FIC: Round and Round We Go (5/?)

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 Note: I know it's been forever long since I've updated. Thank you for those who've stuck with me, and especially for the lovely, lovely reviews! I'll try not to have such a long gap between chapters next time.

"Leave her alone." Tyrion's sharp voice cut through all the mayhem, silencing everything but the sound of Sansa's own ragged breathing against the marble floor, her heart thrumming inside of her ears.

A pause—probably only half a second, but long enough to seem an eternity—and then Sansa felt the pressure being removed from her as the men climbed off her. Joffrey's sullen voice followed. "Lighten up, Uncle. We were just having a little fun."

"And I very much look forward to that inevitable day when someone has the same kind of fun with you," Tyrion returned drolly, though there was a sharp undertone beneath it. "But I think the lady's had enough for tonight."

"Lady?" Joffrey snorted with laughter. "I think you'd better get your eyes checked, Uncle."

The sharp crack of a palm against a cheek, a sound which Sansa recognized well, having been on the receiving end so many times at Joffrey's hand. She flinched, but took a little joy when Joffrey whimpered.

"My eyes?" Tyrion returned with feigned confusion. "No. They seem to be in perfect working order, as do my hands. Would you like another demonstration, or can we agree that you should remove yourself from my sight this instant…?"

Several pairs of feet shuffled toward the door. In parting, Joffrey called out, "Come on, boys, let's leave the two lovebirds to each other. They make the perfect match." Then was gone.

For a long moment, all was so silent that Sansa thought Tyrion might have left her as well. Then she heard his soft tread as he approached. After a long moment, his hand found her shoulder— briefly, not lingering like some other men might have. "Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

Sleep. A hot bath, some food, but mostly sleep. Sansa couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten more than three hours straight. There was always someone knocking at the door.

But it was probably just a trick. She knew better now than to trust that any of them wanted to actually help her. She had been fooled too many times before. "I'm fine," she murmured, though made no move to sit up.

She waited for the sound of him leaving, but he didn't. She could feel him behind her, feel the weight of his deliberation as he shifted back and forth between his two shrunken legs.

"We could, you know," he said at last.

Sansa pressed her eyes shut. Why wouldn't he just let her be? "Could what?" she returned finally, wearily.

"Play the part of the two lovebirds. Get married."

Her entire body tensed at the suggestion. Tyrion must have seen it, for he quickly hurried on, "Joffrey's an idiot—we're all painfully aware—as well as a sadist, but he may have just stumbled upon the only good idea of his life tonight. If I married you, they wouldn't be able to touch you anymore. I could keep you safe."

A short laugh escaped her throat. "If you want me, just take me. You don't have to play these silly games." For good measure she spread her legs a little and pressed her face back to the floor, neck bent in submission.

"I wouldn't lay a finger on you." Tyrion's voice, usually soaking in irony, was suddenly and disconcertingly sincere. "You would be safe with me. I swear to you. I swear it."

Frowning, Sansa rolled to face him, searching his ugly, scarred face, seeing for the first time the kindness in his eyes. "Why?"

He did his best imp's grin, all teeth and gums, though Sansa saw the ghost of something flitting through his eyes. "Because I'm a monster, of course. And my family can't take me anywhere…"

#

Tyrion laughed a little to himself, taking another step toward her. "To think, you've been hiding here all this time, and we just so happened to meet again. I'd call that fate, wouldn't you, Sansa?"

At last Sansa regained sense of her faculties and took a stumbling step back, attempting to wrench free of the hand still tangled in her hair. "Get away from me!"

"Now, now. Is that any way to talk to your husband—?"

Tyrion had scarcely finished the word before he was wrenched bodily away from Sansa, knocked to the ground by a blur of white. Ghost. The wolf pinned the little man to the ground, growling into his face.

"Sansa!"

The next instant, Jon was at Sansa's side, one arm slipping around her to brace her up as she stumbled against him. "Are you all right?" he asked her, again and again on a loop, until finally she managed a nod.

