It's nearly dawn by the time Tyrion makes it to his chambers.

It's over, he thinks, collapsing onto his bed. And we survived. The Night King is dead.

His body aches. So many hours spent with muscles coiled and tense, waiting for the end. The end of the war, or the end of his life.

He was sure he was going to die; shredded by the undead, trapped beneath the frozen grounds of Winterfell.

Ice had flushed his veins. The winds of winter had blown and swayed him.

And yet…

She was there. His wife. By his side.

Sansa.

She burned brilliantly beside him, her fierceness and beauty cutting through the cold. She was his flame in the dark.

A soft knock draws his attention from his memories, and he sits up on the bed.

Before he can bid anyone to enter, the door creaks open and he's surprised as Sansa slips into his room.

"My lady?" he questions, unsure what has brought her here.

Everyone else has retired, needing to rest their bodies, minds, and souls after the terror of battle.

She doesn't speak. Sansa crosses the room so silently she could be floating, and she sits beside him on the bed.

She stares ahead, not saying a word, and Tyrion studies her profile. Her expression is soft, if a little absent, and her chest is rising and falling fast.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches out to place his hand over hers.

The hand he held when they were about to die.

She's no longer wearing her gloves, and her skin is warmer than he imagined. Tyrion gives her hand a comforting squeeze, and is pleasantly surprised when she returns the gesture.

"I thought we were going to die," she says, voice soft as a whisper.

"You weren't alone in that belief," he admits.

Sansa turns to meet his gaze, her blue eyes so earnest and unguarded.

"I thought we were going to die, and all I could think was… if this is it, I'm glad I'm here with you."

Tyrion hears a sharp intake of breath, and a moment later realizes it was he who made it.

"I couldn't have asked for better company for the end," he says, unsure just what she's trying to tell him.

"You thought we were about to die, and you reached for my hand and offered me comfort, and I realized—" Sansa trails off.

"Yes?"

"I realized I always want your comfort. I always want your hand in mine. When I think of the strength you give me in the darkest times, I can only imagine what we could have in the light."

"Sansa—"

"You said it yourself, "maybe we should have stayed married." Did you mean it?"

He doesn't answer.

He's afraid to. This is far too close to that which he's denied for so long. He can't handle the heartbreak.

"You don't want this," he says, not meeting her eyes. "You're still in shock. Perhaps we can have this discussion when you are feeling back to yourself."

"We almost died," she repeats, "that puts things in perspective."

Time seems to slow and she leans in towards him.

Tyrion can hear his heart pounding in his ears, a deafening drumbeat set to double time. He's trying to memorize her face. Every freckle, every incline, the swell of her lips and angle of her cheekbones.

When she kisses him, all the air is sucked from the room, and he's left floating in an abyss, just clinging to her… his lifeline.

Her lips are sweeter than they have any right to be, so soft and supple against his own. Sansa kisses him shyly at first, but grows bolder as he doesn't resist.

For once in his life, Tyrion's brain shuts down. There are no thoughts, only reactions.

Sansa turns to press closer, and Tyrion's hand finds its way into her flowing hair, cupping the back of her head.

Instinct takes over and he kisses her harder, eliciting a small gasp and a widening of her lips to allow his tongue entry.

Sansa is quick to mimic his moves, and Tyrion's heart almost stops as she traces her tongue along his bottom lip.

"Sansa," he pants, drawing back slightly. "We shouldn't…"

"We were married before the Seven. We should. We should have long before now."

He tilts his head upwards, looking at her and willing himself to be strong enough to prevent her from making a mistake.

As if reading his thoughts she gives him a small smile and speaks.

"When I said you were the best of them, I didn't mean of my relationships. I meant you are the best man I have ever known, and I trust you more than you can know."

Sansa places a gentle hand on his cheek.

"I want this Tyrion. I need this. We both do. We are alive and we should remind ourselves of that."

He opens his mouth to reply, but she kisses him, swallowing the protests she knows he's only making to protect her.

"A long time ago you swore to me you wouldn't share my bed until I wanted you to."

She caresses his cheek with her thumb, and he can't help but lean into her touch.

"I want you to," she says.

Her beautiful blue eyes are so imploring he can't say no. He doesn't want to. The only thing Tyrion wants is the woman beside him.

He cups her face in his hands, and kisses her. Softly at first, but their need quickly grows and their lips grow fiercer.

Before he knows it, they are lying back on the bed and he is leaning over her as she pulls him closer.

In a blur their clothing disappears piece by piece, and Tyrion is suddenly on his knees staring down at his wife in her full glory.

Her skin is fair as ivory, but flushed with desire in a sinfully enticing way. He could stare at her forever, but Sansa isn't as patient.

"Please, I need you," she begs.

What can he do but what she asks?

He positions himself between her legs, but waits, looking up for confirmation once more.

"Tyrion, please," Sansa repeats.

When he enters her he thinks his heart will burst.

My wife, he tells himself. She is my wife, and she wants me.

Despite his body urging him on, Tyrion takes his time, drawing out his own pleasure until he is certain Sansa is satisfied.

Later, as they lay entwined in one another's arms, the light of dawn begins to shine through the window and Tyrion drifts to sleep dreaming about new beginnings.

Author's Note: The new episode gave me SO MANY emotions! Sanrion is so canon.