I decided to take part in the Game of Ships Challenge based on the 7 deadly sins. So each chapter will be dealing with a separate sin.

This story is Post 6x09 and it's based off the show-verse. So the language is a bit more colloquial than what I'm used to for my ASOIAF fics. I felt the need to show the continuity from the Jon/Sansa scenes we've had so far, that have made my shipper heart burst in joy!

Hopefully, the 7 chapters will be updated daily.

R + L = J (obviously)

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Chapter 1 - Pride: The Art of Self-Importance

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Her fingers feel brittle as she touches the cold stone of the castle. She thinks of her mother, her father, of Arya, Bran and Robb. She thinks of Rickon, with a pain in her chest so great she is yet to notice the men and women who are being grabbed by their leather to be taken to the courtyard where Jon would pass his sentence.

She remembers too much and yet not enough. She remembers the passing moments of her childhood that she should have paid close attention to. What did Arya call her that one time she told mother of Arya not attending her lessons? What did Robb whisper in jest when he saw a girl from the market? What did Bran want to show her, when she had dismissed him curtly to giggle like a little girl with Jeyne Poole? Rickon! Rickon was but a babe. Her excuses had been many as to why Mother should have looked after him and not her.

Sansa's steps feel slow as she makes her way to the chamber she once called hers. It's practically filth, the cleanliness a far cry from what it had once been under her charge. She steps in calmly, her heart beating too fast to comprehend why, and almost as quickly, she turns on her heel and leaves. Soon, she will have to deal with clearing out the chambers and making her home a memory of what it once was. Today is not that day.

She decides, faster than she realises, that she must find him. She must find Jon.

She had spent countless waking moments dreaming of the day she steps back into Winterfell, never knowing how it would truly feel. The tears sting her eyes as she moves fast, ordering anyone in her way to tell her where he is. The need to see him is too great. The need to be comforted, even greater.

She finds him standing alone in front of the chamber that had once been his, his face void of expression, but his eyes sad. He doesn't acknowledge her as she moves to slowly stand beside him. She keeps her hands across her belly like a trueborn daughter, her fingers twitching slightly to take his hand in hers. But they are yet to be that comfortable with each other. They are yet to act like true brother and sister.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers, his voice tired and his shoulders slumped.

She knows what he speaks of. How could she not?

As her lips part to defend herself, he turns to face her. His eyes are filled with unbearable sadness. He has yet to clean himself of the blood and mud that coats his face. He has shed his armour, but the leather underneath is sliced and worn. He eyes her with an intensity she has seen before in her father, whilst his shoulders stay low as if he has only lost a war.

"I didn't know they were coming," she says softly, her gaze pleading to be understood.

"You wrote him." He says it curtly, almost like an accusation and her expression hardens.

"What would you have had me do?"

Jon's eyes narrow into slits and Sansa feels the need to step back. But she does not. She stands her ground and eyes him just as he eyes her.

"We needed a bigger army. We needed more men."

"You think I didn't know that? Those men who died today were under my charge. They were my friends."

"They died because they believed in our cause."

"They wouldn't have had to die had you told me—"

"I didn't know they were coming!"

She watches as Jon heaves, his being holding in the anger that she knows he wants to release on her.

"Things would have been different had you told me about what you had done," he says softly, his tone deadly.

Her own voice trembles with anger as she says softly, "You didn't consult me either."

He steps back, his expression one of offence. "This is my army. I am their Commander. Any decision that is to be made must be made through me and no one else."

"You are their Commander," she says sternly. "But you are not mine."

She sees the way his eyes widen, the way his back stiffens and she knows, before he does, that he intends to leave her. She places her hand on his arm to stay him, and his eyes fall on the place where her fingers lightly touch him, as her own voice shakes ever so slightly regardless of the strength it holds.

"Now, if you're done being insulted by the very act that helped save us, simply because it didn't help your self-importance, there is another matter we must tend to."

He looks too tired to argue, which is why, when she takes his hand in hers, he lets her lead him with mild opposition. The castle is busy with Jon's army taking apart anything and everything that once belonged to a Bolton and his Bastard, but the kitchens are empty.

Jon does not complain as she places him on a seat where, she used to once, a long time ago, eat lemon cakes as they were made. Jon watches her with tired eyes as she fills a bucket with water and find scraps of clean cloth from near the pile of wood. He says nothing as she sits beside him, her fingers working quickly to soak the cloth before she turns towards him.

He needs a bath, a proper one, but Sansa knows that he will not rest until his men are tended to first.

"For now, this will have to do," she says softly, her fingers lightly taking his face in her hand as she firmly tries to wipe the blood from his cheeks.

It takes a moment, but Jon's eyes widen before he flinches away from her. "I can do that," he says stiffly.

Sansa leans forward to take his face more firmly, her actions without question as she continues to wipe the blood from him. "I know you can." She focuses on her task. Keeping her fingers busy helps to keep her mind at ease. "You've done enough." Her eyes meet his briefly before she goes back to the task at hand. "Let me do this for you."

She can feel him watching her, an uneasiness settling inside her from the words still to be said. But he says nothing as she continues to wipe his face, his neck, wincing once in a while when she gently touches a cut that is still to be healed.

Yet, she makes a mistake that encourages him to speak. Her eyes meet his and she finds herself unable to look away, even as her fingers gently rest on the side of his face.

"What do we need to give them?" he asks gently. "I do not know if we can return the generosity they have shown us today."

Sansa falters, her thoughts falling on the man who she once called 'Father'. "They do not require anything from you."

"And you?" Jon asks forcefully. "Do they require anything from you?"

She sees his fear like she sees his determination. The straight line of his back and the fire in his eyes say the same thing. He will not have you. I will not let you be taken away again.

Her smile is small. "I am not leaving." She takes his hand, now cut and muddy and strong, in hers. "I am never leaving."

He nods, but she can see that he doesn't believe it. She decides to appease him.

She sighs, her tone light. "I should have told you."

He smiles, which makes her smile wider.
"Aye, you should have. And I should have consulted you."

She holds his hand tighter in hers. "It doesn't matter now. Winterfell is ours. We have our home."

"Aye." He smiles sadly. "There is a Stark in Winterfell once again."

She feels the familiar sting behind her eyes and she knows that the tear rolls freely down her cheek. "No," she says in a broken whisper. "There are two."

As his eyes widen and his lips part to say more, Sansa leans forward to embrace him, her lips touching his cheek in a long kiss that she hopes conveys how much she truly loves him. She hears the way his breath hitches, she feels the way his chest constricts beside her own, before his own arms circle her to pull her dangerously close.

This is how they stay, until Tormund loudly announces his presence with a howl.