"Is she all right?" Tyrion protested from the ground. "I'm the one with a wolf on top of me!"

"Ghost," Jon called out in warning, but did not order him to retreat. He turned to Sansa, putting a hand to the side of her face as he examined her—more to reassure himself, it seemed, than actually believing any harm had come to her. "Go get Robb," he instructed her gently. "Come straight back."

Sansa did as he bade her, hurrying down the dirt path—until Tyrion's laugh, drifting between the tents, caught her attention. "My, my. The lovely Sansa may have spent too much time with my family. It seems she's caught and spread the Lannister contagion."

Jon's response was short, curt. Spoken through gritted teeth from the sound of it. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" Tyrion's voice suddenly, abruptly sobered. "For your sake, I hope that's true. It's a dangerous path to tread, Jon. I saw firsthand what it did to Jaime and Cersei."

Sansa held her breath, waiting to hear what Jon might say to that, but he only repeated, "I don't know what you mean," and fell silent. So Sansa continued down the path.

She'd been so high on the adrenaline of the experience that it wasn't until she reached the tent that Sansa remembered why she'd left it. Robb pressing into her, again and again, making her sound more like a whore than she ever had as one of the Lannisters' playthings. Steeling herself—and running a quick hand through her hair—Sansa pushed back the flap and entered the tent.

Robb had been sitting at the edge of his cot, head in his hands. At the sight of her, he started to his feet, eyes wide. "Sansa." But, though she could imagine him going over what words to say again and again, they seemed to have deserted him, his jaw working soundlessly before finally managed, "I didn't mean—"

Sansa held up a hand, begging him with that gesture not to mention it any further. She didn't think she could bear to hear him tell her how disgusted he was with his behavior, and with hers. How they both just needed to forget it and move on. "Not now. Robb, Tyrion's here. He found me."

That was all that needed to be said. Robb's demeanor changed immediately, shoulders broadening and chin rising. That was the former police officer in him. He was always most sure of himself when he had someone else to protect. "Take me to him."

#

Together, he and Jon dragged the little man by the arms out into the dead fields beyond the campgrounds, until they had reached a deep, dried riverbed that would curb Tyrion's shouts from carrying back to the carnival. They dumped him down into it, watching dispassionately as he struggled back to his feet.

"We'll have to kill him," Robb said, emotionless, matter-of-fact.

Sansa expected more of a fight from Jon, like there'd been about Tommen, but this time he simply nodded. It would still trouble him, she knew, but his scruples carried far less weight when it was Sansa's life in immediate danger, instead of merely vengeance. "Where should we put the body?"

"We don't have the tools to bury him," Robb mused. "We could use our hands but it would take all night."

"No bodies of water nearby," Jon continued the thought. "And no large predators that we can trust to take care of him for us. Though the birds might do well enough to bide us some time before Cersei gets wind of it and comes looking."

Robb stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Can we chance it? If word gets back before tomorrow night, we'll never get within three feet of Tommen."

Too late, Sansa noted the sharp gleam in Tyrion's eyes as he looked back and forth between them. "He's listening," she warned her brothers.

As Robb and Jon both turned their focus back to him, Tyrion raised his hands as if in surrender. "What does it really matter? From the sound of it, I'll be carrion meat by the morning anyway."

"Let's just kill him now," Robb said. "We can figure out what to do with his body after—"

Almost before he had finished, Tyrion chimed in. "OR, what if instead of the killing—and mind you, I'm only tabling the discussion for now, not dismissing it outright—we work together."

Jon scoffed at that. "You don't even know what we're planning."

"From the sounds of it?" Tyrion tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I'd say you're planning some kind of revenge against my sister. And since the lovely Sansa knows Cersei well enough to know that her children are her one weakness, my bet would be that you're going to go after one of them. And since you mentioned Tommen, well… I'd say my nephew doesn't have long to live." He shrugged. "That's just off the top of my head, mind you."

