but a part of her was fiercely glad to not have Robb hear it. Explaining to him in any detail about what the Lannisters had done to her…she couldn't bear it. She suspected, of course, that he already knew; suspected that was why he was so short with her these days, and hurtful; but she couldn't bear to say it to his face, all the same. Couldn't bear to see the disgust and the hatred when he realized what she'd become.

"Okay," she returned finally, though her voice cracked, betraying her.

There came the sound of something scraping across the floor, and then suddenly Jon's cot was beside hers. Wordlessly, he reached out across the space between them, holding out his hand to her.

Sansa reached for it, clutching it tight with both hands as she wept hot, silent tears. "I'm sorry," she murmured over and over again, an endless loop.

Reaching out with his free hand, Jon stroked down the length of her hair. "Sleep. I'll keep watch. No one will hurt you, not now. Not ever again."

She obediently closed her eyes. "Promise?"

"Promise."

So she did.

#

The second time she woke, it was before him, their fingers still loosely twined together. His brow was ever so slightly furrowed as if in concentration, his mouth hanging open as he breathed against his pillow. Her lips curled up at the sight, and it was such a rare thing that she reached up to touch them, then on impulse reached out to touch Jon's as well.

Oh, Sansa realized with a start as she felt his breath against her skin.

Oh.

#

When at last Robb deigned to re-enter the tent the next morning—tie loosened, shirt unkempt, a smug, pleased smirk on his unshaven face—Jon had already left to help Sam, and Sansa was up and preparing for the day.

Robb paused in the open tent flap, giving a long pointed look to Jon's and Sansa's cots, still pushed close together. She pretended not to notice him as she brushed her hair at the gold-framed mirror Jon had found for her in salvage, even humming a little to herself to show how much she did not care what he thought.

You've left us alone to fend for ourselves, she thought to herself savagely as she attacked a particularly resilient knot with her comb. You have no right to judge how we do so.

At last, Robb ducked inside, making for his own cot. "And where are we off to this fine morning, sister?"

Still she did not look at him, setting down her brush and smoothing down the front of her dress. "To practice some more with Harry." She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Tomorrow is the party. We have to be ready."

Robb grunted his assent, kicking off his boots. "Give me half an hour to sleep off last night and then we can go."

Taking in a deep breath through her nose, Sansa steadied her hands in her lap. "I'm going without you."

He stopped mid-whistle, craning his neck to look at her. "Like hell you are," he said at long last.

Sansa met his gaze through her reflection in the mirror, refusing to back down. "We need all the practice time we can manage. And anyway, you and Jon are too distracting. It makes me nervous."

"Have you forgotten the part where there will be hundreds of people watching you?"

She shook her head. "It's different. I'll be in costume then, wearing a mask. And besides, it doesn't make me nervous to have people watch me, it makes me nervous to have you and Jon watch me."

"The answer's no, Sansa."

He was so arrogant, so sure she would obey him, even going so far as to fold his arms behind his head and close his eyes. Sansa slowly turned, clenching down on her jaw to keep her voice steady. "Somebody must have forgotten to mention to me, when you became my keeper."

Just as slowly, Robb's eyes inched open again, Tully blue meeting Tully blue. "Sansa, I know men like Harry. He's only after one thing—"

"You mean men like you?"

It was the boldest thing she'd ever said to him. Sansa forced herself to hold Robb's gaze without backing down, though her hands in her lap were trembling. For a moment, he simply gaped at her, then blinked as if pulling himself back from it. "What are you—"

"I can't go anywhere without hearing people talk about it." Sansa clenched her fists to stop them from shaking. Her nails dug into her palms, but she didn't care. "Lucy the poodle trainer and Hanna the cook, and Debbie the tightrope girl."

"Stop it, Sansa."

"You want to keep me locked up in a cage, to punish me, but I won't… I won't…"

She made for the entrance but Robb was off the cot faster than she had imagined, blocking her way. "If you're that desperate to spread your legs for the first man who smiles at you—"

Her hand cracked across his face, but no more stinging than the words that escaped her mouth: "You're worse than Joffrey," she hissed at him.

At once she regretted it. Robb looked as though she'd gutted him, even staggering back a step. But he released her.

Free now, Sansa turned and fled, forcing herself not to look back.

