With dark eyes and intent, from the Underworld, she spies the maiden fair.
Red tresses flowing down a pearl skinned back and Apollo's rays shining down upon a nude body so free from blemish. Stars of red dust the milky skin of the young goddess who so trustingly lays her breast against Gaia, her chiton discarded in the heat of summer, her long hair a fan of shining rubies.
From the Underworld, Death watches the little flower that dances and sings; plucks flowers for woven crowns and comforts little animals.
From the dark abyss in which Death dwells, treating with the demons of the dark; the screams of Tartarus, the goddess of death pines for the sweet cream skin and soft flesh of the little maiden whose brazen innocence leaves flowers growing in the wake of each soft step. Whose voice attracts bees and butterflies to the bright hues of color that bloom from her sweet gait. Whose innocent dances leave even Apollo in awe.
So, she waits. Hades, they call her. Hades by some; Death by most; Pluto by others; Margaery by her own choice. A name for the god of death: one she cannot take; one that can never be spoken by the mortal tongue for fear of divine retribution. Margaery.
The summer solstice, she chooses; a day as long as night; a night as long as day. The day the chariot of Apollo is rivalled in equality by Artemis.
Ready the horses, she says to the Furies. I am to claim my prize.
Fire spitting horses leashed to a chariot of dragonglass. The mares scream against their bonds and Death ascends the chariot, splitting the very Earth to reach the land of Light.
There, she sees the Flower that dozes against a tree. She wears no clothing; nothing in her hair; nothing on her pale feet. Death is pleased.
An arm's reach, a daring grasp, and the Flower is in her arms, stirring from innocent sleep.
She screams in Margaery's arms as they descend back to the domain of darkness; away from the all-seeing eyes of Apollo; down down down. Death smiles at her new prize, her new wife. The Underworld will have a new queen.
Death tosses the reins aside for the Furies to deal with as she carries the screaming girl to her castle. The pretty blue eyes that stare at Death are blue orbs of starlight and they cry out in fear; in terror.
Unto her chambers, Death takes the maiden whose once loud screams have been silenced by the agony of Tartarus and its terrible retribution. Unto the bed, Death lays her prize, staring at the milky skin and soft body of a girl whose fear struck eyes hold something new. Death sees anger. Hades sees power. Pluto sees fear. Margaery sees lust.
I will not hurt you, Flower, she says to the girl. I only wish to worship you as well a god can. She kneels before the Flower who sits on the precipice of a bed used only for fucking. Gods do not require rest.
The Flower only speaks to correct Death. Sansa, she says her name is. Persephone by some; Proserpina by others; Little Bird by most; Sansa by her own choice. A name for the god of spring: one she can sing; one that mortals love to whisper and praise. Sansa.
Sansa, her name is. Sansa. San. Sa. Light of Death's immortal life; fire of her loins.
Death only smiles and stands as the Flower leans her back onto the dark sheets that cover the bed. Margaery, she says. The name mortals fear. The name they dare not say.
The Flower is inexperienced; green. Death will take her time.
Sometimes death is painful; sometimes death is quick; sometimes death is soft; sometimes death is begged for. Today, Death is gentle.
Gentle kisses. Gentle caresses. Gentle swipes of a tongue and the gentle, languid trails of grazing teeth Death leaves on the silk skin of the Flower. Each touch; kiss; caress is met with gasps and sighs that goad Death on.
Margaery's mouth reaches the lovely rosebud peaks that top each breast with a perfect cherry pit. One fits in her mouth as the other is rubbed with a thumb. Sansa's back arches and her eyes close, pleasure flitting over a scared face.
Down, she breaches, each kiss moving lower and lower until her mouth reaches the honey and sweetness Sansa offers. Each glancing touch is met with a moan; a gasp; a little whine.
Margaery takes her time, worshipping Sansa's entrance; sliding a digit into the pulsing opening as her mouth works her most sensitive point, rubbing her tongue over the soft point and digging her nose amidst a mound of red curls.
Closer, closer, closer. Another digit. Two fingers in and out as Death defiles the virgin goddess; as Death brings her near her breaking point. A third and the Flower is screaming her name. Margaery. Margaery. Margaery.
Then, Sansa snaps. Her nubile body quivers and quakes as she releases for the first time in her life, her juices flowing for Margaery to lap up; for her to savor as she watches Sansa scream and shake against the bed, her chest heaving with each breath.
Margaery does not take her black chiton off; there will be time for that later. For now, she lays beside Sansa and Death takes the Flower into her arms, caressing the flaming curls that tangle over mussed sheets and porcelain skin. The Flower does not protest, only closes her eyes as her body trembles from the final shivers of release.
Death does not ask for the Flower to touch her; there will be time for that later.
Death is patient. Death will wait. Death knows she will be called for. Death knows she is inevitable.