Robb smirked meanly. "And you want to help us with that, do you?"

"You forget, I'm not one of you Starks. Family blood might have meant something to me once, but that was before Cersei had my brother murdered and then blamed it on me." Tyrion matched Robb's smile, just as cruel. "Please believe me when I say if there's anyone who wants her to suffer as much as you do, it's me."

Robb and Jon fell silent at that, exchanging glances. Sansa noticed this peripherally, but kept her gaze on Tyrion the entire time, breaking down his words. Trying to find the trick in them.

Sensing he'd gained some ground, Tyrion pressed on. "And I can help you." He looked to Sansa now, nodding his head. "Your instincts were right, Sansa. Tommen is the best option—"

Robb let out a noise that sounded almost like a growl. "You don't look at her, Lannister. You don't talk to her."

Tyrion ignored this, continuing to appeal directly to Sansa. "No doubt you'll try to get him on his own, away from Cersei. The idea is good, but you underestimate her. She'll never let him out of her sight. Not unless there's enough of a distraction that she can't help but tear her eyes away."

"You're dealing with us, Tyrion, not her." It was Jon this time, less angry but no less firm.

Sansa ignored it and stepped forward. "What kind of distraction?"

Tyrion's eyes burned through her, almost as haunted and hollow as her own. "Ever since she blamed me for Jaime's death, Cersei's hired police protection, bodyguards." He shook his head, rueful. "I think she's actually managed to convince herself that I'm the one who did it. Either way, she knows I'm coming for her sooner or later.

"So what if I slip in with the rest of your carnival? Sneak in with the clowns, or something along those lines. I'll have to wear a mask, of course, but even seeing someone my size, my shape, will put her on edge. Drive her to the brink of madness. She won't be able to focus on anything else. And that's when you move in for Tommen."

Sansa nodded. It was a sound plan. "And if they catch you?"

He shrugged. "Either way, it's a diversion, isn't it? And that's what you'll need. You'll never get past Cersei otherwise."

Sansa felt Robb at her side. He almost touched her shoulder, then seemed to think better of it. "We can't trust him, Sansa. He's a Lannister. He'll only turn on us."

She swallowed, remembering. I could keep you safe. That was what Tyrion had promised her, in exchange for their marriage. And he had, for a time. For as long as he could. There had been no benefit to him. He had simply done it because he was . . . kind. A description that was such a rarity she'd nearly stopped believing in it.

Jon approached on her other side, touching her elbow lightly. "Sansa?"

"He was good to me," Sansa explained. "Better than any of the other Lannisters."

Robb snorted at that. "Hardly a glowing commendation."

"He was good to me," she insisted. "Better than he had to be."

She had not broken Tyrion's gaze once, and neither had he. She didn't know if he had even so much as blinked. "We can trust him." As soon as the words left Sansa's lips, she knew they were true. At last she broke away, looking to each of her brothers in turn. "And he may be our only hope."

#

Back in the tent, as Jon and Robb scrounged to find some place for Tyrion to sleep, Sansa offered to show him where the showers were so he could clean up the mud and dirt from the riverbed.

Both brothers tensed at the sound of that. "I can do that, Sansa," Jon offered, but she shook her head.

"I'd like a moment alone with him," she explained, then fixed Tyrion with her gaze. "Don't worry—I'll be safe with him. Won't I?"

"You have my solemn vow, Lady Stark."

Seeing her brothers still weren't placated, Sansa patted her side. "And Ghost will come with me. Come, Ghost."

At that, it was Tyrion's turn to pale, though he did not argue, and neither did Robb and Jon.

Outside, the sky had lightened a shade, foreshadowing the sun that was finally about to rise. Finding a bed for Tyrion now would probably be pointless; she doubted any of them would get any sleep. But it would give the boys something to do while they were gone.

They walked in silence for most of the way. Sansa had wanted the time with him, but realized now she did not know what to say.

