Sansa made to retreat to her chambers, to escape the red woman. She was lurking in every hall waiting for an audience with her. It was either the Queen, or the King she was after. She came into her room and immediately saw her husband on her chair, mumbling indiscriminately. Oh. He didn't look up or acknowledge her presence, not even when she closed the door. Her eyes flitted to the paperwork in his hands, then she caught a glimpse of her bare desk. "Jon, that's my story, it's not finished yet!"

He turned a page. Something didn't feel right, Jon didn't seem bothered by her, or what she had said, nor interested she was staring at him slightly irked. His mouth was moving, chuntering her text, like it was some ancient spell.

"Jon?" Sansa wary of the fact she had been in the room a minute and he just wasn't there. "Jon!" His head came up slowly, but his eyes were so surprised, and wet. It took her breath away. "What is it?" Surely he wasn't moved by her story?

He held the parchment up like it was a torch, his eyes unwavering in their wet determined glory. "This. Was this from your dreams?- Or a vision?" He looked at the parchment again to make sure. "Wasn't it?"

"Yes." She said unsure, but she had a strange feeling what he was going to say. "Yes, they are." She repeated with more certainty.

"They're mine too." He said, in a state of shock. What? Jon shook his head as if he had heard her. "How is this possible?"

Sansa shook herself. "Wait, which part, all of it?- Or some variation?" Not quite believing the 'impossible', it was likely to be a coincidence.

He stood with speed, and she nearly fell back against the door, he gestured to the sheet, while approaching her like a storm. "I'm the little boy struggling in the dark woods, I see no distinct trees." He was staring wildly at her. "I cry...then I play- with sticks." He added with a bit of embarrassment. Sansa remained still, not sure what to make of it, but he seized her arms as if he was about to dance her across the room. "You write from the point of view of a wolf." The wet eyes seemed to be contagious at this point, she was tearing too. "Are you lady?!" He asked desperately.

Oh Gods. She nodded fervently, and he still held her like he was about to dance her across the room. Sansa had to think-"That's incredib- what does it mean?" Well she first thought of magic, but then she selfishly thought- that what privacy she had in her own mind, was now gone. Great! "How are you going inside my head at night?"

"Your head?" He released her, realising he was clutching her too tightly. "What about my head?" Jon was quite sharp.

"I think I had the wood dreams before you." She had a hint of condescending in her tone. But Jon laid his hands on her again, this time she was against the door- for she jarred away and into it by accident.

"Maybe, but I was always in that wood, Sansa." He was troubled. "Fleeing from hounds and... Alliser Thorne."

She frowned. "I don't know who that is?"

"No, sweet wife...He's the reason... I died." He said bitterly towards the end.

"The ring leader that you hung with the boy?- Or was Alliser the boy?" Sansa's voice was delicate, on the verge of breaking, and Jon slipped his hand to her face. Space space space.

"It doesn't matter, in my mind they all converge into one entity." His voice drifted off into the darkness, and Sansa could do nothing but listen, and feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Ramsay is there too." She whispered as if the monster would hear. "His hounds are the ones that chase you...sometimes they too, converge into one." She felt guilty for dragging something he didn't know into the darkness. "So what is this place, is it a dream, or that other world you speak of so...fondly?" She said sardonically, and Jon actually gave a single bark, odd in the circumstances.

"Maybe that's a question for the witch?"

"No!" The Queen laid a hand on top of his. "This is our problem, our secret burden... we shall deal with this." It was uttered with so much conviction, Jon had to release so he didn't burn under her intense gaze.

He needed to pace badly. "How? If it's a real place- we need serious help, it might be hell or purgatory- a place we permanently go to when we die." It was like a joke to him, laughter was in his voice. "What if it doesn't go away, what if...it's permanent home for us at night? Because of what we've been through."

She did a prolonged stare, before breaking away from the door and going to sit on her hope chest. "If it's real...Bran's there too." Oh gods, their brother might be dead.

"What?"

"You never saw him?" Sansa was surprised.

Jon shook his head, eyes remaining fixed on her. "Maybe we weren't in the same place."

This somehow disappointed her, if her mind was actually private like she had initially wanted, then the burden was just hers- she hated that. Then it came to her in a flash. "Wait...I never saw Bran when you were about, when we were interacting. You must have just missed him." She remembered, and she needed to ask to make sure. "The last dream; we ran towards fire, then you were attacked by something...?"

Jon plonked himself heavily on the bed, as if he had been given a death sentence. "Yes."

"Bran helped me find you, you looked to be mauled by something, what was it?" She twisted on her hope chest to see him sitting, looking very forlorn.

"I just felt pain, like I had been knifed- but with claws or talons...I thought it had been lady, well – You, I thought you that had attacked me." Jon tried, and Sansa shook her head. Never. "I thought we were getting close to that fire, and just reappeared else where...Then I was attacked." He looked pensive. "Bran stood over me?"

"Yes." She saw where his mind was going. "Bran didn't attack you, he found you, he wanted me to find you- and you know what else?"

"Hm?"

"He knew it was me, and not lady." Bran was always quite bright, doesn't say much for Jon though. "I don't know how, but something tells me he knows what's going on."

"Could he be dead?"

Damn he said it. "No, I don't think so, I get the impression he's in... visitation." She really didn't have a clue what she was talking about. "He's hardly there, but he was in despair one time, I saw him crying, like you."

"Seven hells." He exclaimed, flopping back onto the bed. "I just wanted to worry about the white walkers and the realm." He uttered a couple of fucks, and gave her a furtive side eye. "Sorry..." She thought for a moment he was apologizing for cussing, but- "...And us." Oh.

"Us. Is the least of our worries." She clarified, and he didn't seem to take it that well.

