Later in life, when Jon thinks back, he wonders how they did not know what they were beginning at the time, but, in truth, they didn't. They were too young, too stupid, and too caught up in these new feelings that they didn't give a second thought to the future, or what it was these feelings meant, or to what the implications of their actions might be.

He thinks it began on the sunny afternoon his horse had thrown a shoe, but, in reality, it could have begun before that, and they had just been too dumb or too blind to see the signs. Jon had been injured by his fall, yes, but not too badly. He had just obtained a few more cuts and bruises to add to his ever growing collection, but nothing that fazed him in the slightest. Being as a few of the cuts were deep and would require a few stitches though, he decided to seek out the Maester, but the old man was nowhere to be found.

Sticking his head out of the door of the Maester's Turret, Jon's gaze darted up and down the corridor searching for the figure of Maester Luwin. Instead, his gaze met Sansa's, who was wandering past chattering happily to her friend, Jeyne Poole.

"Have you seen the Maester?" he asked, noticing her gaze taking in his dishevelled appearance and the blood on his shirt.

"He's gone to deliver some medicine to Lord Karstark. His daughter Alys has been taken ill," Jeyne supplied.

"I could help you, if you would like," Sansa said, meeting his eyes. Jon tried not to be surprised, but he could not help it. He had never been close to Sansa, and it would not have taken him completely aback if she had told him to go bleed to death, but, deep down, he knew Sansa Stark was too much of a lady to do that.

He nodded, his gratefulness shining through in his eyes, and Sansa bid goodbye to Jeyne before following him back inside the Maester's Turret.

"You're going to have to take off your shirt," she said as she guided him to a bench, "The blood will make it stick to your skin otherwise."

Obliging, he removed his shirt, wincing slightly as he pulled it away from the cut, and laid it down beside him.

Jon watched as Sansa darted around the room, gathering the supplies she needed and boiling some wine before returning to him. Dipping the cloth in the wine, she began to clean his wounds, and Jon did not miss how her gaze flickered across his chest, how her fingers trembled slightly just for a second, and the light blush that crept up on her cheeks.

He saw it all.

And it mesmerised him.

Just a day later, he found her on the wooden balcony next to the training grounds, watching Bran and Arya duel.

"I just wanted to thank you for yesterday," he said, coming to stand beside her.

The young girl jumped, obviously having not heard him approach, and Jon instinctively reached out a hand to steady her elbow.

Her gaze met his, and he could see a startled expression in her Tully blue eyes. "It was nothing," she replied quietly.

Jon was certain he could also detect a tiny hint of fear in those eyes, although he was not sure why.

In that moment, he realised how beautiful Sansa was becoming. People did not lie when they spoke of it, and they certainly did not exaggerate either.

It was after that day that he began noticing things he probably wasn't supposed to, things he definitely wasn't supposed to think about when he was alone at night; the curve of her waist, and the slight roundness of her breasts beneath her dress, the way her nose wrinkled when something wasn't to her satisfaction, and the way her smile had the power to light up a room.

And Jon did not regret it at all.

It was weeks later that Jon was given a book to deliver to Sansa's room, and it was that day that Jon found the red-haired girl lying on her featherbed with her hand between her legs, her eyes screwed shut, and wisps of hair clinging to her shiny face. Entranced, he watched her for a few moments before hearing her make an annoyed sound, moving her fingers faster in her quest for release.

In his surprise, he dropped the book, and it fell crashing to the floor, alerting the young girl to his presence. Her eyes flew open, and she looked at him in alarm, fear almost.

Swallowing thickly, Jon said, "I could help you." He didn't know where the words had come from, but they came tumbling out of his mouth anyway.

"I don't need your help," she replied, stumbling slightly over the words, and covering herself with her dress.

Nodding, he left.

Returning to his own room, he took his cock his hand, biting sharply down on his free hand as he came.

And Jon felt satisfied, at least until he thought of her again.

Two moons later, he was awoken to her crawling on top of his bed and shaking his arm.

Instantly, he knew why she was there, and the thought made him ache. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

Sansa merely nodded.

She lay down and hitched her nightdress up to her waist with quivering fingers. The darkness of the night obscured the right side of her face, but he could still make out the glint of her eyes in the moonlight.

With clumsy fingers she untied her smallclothes, and Jon let out a shaky breath as the knot came undone.

Biting his lip, Jon moved away the fabric to reveal a thatch of curls, and Jon wondered if they were the same shade of red as her beautiful, long hair.

Curiously, cautiously, slowly, he explored the delicate folds of her cunt, shivering slightly when she let out a moan. Jon was amazed at how incredibly wet she was, and how that wetness increased as he continued his ministrations.

After a few minutes, he gained confidence and began to find the places that make her moan louder and louder. When he bumped against her bundle of nerves, she arched off the bed and moaned so loudly that Jon was afraid that the whole castle was going to come running. A slight smile graced his face, but it was wiped away when he glanced up at Sansa and found that her eyes were trained on the ceiling, pleasure masking her features.

The young boy focused his attentions on that pleasurable spot until she climaxed, and he felt extra wetness coating his fingers.

The look of shame on her face afterwards as she tried to return her breathing to normal cut through him, and he did not know whether to feel sorry for her or not.

She left within seconds, scurrying as fast as she could back to her chambers.

And Jon's stomach turned when he realised that his furs smelled like Sansa now, her sweet scent filling his nose as he drifted to sleep.

Jon didn't know why he ended up in the library. He knew she would be there, but he was drawn all the same.

Mayhaps that was why he was drawn.

"We shouldn't," she protested, but she allowed him to sit her on a desk anyway and she helped to guide his hand between her legs.

After she came, she fell against him and allowed him to hold her in his arms.

He moved his lips closer to hers because he wanted just one taste, just one little taste, but she turned her head away.

And Jon tried to mask the hurt he felt.

After the seventh time, it became a routine. Sansa was still too embarrassed to look at him, or mayhaps she was pretending he was someone else, a knight or a prince and not her bastard brother.

The girl flicked her eyes away from him most of the time, but sometimes she turned away from him completely, so he had to slip his hand into her smallclothes from behind.

Jon knew he should stop, but he loved watching her come.

He loved being the one who made her come.

And it never failed to disappoint him that she always left first, usually without uttering a word.

It was not long after that that King Robert arrived in Winterfell to ask Eddard Stark to be his new Hand of the King, but Jon is more preoccupied by the way Sansa looks at one of the king's party.

He cannot help the scowl that appears on his face as he watches her blush under the fair-haired prince's gaze, and his insides turn to ash the day her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon is announced.

He felt like shouting at her until she sobbed, but he knew from experience that that anger would crumble the moment he saw tears well up in those Tully blue eyes, so instead he took a sword and took his vengeance out on a poor, defenceless tree.

When she came to him that night in the Godswood, he pressed her against a tree and kissed her. The kiss was hard, full of pent up anger and frustration, and she kissed him back just as fiercely.

It was the first kiss she accepted from him, but it was not the kiss he wanted to give.

She pushed him away after a few moments, and Jon could see that her perfect lips were bruised.

He was sorry for that.

He was sorry for a lot of things, for being angry, for falling for her in the first place, but most of all for not being the type of person who could give her what she desired.

Leaning his forehead against hers, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip and asked the question why.

"It is all I ever wanted," she said, and that was all she would say.

And Jon thought mayhaps that was all that needed to be said.