It was Tyrion, at last, who broke the silence. "I always thought you'd outlast us all, Sansa. And you did. You survived, long after Joffrey and Petyr and Jaime…" He stopped at the last one, falling silent.

It was as close as Tyrion could get to telling Sansa he was glad she had survived. She understood that, even as she questioned it. But had she actually? Was there anything left of the girl that had gone into the Lannister's mansion—a naïve, wide-eyed debutante, believing in things like beauty and love and happily ever afters?

It wasn't just what the Lannisters had done to her. It was what they had made of her. This unnatural creature, that felt nothing at the thought of killing an innocent bystander just to get her revenge. Who had moaned out one brother's name only a few hours before, and who had woken up from so many dreams of wanting the other that she was afraid to sleep. Sansa Stark would have been horrified by this creature, by what she had become. But the Sansa of before was dead, and this was what had risen from her ashes.

"If anything in me survived," she returned finally, "It was only because of you."

They had reached the showers now. Unexpectedly, Tyrion took her hand. On instinct, Sansa flinched at the touch; but Tyrion only brought it to his lips, an oddly gallant gesture that—even more unexpectedly—brought tears to her eyes.

Perhaps understanding the moment had become too bleak, Tyrion cracked his trademark half-grin. "And now we are plotting murder together. You're behaving more and more like an ex-wife of mine ought to every day."

The laughter surprised her. As long as it had been since she'd wept, Sansa realized it had been even longer since she'd actually laughed. Strange, how Tyrion had once seemed so strange and frightening to her, and had now become so familiar, and welcome at that.

She shrugged. "I learned from the best." But at even the veiled reference to Cersei, Sansa sobered once more.

Tyrion followed suit, his grin sharpening into something mean and determined. "And yet, she'll never see it coming."

"No," Sansa agreed grimly. It would be just what tragedy was for the rest of them—a stranger that snuck into her house, not in the dark of night when the shadows stretched too long, but in the bright light of day, when she'd convinced herself she was safe. "Not until it's too late."

#

She left Tyrion to the showers, instructing Ghost to keep watch on him and make sure he came back once he was done. Trust went a long way, but Tyrion was still a Lannister.

Back at the tent, she expected to have a moment to speak to both her brothers, but quickly saw that Jon was absent. Robb again sat at the edge of his cot, just as he'd done before.

She hesitated in the entryway. "Where's Jon?"

"Off to pray." Robb gave a little laugh at that, rueful but not unkind. "You can take the boy out of the parish, but you can't take the parish out of the boy."

The words hung in the air in the moment, faded, and still neither of them said anything. At last, Robb cleared his throat. "I'm glad, actually. I need to have a word with you, alone."

Sansa's reaction was a visceral thing. Panic jumpstarted her heart, making it difficult to breathe. She shook her head, backing away. "I can't, Robb—"

He was on his feet now, ready to chase her this time if he had to. "We can't ignore it, Sansa. It will eat us alive if we do."

She knew already what he meant to say. It had been plain on his face as soon as they'd broken free of whatever wild spell had overcome them. What they had done was wrong, it was disgusting, and he hated her now for putting him in such a position. She understood it; she did not have to hear him say it.

"You don't understand how much they broke me," Sansa tried to explain, and for the second time that night she was sobbing. "I know I'm disgusting now, Robb, I know it, but I don't know how else to be—"

She was surprised when he was suddenly at her side, surprised as he gathered her into his arms and held her like he might have before, back when things between them were still innocent and uncomplicated and good.

"You're wrong," Robb told her, breath warm at her hairline. "It isn't anything you've done. You're…the most beautiful thing to come out of all of this. The best thing left over after all the ruin. It isn't you that's disgusting, Sansa. It's me."

In halting, pained words, he explained to her—what it had been like to watch his wife and child murdered, to wish for death himself and to have it…and then to come back. What it had been like to hate everyone and everything, and to only want revenge. He'd lost the taste for anything that he used to enjoy, anything that motivated him to keep living—food, sleep, sex. Happiness, contentment, hope.

