Round and Round We Go

Fic: Round and Round We Go (3/?)

By Elizabeth5

Pairings: Robb/Sansa, Jon/Sansa

Rating: T, maybe eventually more

Triggers: Some allusions to abuse.

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 all so much for your patience, your follows, your favorites, and especially your reviews. Seriously. They are better than chocolate and are pretty much the reason I'm still working on this thing. I apologize for how long it's been between updates but I will try my darndest to see this thing through 'til the end. Thanks for reading! And come play with me some time on tumblr ( .com).

Chapter 3

"We'll have to run for it, of course," Robb said once they were all gathered together, his voice low and solemn as though he'd been piecing this together for the better part of the morning. "We can hitch on a train, take it as far as Chicago. Jon and I can work in a factory, and Sansa, you can get a job as a seamstress."

For a moment, he sounded so much like the Robb she'd always known—the leader of the family, bound to follow in Ned Stark's footsteps—that it hurt Sansa's heart to look at him. Taking in a steadying breath, she averted her gaze, only to find Jon watching her carefully, frowning a little at her distress. "You don't want to leave?" he prompted gently.

Yes, she wanted to leave. Wanted to run as far away from the Lannisters as she could, and then a little bit further yet. She wanted to disappear into a big city, one of the many nameless faces in a crowd, and live out the rest of her life with Jon and Robb—just the three of them, with no one else to bother them, safe. Forever safe, she and her two boys.

But something was gnawing at her—something older than her desire for peace, and far uglier and more inherent than her wish for safety. Revenge. These were the people who'd hunted down her family and slaughtered them for pleasure. The family that had ravished her and beaten her down in every sense possible, stripping away everything that made her Sansa until she didn't know if there was anything left. They had taken everything, and they had done so laughing. Now it was their turn.

She closed her eyes, unable to meet Jon's gaze as she said it. "We have to kill him. Tommen. We have to kill him. It will destroy Cersei. Just like…" She swallowed, unable to finish the thought. "We have to kill him."

Sansa waited, but there was only silence. When at last she opened her eyes, she found both of her brothers staring at her—Jon, dismayed, Robb, contemplative. He was the first to break the silence, nodding as he rubbed absently at the long, angry scar across his neck. "It's almost as if we have no choice, really. They're being hand-delivered right into our laps."

Both turned now to Jon, expectant. His dark eyes were still fastened on Sansa, troubled but not recriminating. Never recriminating. He had listened to too many tears in the darkness for that. "And this will bring you peace? This will help bury the demons?"

Sansa shrugged, hopeless. "I don't know," she murmured, "but we have to try."

#

Harry's hand founds her abdomen, fingers pressing into her skin to find hold before she was abruptly hoisted up into the air, straight above him. Sansa gasped, remembering only belatedly to straighten her legs and her arms as he'd instructed her. On the sidelines, Robb stirred, pacing a bit, while Jon remained completely still, expression blank but his eyes not missing a single detail.

"Look at me," Harry instructed her—not sharply, but firmly. He was the teacher here. Sansa did as he asked, finding his gaze, trying to drown out the knowledge of her brothers watching on.

#

"I don't like it," Robb muttered under his breath, pacing the length of the tent.

Sansa followed his jerky movements, determined to stay level and calm. She was not the spoiled little girl anymore who cried and stamped her feet whenever she didn't get her way. Her plan was a good one, and it was time Robb started acknowledging that she had just as much say in their lives as he did. "It doesn't matter if you like it. It's the only way."

Robb scoffed. "There are twenty other acts in this circus, but suddenly Harry's is the only way?"

"Who else is going to take me on with two days' notice, and train me, and put his reputation on the line?" Sansa shook her head. "We need to get into the Lannisters' party, and Harry is our only chance. He'll do it, if I ask him."

"And ask his own favor in return, I'll bet my life on in."

Biting back a retort—she was calm; she was right—Sansa sought out Jon. "What do you think?"

He paused for so long that she felt a twinge of fear, until he sighed and she knew that she had him. "Sansa's right. Harry will help her. It's the only way."

Robb swore under his breath, kicking at one of his boots on the ground for good measure. "Fine. But if he lays a hand on you, so help me…"

#

"Good," Harry continued once Sansa was focused on him, his fingers gripping in tighter along her pelvis. "Now, extend your arms a little further. Point your toes."

Sansa obeyed. That much came naturally to her. She had always been a good girl, doing whatever was asked of her. She ate all her supper, even the green stuff that Rickon and Bran complained so much about, and never snuck out of bed like Arya, and when Joffrey told her not to scream, she never did, not once…

Suddenly, Sansa lost her balance, plummeting toward the ground. She heard Robb shout, saw Jon darting forward. But right as the ground was mere inches from her face, Harry caught her—awkwardly, barely, but caught her all the same.

He deposited Sansa back on her feet, face twisted with concern. "Are you all right…?"

The words had scarcely left his mouth when Robb was upon him, gripping him by the shirtfront. "You son of a bitch. You almost killed her."

