Sansa can't handle listening to one more person praising the Dragon Queen as a savior. As if it was the silver-haired dictator who had driven the dagger into the Night King's heart and not Arya.

Wherever Sansa goes (her room, her study, the great hall, the courtyard) someone is waiting to tell her how lucky they were the Mother of Dragons was there to save them from the Long Night.

It's enough to make her sick.

The North remembers my arse, she thinks bitterly, tiptoeing into the kitchen. Let's not forget we trusted the Targaryen's before… trusted the crown before, and it almost erased my house.

Hand curved around her single candle, protecting its delicate flame, she makes her way to the pantry.

Even at this late hour she can't risk returning to her room; Jon's been trying to get her alone to discuss their fealty to his lover.

Once in the pantry she finds what she's looking for and leans against the wall, letting gravity carry her to the floor.

Tyrion can't believe how well the Northerners know how to party.

He always viewed them as such a stubborn, stoic bunch, and yet it is only after his fifth attempt at leaving in the last hour Tyrion is actually able to slip away from one of the many celebrations.

His head is killing him.

He needs something solid in his stomach, and he wouldn't say no to something other than that damned thrice fermented sour-as-piss swill they'd been serving.

Maybe a nice glass of wine, he muses, something sweet to counter all that bitter.

As soon as he walks into the kitchen a cool breeze sweeps in and blows out his candle.

"Shit," he mumbles.

It's practically pitch black in the kitchen, except for the soft glow flickering behind a half-closed door he thinks is the pantry.

Carefully, trying not to trip in the dark, Tyrion makes his way to the door.

It creaks when he cracks it open enough to slid in, and he hears a light shuffling from the end of a row of shelves.

"Anyone in here?" he asks.

Silence replies, and then…

"No. Go away."

The corner of his lips twitch in amusement and he decides to investigate further, walking to the end of the row.

Tucked into the corner, feet pulled up in an attempt to hide from view, sits Sansa holding a goblet of wine.

"Sssansa," he slurs. "What are you doing in here?"

Sansa stares up at him, blinking rapidly as if trying to see him clearly.

"I'm the Lady of Winterfell, Tyrion," she tells him, "I'm am… am… I am merely testing the vintage of our stocks."

"What a coincidence! I'm the drunken imp, and I know my wines. Care if I join you?"

Sansa hesitates only a moment, then shifts her skirt over and pats the floor beside her.

Tyrion sinks to the floor next to her with a sigh, and she passes him her cup of wine.

"How's the year?" he asks.

"Iss looking up, I suppose," she shrugs.

He snorts into the cup.

"I meant the wine," Tyrion clarifies.

"Oh, that. It's, uh, most definitely wine."

He smiles into the cup taking a deep drink.

"It's good," he says, passing the cup back. "I'd say it's Dornish, and at least ten years old."

Sansa shoots him a side eye and takes another gulp of wine.

"I must admit I can't tell the difference," she stage whispers, giving him a playful smile.

"Can I tell you a s—hic—secret?"

Sansa's eyes widen and she nods.

"No one knows the difference," he continues. "But if you say it with enough confidence people will believe anything."

To his surprise, Sansa bursts into a fit of giggles.

It's adorable, and apparently contagious, he finds, as he soon joins her.

When their fit of laughter runs its course, Sansa takes another swig from the glass, refills it, and passes it to Tyrion.

"May I ask what you're really doing hiding away in here?"

She shrugs halfheartedly.

"That I guess. Hiding."

"I never imagined you as one to hide from your problems."

Tyrion takes another drink and passes the cup back, studying her.

That neck, he thinks, letting his mind wander as he waits for her to answer. So elegant.

"I'm not hiding from my problems," she argues, cheeks flushing a delicate shade of rose. "I'm just… hiding so as not to create more problems."

"You strike me as more of a problem solver than a, er… problem creator."

"You might feel differently if I cause an incident and stab someone with my necklace the next time I have to listen to another rendition of the Dragon Queen is our savior from one of my people."

He knows he shouldn't laugh… but the image of Miss Manners Sansa Stark stabbing someone with a fanged necklace is too much for him.

She glances over and gives him a soft smile.

"Shouldn't you be—hic— defending your queen?" she asks, humor lacing her words.

"I've told you many people have underestimated you, but I will not be one of them. If you think something is the right desis—decision, it probably is."

Sansa regards him thoughtfully, taking another sip from the quickly draining cup of wine.

"Is that why you followed my lead down there… in the crypts? When I pulled out my knife? You thought fighting the undead was the wisest choice because it was my idea?"

Tyrion reaches out and takes the goblet from her, and drains the whole thing.

"I followed you for three reasons actually," he sighs. "First, yes, because it was your idea. Second, because there was no way in the Seven Hells I was going to let my wi— my former wife face those monsters alone."