Then he'd found out she was still alive, too. It was the first hope he'd genuinely felt since coming back from the other side, the first time he'd wanted anything other than to be dead. He'd honestly thought that would be enough—to make it his life's purpose to rescue her, to keep her safe.

And at first, it was. Until he began to realize he'd come back wrong.

"You were always a beautiful girl, Sansa. We all saw that. I worried about it before—who I'd have to fight to keep in line, to make sure you were treated with the respect you deserved. A beauty like that can be a blessing, but it can also be a curse, and I wanted to make sure that nobody looked at you, that nobody thought of you in any way that would…" She felt him draw in a deep, shaky breath. "And then suddenly, somehow—I honestly couldn't tell you when—that person became me."

She realized, now, why he was holding her so close. Not to have her near him, or even to comfort her, but so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye as he said it. "I hated myself for it, Sansa. I still do. I'm supposed to be your protector, to keep away all the bad things from you. But it turns out I'm the worst thing, and I can't seem to make myself stay away.

"That's the reason for all the girls. The reason I avoid you as much as I do. Not because I'm disgusted with you. I'm disgusted with myself. And every time, I hope she'll be the one who can cure me, who can make me forget." He shook his head in frustration. "But everything tastes like death, except for you."

They remained like that for a long moment, neither saying anything. When at last Robb released her, Sansa wavered, not certain whether to draw nearer or push him away. At last she stepped back, hugging herself. "I'm sorry."

Robb rubbed a hand over his face, shook his head again. "It's not your fault. That's what I'm trying to explain to you—"

"I'm sorry," Sansa pressed on, closing her eyes, "that this has happened, to us."

Surely he understood that—that he wasn't alone in this. That she'd tried the same with Harry—to forget, to cure herself—and failed miserably.

That they were both of them stuck in this merry-go-round that would never stop.

When she opened her eyes again, Robb was watching her, pained. "Do you think it would be easier, if I weren't here, reminding you all the time?" she asked.

His silence spoke louder than any words could. "I'm afraid to find out," he said at long last. "As much as I want it…"

He did not have to finish. Sansa understood. Taking in a shaky breath, she straightened. "Do you have something to drink? I think I could use one right now."

A day before, he would have scowled at her, made some rude comment to make her feel small. But there was no need for that now, not with such painful honesty between them and nothing to hide behind. Fetching a bottle of whiskey from under his pillow, Rob poured himself a capful and handed her the rest. She was careful not to touch his hand as she took the bottle, and drank a long, healthy swig that burned all the way down.

"Can I have this?" she asked afterward, eyes still stinging from the first taste.

He nodded. "Of course."

"I need to walk," she told him, backing toward the entrance with the bottle clutched tight to her chest. "I need to think…"

And she did, until the sun was a low, pink thing in the early morning sky—a presence already, but not quite to its full power yet. She nursed the whiskey the whole time, until there was hardly anything left and it became increasingly difficult to walk in a straight line, and only then did she look for Jon.

She found him near the ravine where they had very nearly killed Tyrion Lannister, leaning up against the lone, near-dead tree and watching the sunrise. At the sight of her, he started to smile—a sad, pained little thing—until about three feet away from him she dropped to her knees and began to crawl toward him.

In an instant he was at her side, gripping her by the elbows and trying to help her to her feet. "Sansa, stand up."

She was too drunk to know if the noise coming out of her was a sob or a giggle. Either way, she pressed her face into the dirt near his feet, palms splayed upward in supplication. "I need to make confession, Jon."

"Stop this, Sansa." Despite the determined limpness of her body, he somehow managed to get her upright again, wiping the dirt from her cheeks and the bridge of her nose so gently that tears sprang to her eyes. "What is this all about?"