#

Harry took her out to a field—a proper one, with soft green grass instead of dried-up corn like they'd been traveling through since what felt like forever. At once, he set his legs shoulder-width apart and cupped his hands in front of him, watching her expectantly. "Take off your shoes."

Sansa obediently sat down in the grass and began unlacing her boots. She pulled them off a moment later, and her stockings, too, for good measure, before standing once more.

She'd done the same, of course, when they'd been practicing in the ring, but it suddenly felt much more intimate here, secluded from everyone else, no Robb or Jon around. Harry's eyes were fastened on her bare feet and ankles. Sansa shifted, not so much from pleasant titillation as frank embarrassment. It felt somehow too intimate a thing, to be in front of him that way. She wished she'd kept on her socks at least.

"Come here." Harry resumed his previous pose, squatting a little to get closer to her height. "Now, step into my hands, like that, and—"

All at once she was in the air, gasping a little bit as she clutched onto his shoulders for balance. He was very strong, his grip sure, as he lifted her even further, well over his head.

They went over the routine they'd been practicing. It was at once familiar and disorientingly new without their usual audience around to watch. It might only be her imagination, but it seemed Harry was much freer with his hands now, sliding and lingering in ways he wouldn't have dared to do with her brothers watching on. Or perhaps she was being too jumpy. They were more comfortable with each other now, that was all, more practiced with the routine.

And then suddenly his hands were on her ribcage, his thumbs circling up over her breasts, and Sansa knew she was not imagining anything. "Alayne," he murmured, face buried into her belly.

A hot flush of panic worked its way up Sansa's stomach. "Let me down," she instructed sharply, clutching at his shoulders.

"You're so beautiful, Alayne. You're so beautiful…"

"Let me down," Sansa insisted again and began to struggle against him, losing her balance and pitching face-forward toward the ground.

He caught her at the last instant, breathing heavy, arms straining. Sansa's chin was only inches from the ground. A second later and she might have smashed in her face, might have even broken her neck—not likely, but such a thing had been known to happen.

"Are you all right?" Harry kept asking her over and over again, voice frantic, but Sansa felt strangely calm.

You should have let me fall, she thought with a sharp burst of longing.

#

He laid out a blanket for her on the soft green grass and was so gentle and so effusive with his praise. All the while, Sansa had to close her eyes and bite back the urge to beg him to shut up.

At last he was kissing her, tongue exploring her mouth, hands roaming freely over her body. When this sort of thing had happened back with the Lannisters, she'd just closed her eyes and let her mind drift to something else. Home, usually. She'd thought it might be different with Harry, that she might actually enjoy herself, but her mind was wandering again, to the only home she knew now. Jon, and Robb. She was so broken, after all, and they were the only ones holding together all the pieces.

"You're a sick little bitch, aren't you?" Joffrey had always taunted her, and maybe he was right.

Afterward, she stroked his head where it lay on her breast. Just as her mother had always tended them when they were ill. He was a nice man, after all. He'd brought her a lemon cake, which was more than she could ever say for Petyr Baelish.

"I think I love you, Alayne," he murmured.

I think I'm ruined forever, Sansa thought in return. I think I don't know how to feel anymore. I think I should have died back in West Eros. I think maybe I did.

"That's very kind of you," was what she said instead, continuing to run her fingers through his hair.

#

It was late when they got back, the carnival rides already wound down and most of the lights in the tents doused for the night. With any luck, both of her brothers would already be asleep and she wouldn't have to explain where she'd been or why there was grass in her hair, on her clothes. Wouldn't have to bicker with Robb and feel his loathing for her seethe through every word. Wouldn't have to worry that Jon would look into her eyes and know everything, everything.

But no; there was a light coming from their tent. Jon, Sansa prayed silently. Let it be Jon.

It was Robb. He had been drinking heavily; she could smell it the moment she stepped inside, filling the tent as thick and potent as a fog. At her entrance, his bleary eyes met hers, and at once his expression slackened, becoming impossible to read. "Fun day?"

Sansa broke her gaze, moving to the vanity as if nothing had changed, as if she was simply going about her nightly tasks. They had come full circle from this morning, she realized as she picked up her brush and began to stroke her hair. Only this time it was she who was slinking in smelling of someone else instead of him.

See? she thought—irrationally, cruelly—This is how it feels.

"Where's Jon?" she asked, her voice light as if it was a mild curiosity, though inwardly she was desperate for his return. He would cut through this stifling tension between them—or at least bury it for later, and frankly anything would be better than this.