Sansa felt a hand at her elbow. Jon. Even without saying anything, she could read his concern plain, nonetheless. She smiled back, letting him know she was all right, then stepped forward to place a restraining hand on Robb's shoulder. "Robert. Stop it. It was my fault."

It took him a moment to hear her; she had to repeat herself twice. At last he paused, craning his neck toward her, though his fists remained curled around Harry's collar.

"I got distracted," Sansa murmured. "I lost my balance. It was my fault. Not Harry's."

Another long beat, and then Robb finally released him, stepping back. He offered no apology, but Harry seemed to expect none. His eyes were for Sansa only, eyebrows lifted in a question.

Sansa nodded at him. "Again."

Robb rounded on them in protest as Harry led Sansa back to the center of the ring. "You nearly smashed your face in—"

She did not deign to look at him, voice cool as ice. "And that's why I need to practice."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shake his head and stalk out of the tent. Jon remained, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as he watched on.

Sansa kept her focus on Harry, gritting her teeth with determination. "Again," she repeated, and raised her arms in preparation as he lifted her up to the sky.

#

"Cersei will recognize you," Jon brooded, hesitating a moment before he reached out to touch the ends of Sansa's hair. "Even with it darkened."

"She'd recognize any of us, I imagine." Sansa glanced up at Robb. "You were there when Daddy arrested Jaime." Back at the start of things, when everything had gone so terribly wrong. She turned back to Jon. "And you look so much like him, she couldn't help but recognize you for a Stark."

Robb brooded. "So how do we get close enough to kill him without her recognizing us?"

"A disguise?" Jon offered.

All at once, it came to Sansa. She wetted her lips. "I think I know a way."

#

"Masks?" Mademoiselle Margery asked, turning over the white façade in her hands.

"A masquerade," Sansa supplied. "We'll decorate them to match your costumes. Like they used to do in Paris, at the balls."

Margery's eyes lit up, just as Sansa had hoped. A girl with an obviously American Southern accent didn't go around calling herself 'mademoiselle' unless she wasn't just a little bit in love with Paris, after all. She held up the mask to her face, peering out at Sansa with her bright blue eyes, dimples showing in her cheeks. "And will there be a prince waiting for us at midnight?"

Sansa tried her best to smile back. "I'm counting on it."

#

"I'll flirt with him," Sansa explained, mouth dry at the prospect. "Get him to like me. Get him to trust me. I'll convince him to follow me outside—"

"We're not using you as bait, Sansa." Jon spoke up over her before she could finish, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "If something went wrong, if the Lannisters got a hold of you…"

Robb held up a hand, silencing him. "She's right. It's a party. There are going to be so many people there, Cersei won't be able to keep an eye on him the whole time. Their lackeys might take notice if two strange men approach him, but a pretty girl…?"

"I won't agree to this." Jon looked beseechingly to Sansa. "I won't put you at risk. Not again."

Moving to his side, Sansa rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the heave of his chest as he breathed. This was new, her tactile relationship with Jon, but oh so nice. They were never close as children, it was true, but he didn't shy away from her touch or make her feel ashamed for needing it, not like…

At the thought, Sansa caught Robb's gaze. He was watching her and Jon closely, something dark and unnamable in his eyes, though he looked away when he noticed her attention.

"It's time the Lannisters pay for what they've done," he said at last, voice dull, though she could see the pain flickering in his eyes as the old memories they all tried so hard to suffocate resurfaced once more. "This is the only way."

#

Sansa put up the partition and filled up the tub. It was a long, time-consuming process and one she would usually forego in favor of the portable showers in camp, but tonight she needed something to steady her nerves. Her body ached from the hours she'd spent training with Harry, bruised in places she hadn't known could be bruised, and she knew she would have to do it all again the next day if she had any hope of passing for one of the acts the Lannisters let through their gates.

Finally the water was ready. Humming a little to herself, she disrobed behind the privacy of the curtain and settled into the warm liquid, feeling her muscles instantly uncoil until she was as loose and tender as boiled spaghetti. She sighed, completely and perfectly content.

Robb had cleared out the moment she mentioned the word 'bath,' but Jon was still around, reading most likely, although he had suddenly gone suspiciously silent. Perhaps he, too, had left?

"Jon," she called out, "are you still there?"

A long pause followed. "Yeah," he said at last, "you need something?"

Eyes falling shut again, she shook her head, until she remembered he couldn't see her. "Just wondered if you want me to leave the water for you when I'm done?"

"I'm not the one who has a date with Tommen Lannister," he returned, voice tinged with its ever-present undertone of worry trying to mask itself as bitterness.

Sansa shifted a bit, the water around her sloshing in protest. "Please don't worry, Jon. I'll be fine. I know how to handle men like him."

She would have elaborated, but she knew it would only be painful to them both, to explain just how well she'd learned the tricks of teasing and flirting and seducing a man out of his wits.

"I don't like this," Jon continued. Sansa rolled her eyes affectionately. He could be stubborn as a dog at a bone once he set his mind on something. "I don't trust them."

"Do you trust me?"