"I need to make confession." She whispered it this time—no theatricals, just needing him to hear her. "I'm afraid."

His eyes were so kind. "Of what? You know I'd protect you from anything."

"Even myself?" Sansa swayed back a little but caught herself in time, gripping onto Jon's forearm for balance. "You think you saved me but you didn't. It was too late. Joffrey already made me into his creature by the time you found me."

Jon shook his head. "Sansa, no—"

She hiccupped a little, not quite a sob, and took in a shaky breath. "They should put me on display in the freak show. The Lannister Whore, an unnatural being, full of unnatural feelings, who can only create unnatural desires in the people around her."

He pushed back her hair, cupping the side of her face. "That isn't true."

"Then tell me you don't love me."

In the early morning light, Jon grew very still. "Of course I do," he said at long last, his hand dropping back down to his side. "You're my sister."

Sansa shook her head—a quick, decisive jerk. "No. Not like a sister."

His face was near impossible to read suddenly, but his voice—when it reached her—was exhausted. "Sansa."

"You love me," Sansa pressed on, holding his tired, gray gaze. "You look at me when you think I don't see you, but I see. You think about kissing me. Touching me. Making me cry out your name. I know because . . . I think about it, too. I think about your hands in my hair and your lips—everywhere. I think about sleeping with your heartbeat at my ear and waking up in your arms. I think about your children—our children—falling asleep on your shoulder." She wetted her lips. "I think about you inside me."

Jon said nothing, moved nothing, did not so much as blink—only swallowed, long and hard.

"I know you don't want to go through with this. Killing Tommen. You're a good man, with a kind heart. It's what I love most about you." Another sway forward, though this time she did not pull back afterward. "So here's my offer. Leave with me, now, and don't look back. We'll get a house, like we talked about, with a garden, and a tree. We won't hurt anyone, ever, just live out our lives without bothering anybody, together."

Jon shifted. "And live as we do now?"

Sansa shook her head. "That's the beauty of it, Jon. We won't have to anymore. No one will know who we are. Not even—"

It pained her to think his name, but she knew Robb would thank her for it in the long run, if she just disappeared. He'd be able to find another girl then, someone to make him forget, but Jon never would, he would never forget, and she could not live without him.

She swayed forward one last time, her lips at his ear, her hand gripping his shoulder. "No one will know what we are. To them we could just be any other couple. And we would be."

This close, she could hear the raggedness of Jon's breathing, try as he might to sound composed. "You know we can't."

"Why not?"

"It's a sin."

"No." Sansa pressed her face into the crook of his neck, shaking her head. "It can't be. It can't be, Jon. I prayed every day for someone to take me away from there and then you came for me. You came. God sent you, for me, to be mine."

Jon hesitated before grasping her by the shoulders, trying to hold her back apace. "You're confusing a natural gratitude for something more. Something that isn't there. You don't owe me anything, Sansa."

Sober Sansa might recoil away, stung at the rejection, but now she pressed herself against him. "Please don't pretend I'm alone in this. Please don't leave me out here in the cold." She nuzzled the bridge of her nose along jawline, down his neck, where she could feel the hammering of his pulse. "Please, Jon." She drew her mouth up so it hovered near his, nearly brushing his lips as she spoke. "Please, Jon. Please."

He would give her anything, anything that she asked for, she knew that.

Anything, she knew, but this.

With one, sharp, shaky breath, Jon stepped away from her. His eyes, when they met hers, were filled with the kind of mourning she had not seen since the day he'd had to explain to her what had happened to Arya, and Bran, and Rickon. "I can't, Sansa," he murmured, and she could see it took everything in him to say those words.

Sansa closed her eyes, and laughed a little. "You would rather kill a boy than make me happy."

It was a low blow, she knew, and even in her sorrow she knew there was little truth to it. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the pain she'd intended to cause, but there was no sweetness in it.

"I would rather save you from yourself than let you drown with me," he answered simply, and turned and walked back toward the camp.

TBC…