"One of the horses broke its leg. Jon and Sam are putting him down. You would have known that, if you'd been here."

She ignored the last part, refusing to take the bait. "Any sign of the Lannisters?"

Robb gave a short jerk of his head. "Nothing new. I expect Cersei's so certain of getting what she wants that she doesn't feel the need to check in every day. She just snaps her fingers, and the world falls at her feet." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "But then, I'm no Lannister. I'm worse than one, remember?"

The words sang with bitterness, begging to be hashed and rehashed again, but Sansa refused to pick them up. Instead she turned and moved toward the partition, already undoing the buttons of her dress. "I'm going to bed…"

Robb caught her before she had gone two paces, hands clasping her wrists, one knee wedging between her thighs as he pinned her against the post in the center of the tent. Sansa gasped and tried to pull away but there was something desperate in his grip and even more so in his eyes.

"Tell me what I've done," he begged her, "tell me why you won't look at me anymore."

At that, Sansa stilled, blinking at him in surprise. It was he who wouldn't look at her, he who wouldn't touch her, he who was ashamed that she'd let herself be the Lannisters' whore. "I don't—"

But Robb wasn't finished. Tears pooled in his eyes, leaking down his face unheeded. "I know I should have come for you sooner. I know I should have. Not a day goes by that I don't regret it. You have to forgive me, Sansa, please. You have to forgive me…"

Tears, unexpected, stung at her own eyes, and she felt her face crumpling. "You left me there."

Robb groaned, bowing his head in shame. "I know."

"I was so afraid. Every day, I was so afraid. I wanted to die. I still want to die."

He pressed his forehead to hers. "Don't say that."

"I know you wish it had been one of the others instead of me." They were so close, Sansa couldn't tell if it was her crying or him, or maybe both, warm salty tears pooling together. "I wish that too, for you. That I could have been Arya, or Mother…"

Robb shook his head against hers, shh-ing her, thumbs stroking the inside of her palms where he held her still. "No," he said quietly, firmly, and again, "No."

For a moment, they remained that way, breathing against one another. "You can't leave me, Sansa," he whispered at last. "There's no point to this—to anything—if you aren't with me. There's nobody I trust but you, and Jon. There's nobody I could ever love, not again. The three of us, that's the way it will always be. Nobody else. We're all we have left."

Afterwards, she couldn't be sure if it was him or her who had moved, but all at once his knee bracing her up against the post was pressing into the softest parts of her. Unbidden, a moan escaped her throat—a sound so raw and primal she hardly recognized it as having come from herself.

Robb's eyes startled open, so close to hers she thought she would die from the mortification. Flushing, she tried to turn her face away, tried to squirm out of his grasp—and then, deliberately, he shifted and pressed into her again, deeper and harder this time.

She whimpered, his name falling from her lips like a prayer she could not stop repeating, all the time aware of his forehead pressed to hers, eyes open, watching her. And somehow it was nothing like being touched by Harry or Joffrey or any of the others because there was nowhere she wanted to be but here, right here, and nothing she wanted but more. Of him. Of Robb.

Her brother.

Robb seemed to shift the change the same moment she did, that dawning awareness of the line they had irreparably crossed. There had been nothing sisterly in the way she had bucked against him, just like…just like what the Lannisters had always accused her of being.

"Sansa," Robb said quietly.

She pushed free of him and this time he let her. Hurrying to her partition, she gathered a towel and her nightgown. "I need to shower."

He didn't say anything, just watched her. Belatedly, Sansa glanced down and realized her dress was still half unbuttoned and clutched it together, though that hardly seemed important now.

"Sansa," Robb tried one more time, but she pretended not to hear as she ducked out of the tent.

It wasn't the shower she was truly intending to find, of course. Jon. Jon would help her make sense of things. She wouldn't be able to tell him what had happened, naturally—even the thought of it burned her with shame. But being around him helped clear her head, helped make sense of the world when nothing else could. Yes, Jon would make everything all better.

But as she rounded the corner, it was a different face from her past that greeted her.

Tyrion Lannister.

For a moment, she was too frozen to move. Tyrion stared back at her, drinking in her face as if he could scarcely believe he had found her.

"Well, if it isn't Sansa Stark," he said simply, reaching out to touch a strand of her darkened hair as if to check to see that she was real. "I must say, you're a remarkably difficult woman to find...Wife."