"And third?" she prompts.

He looks up, his eyes meeting hers, and his breath hitches.

"And third… because if you were going out there to die I might as well follow, because without you in this world there is nothing left for me to live for."

His words hang in the air between them, their implications almost tangible.

Tyrion's not sure admitting his feelings was the right choice, but he's glad to finally have said them.

He wonders if she knows how often he's thought of her these last three years apart. How he's not able to look at another woman without comparing them to her and listing the way they fall short. How he couldn't sleep for three days straight after Varys told him she had remarried.

Neither is sure who makes the first move, but suddenly the goblet clanks loudly across the stone floor, and their arms are wrapped around one another.

Lips meet in flurry of need and clumsiness. Tongues swirl, lips tremble, teeth clash.

It's inelegant to say the least, marred by their intoxication, but they drink it in all the same, reveling in one another's touch.

Sansa leans back, pulling Tyrion with her, and they tumble into the nearest shelf, sending several things crashing to the floor.

"Perhaps this isn't the place, my lady," he pants, pulling away for air.

"You're right, come on."

Sansa scrambles to her feet and takes his hand, leading him out of the pantry.

"The candle," he protests.

"I know every inch of this castle."

He lets her lead him through the dark twisting corridors of Winterfell, and is surprised when she opens a door and pulls him into his own chambers.

"They'll look for me in mine," she explains, tugging him towards the bed.

Shock roots him to the spot as she begins to strip off her outer layers until only a thin shift remains.

"Sansa," he sighs, awe filling his gaze. "We… we shouldn't."

Gods grant me a quick death, he curses himself.

"I think we've waited long enough," she argues, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bed.

He climbs up with her, but turns his face away when she tries to kiss him.

"I think you may be quite drunk, my lady, and though it pains me to say it more than you can possibly know, I can't do this if you're not in your right mind."

Sansa cups his cheek, turning his face to look at her.

"You are one of the kindest, noblest men I have ever met," she tells him.

And suddenly they're kissing again.

Tyrion knows he shouldn't, but gods do her lips taste sweet.

She lies back on the bed, her hand in his hair, and draws him down with her.

His hands wander of their own accord and as his thumb brushes her nipple through the fabric of her shift, Sansa moans into his mouth as she leans into his touch.

"You're wearing far too much clothing, husband," she murmurs against his lips.

If he weren't already hard, hearing her call him husband would have sent him straight to attention.

He sits back on his knees and pulls his shirt off, and Sansa sits up to follow suit.

She pulls the hem of her shift up and over her head, but gets stuck, and she struggles to pull it off.

Tyrion reaches out to help her just as she manages to loosen the garment and Sansa elbows him in the head, sending him off the edge of the bed.

Sansa gasps and jumps off the bed, stark naked, to help him.

Tyrion is lying flat on the floor, laughing hysterically.

As soon as she sees he's okay, Sansa can't help but laugh too.

Offering him her hand she pulls him to his feet.

He wipes tears of mirth from his eyes and looks up at her, seeming to just now realize she's nude.

"Sansa… you're perfect."

"And you're still wearing pants."

"Are you truly sure?"

She drops to her knees and places her hands on his shoulders.

"I am slightly drunk," she admits, "but I am very much aware of what I want. I want you. Now."

She kisses him again, her hands finding their way to his pants, unlacing them one fumbling movement at a time.

When he's divested of his clothes, Tyrion looks away, cheeks flushing.

"You're practically perfect," she says.

"Practically?"

"You'd actually be perfect if you were on the bed."

She sees his self-confidence melt away and they climb on the bed together.

Sansa lies back and opens her arms to him.

"Come to me, husband," she commands in her most queenly voice, trying to keep a straight face.

Tyrion growls playfully and lunges at her, nipping her neck as he kisses up her throat.

She squirms beneath him, giggling at the way his beard tickles her sensitive flesh.

He repeats his movements, tickling her on purpose this time, and Sansa grabs hold of his hair pulling his head away.

She kisses him gently before playfully nipping his bottom lip.

Time seems to float away from them without meaning. All that matters is the way their hands glide over one another's flesh, leaving trails of goosebumps and eliciting soft sighs and throaty moans.

He positions himself to enter her, and hesitates.

"Are you absolutely— oh, gods."

Sansa rolls her eyes and thrusts up to meet him.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul," she whispers, staring into his eyes.

She doesn't return to her room that night, and wakes up with arms embracing Tyrion and body wrapped in twisted sheets.

Her head is pounding.

She studies Tyrion's sleeping face and smiles, thinking perhaps she should have taken up drinking a long time ago.

Author's Note: I just want to thank LittleD0ve from AO3 and Lannistark_ from instagram for their amazing inspiration on this one!