"I hope that means, we have no worries, because we're good." That was full of insecurities.

"You think I don't care?" She got a little testy. "The world is falling apart around us, if there's any world left- we can try and live in it together- and play the part!" She got snappy towards the end.

"Alright!"

"But if we're going to die, we might as well not bother!"

He sat up at an inhuman speed, and she recoiled, he didn't even turn to face her. "Sansa, we may die, but first we'll live!" He was angry, and booming. The whole of the north probably heard that. "Seven hells!" He flopped violently back, agitated, and the room settled.

The day had started off so calm, yesterday was probably the worst day of their married lives, with the accusation of infidelity, and the awkward peach kissing incident. She got a tingle, there.

She looked back at him. Jon's hands were sweeping over his face, and pushing any stray locks to the back of his head. The Queen's eye roved a bit, before returning to his face. It crept to her mind; a flicker of crudeness. Sansa's anxiety overruled her curiosity, she couldn't take the lead, and she panicked when someone else did. Oh come on! You're a grown up now. She felt an invisible hand shoving her ever so slightly forwards, enough to make her lurch and brace herself on the bed. It encouraged her to crawl, and so she crawled, no, scampered off of her hope chest, and onto the bed towards her husband, the bed moved and Jon inclined towards the commotion. He half flinched as she descended on him. Jon's arms were already hovering off the bed from fiddling with his head, and despite being in grabbing range, he chose not to, for fear of scaring her away. His face was very surprised, but full of hope as she came over him. Her skirt rustled as she cocked her leg up and straddled his stomach. "Gods." Was all he uttered, as his face was suddenly curtained with red, and his wife lowered herself to capture his mouth.

It was better than last time, since she knew what she was doing. Practise. But a little different, his mouth was warmer and wetter, and it was moving a bit more enthusiastically this time around. It felt like he was kissing her, than the other way around. His mouth was a generous size, it fit hers nicely, caressing softly, and occasionally engulfing her moist lips- nipping them, devouring them. It was difficult to do the same thing back, it was unnatural to her. Another thing to practise. Sansa felt his hands circling her, then stroking her back. Oh gods, her skin felt so sensitive- the hands were so welcome, if her back had been bare- she might have died. She had her hands placed on either side of his head to stop herself crushing him. But her Jon didn't seem to care, he applied enough pressure to her back for her arms to wilt, and she fell onto him, chest to chest. Ow. Their teeth clinked, and there was a slight pause with them acknowledging the discomfort, fingers checking they hadn't chipped anything. We're good. They both shrugged it off and fused their lips together again with a murmur of relief. The noises he made Sansa could feel through her face. Make them again. She flicked out her tongue, teased his lip with it, before plundering on in. It was odd. A trickery manoeuvre which seemed to pay off, he purred. Oh gods. And it was returned, and he was inside her mouth in no time, tasting her. It was some kind of dance their tongues were doing, and music accompanied it; purring and hums.

His stomach was warm through her skirt, and the leather creaked under her. An overwhelming sense of sensitivity, enough to make her swoon, but she was on top- so she should feel inhumanly strong straddling him. Sansa felt fierce enough she could very well rip open his garments and rake over that skin. Maybe even lick. But if she did that, he would do the same to her, how frightening- though fear wasn't the first feeling that gripped her body. Oh gods what was this?! His pelvis quaked behind her rear, it was bucking slowly. Those hands of his couldn't be ignored, they were descending down her back, and settled on her buttocks. Oop. She wasn't sure if it was a comfortable place to put them, they were only a couple of inches away from her... They then slid to either side of her, along the outer thighs. Sansa felt him push against them- driving her down his body. When she was sitting on the bulge of his crotch, she snared her mouth away, to look at him in the eye. The storm was there.

Well she knew what was expected of her. She was supposed to move her petticoats aside, pull her small clothes away, and unlace his breeches. And allow herself to be breached...well...impale herself. Jon looked expectant, with a smidge of fear – nervous he had gone too far, probably. Damn his face. She buried her own face in his neck, to hide from his pleading gaze. This was her own fault, she had said she wanted to participate.

Jon's hand combed her hair off his face, and swept it to the side of her head that was furthest away. Lovely soft fiery hair, that dresses could be spun from. The King inclined his head back, and tried to turn her head, he wanted to see her pretty face, and get back to kissing that pretty mouth, he only managed to kiss her ear. He didn't mean to be impatient, he just felt inspired by her...participation. His hips continued to move of their own volition, trying to grind up into that skirt. It was a winter skirt with an extra couple of petticoats, so the roll of his hips got gradually sharper in order to generate sufficient friction against her person. There was warmth there, he could tell, he wondered if it was from the build up? He still needed to prepare her with a lord's kiss- oh gods, he could not lie- he wanted the taste, and to elicit strange noises from her. Jon's hands fisted the thick material of her skirt. Seven hells, that was a lot of skirt. It acted as a chastity belt for her womanhood, he wanted to shred the fabric away. He always wanted to tear off a silk dress, bad idea, just shift it. He felt her bestow a kiss on his neck.

Sansa knew she wasn't in her darkness, for it was just the shadow of Jon's neck. She was still very conscious and inhaling his musk, listening to his ragged little breaths. She was taking the ministrations very well, his thrusting was abrupt, but blunt and dry. It didn't hurt, and since she couldn't see what was happening, she wasn't getting embarrassed, or feeling any shame. You have to look up sometime....When he's finished...Finished? When will that be?- When he comes? Sansa had horrible memories, ones she wished to forget. What if he sounded the same, what if the smell was the same? She felt his hands were roving, but not to the bad places. She planted a kiss on his neck.

Fffffrriiiiip! The sound of fabric being torn. She was there, she was there.

Sansa stood on her paws in the middle of the dark wood.