She held her breath, waiting. She knew Jon cared for her, loved her, worried about her, and those were all nice things, in their own way. But she wondered sometimes if he saw her merely as some dainty, frail creature he had to protect. If Arya were here, wouldn't he have let her walk the tightrope or ride the horses or play bait to the Lannisters who'd had their family killed?

"With my life." He was so solemn and sincere and immediate in his response that tears sprang to her eyes. "It's yours I'm more concerned about."

There was not much to be said to that. Jon was right, she supposed, in believing that she would be far more inclined to risk her own life than either his or Robb's. There was so little worth saving in herself, she knew better than anyone.

At the thought, she took in a breath before plunging her head underwater. It was a game she and Arya had played as children, one of the few times they'd actually been able to get along. They would go out to the river with its choppy currents and hold onto the roots lining the bank as they tested who could hold their breath the longest. Sansa had always imagined she was a mermaid, and Arya always played at being a sea serpent. That, she believed, summed up the differences between them so perfectly—she wanting so desperately to be pretty, and Arya striving so effortlessly to be brave. How she wished Arya had lived instead of her. She would have been so much better equipped to survive in this world, so much more adept at making Jon laugh and chiding Robb out of his dark moods…

"SANSA!"

She was pulled, gasping, from the water, Jon's left arm hooked about her waist and the other frantically pushing the hair from her face. "I'm fine," she had to repeat about five times before he finally seemed to understand. "I was just…playing."

It sounded so stupid aloud and Jon's face still betrayed such residual, vulnerable terror that Sansa immediately felt foolish. He stared at her a moment before seeming to realize all at once that she was naked, clasped tight in his arms. Releasing her, he turned his back, handing her the towel she'd left draped over the partition. Sansa took it wordlessly, wrapping herself up. She could see the muscles in Jon's back through his shirt, taut and coiled with tension.

"Didn't you hear me calling you?" he asked after a moment, still not looking at her.

"No." She hadn't, truly. She would never do anything to hurt Jon. Herself, she could not make so absolute a claim, but not Jon. Hesitating, she stepped forward, resting her head between his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry."

He didn't respond, but she could feel him softening under her touch. Her good, kind, gentle Jon. How preposterous that he'd once vowed away his rights to husbandhood, fatherhood. There was no one better suited for it, she believed. Sometimes when she imagined the woman who would be good enough to earn all his love and devotion, she was so filled with envy she could have choked from it. She would not lose him with any kind of good grace, she knew. But they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

"Tell me what it will be like," she murmured against the warmth of his back, "afterward."

For that was the best part of the plan—better even than killing Tommen, better than tearing Cersei's world apart.

She felt the movement of Jon's muscles against her cheek as he took in a breath. "We'll find a house, in the country. Someplace with trees, near a river."

"And a garden," Sansa murmured.

"And a garden," Jon agreed. "We'll pay for it with Lannister gold and live like kings. And Robb will spend his days fishing, and you'll plant in your garden, and I'll find my perfect tree with just the right shade, and sit and watch you work."

Sansa laughed a little at that. "This is our dream life, Jon. Surely we can think of something more interesting for you to do than watch me garden."

"Will you be happy, gardening?"

She closed her eyes, dreaming of it—the warmth on her face, the dirt between her fingers, nothing but the open sky over them. "Yes. I think so."

"Then that's all I want." She felt the motion as he swallowed. "That will be my dream life."

"Jon." His name slipped from her lips like a prayer, a thing of awe. She did not know what she'd done to deserve him in her life, truly. Clasping her fingers around his neck, she turned him so he was facing her, her fingers sliding up to twine through his dark curls. She hadn't realized until she did so how much she had wanted to. They were just so beautiful. He was just so beautiful. She had never appreciated it enough as a girl, drowning in her pearls and her lace. It shamed her to admit it now, but a part of her had thought him beneath her—the bastard who slept in the garage like a chauffeur and whom she'd been secretly relieved to see disappear into the Church to take his orders. Her head had been turned by men in suits who said all the right things and knew all the right steps for dancing. Now the thought of them made her sick. She could not imagine ever preferring anyone to her sweet Jon, who had to be coaxed into saying anything, none of it pretty or polished but honest and good, and who trod on her feet more often than not but held her as if she were precious.

"Jon," she said again, blinking as she looked into his eyes, breath catching in her throat.

Someone cleared his throat. Sansa looked up to see Robb watching them, arms folded over his chest. Jon immediately took a step back, face blank, eyes trained to the ground. Her hand which had been twined in his hair fell, heavy, to her side.

A blush rose to Sansa's cheeks, though she didn't know why. She'd been talking to her brother Jon, that was all. There was nothing wrong or shameful in that.

Meeting Robb's gaze, she lifted her chin a little, refusing to be cowed. He stared back a long moment, face unreadable. Then he tossed her nightgown at her, hitting her in the face. Sansa blinked in surprise, grasping it with her free hand.

"Put some clothes on," Robb called over his shoulder, turning his back to her as he disappeared again behind the partition, with Jon following close behind.