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Chapter Text

Sansa, daughter of Stark, remembered little of her youth.

The taste of lemons, perhaps. The petals of the winter rose, dancing in the wind. Her sister Arya, and wolves, and wolves and her sister.

She remembered her mother and father, though the world had forgotten them, forgotten and forgotten until all that remained of her father was silence and the solemnity of an oath, her mother reduced to the gurgle of a hot spring and the rush of a river.

Sansa remembered her brothers, too - strong Robb, her quiet brother-cousin Jon, wild Bran and sweet Rickon. Or perhaps it was Rickon that was wild and Bran who was sweet. Her memories slipped from her mind like sand through a sieve, now. 

When you are the only thing living in the realm of the dead, memory becomes a strange thing.

Oh, Sansa could leave, there was nothing to stop her, but to leave the underworld was a long and arduous journey. Besides, she could not spend very long above the earth before death caught up with her - true death, the fiery kind that tore at the heart and pulled at the skin. Searing hot pain unlike any other, to eternally replace the encroaching cold she had grown accustomed to.

Perhaps she was a coward, to choose the cold over the heat, perhaps not.

Sansa didn’t feel like a coward, but that was unsurprising - Sansa didn’t feel much of anything nowadays, everything had gone gray and black and white. Even her hair, once a lovely auburn, had faded to a brown so dark it was better defined as black.

Sansa’s only solace, her singular spot of color, was the looking glass. 

It was an unusual glass, not the kind that reflected back the world it resided in, but the kind that reflected another world entirely. With only a thought, Sansa could see almost any place, any person that she wished. The mirror was meant to be a curse, she knew, she was meant to spend her days wasting away in front of it, looking for the only thing the glass would not show, her lost family.

Instead, the mirror was Sansa’s greatest treasure. She did not remember much of her family, and what little she did remember only brought her pain. Sansa did not wish to see them, she wished instead to see pretty things, meadows and gentle forest creatures and her .

She was sweetness and light, summertime and strawberries. She was a goddess, a creature as great as Sansa and her once-siblings, and she had claimed the meadows that Sansa so loved as her own.

She wore yellow flowers in her hair, and spent her days wandering the meadows, looking for more of their kind. Everywhere she went, she was trailed by a retinue of woods-nymphs, and although Sansa could not hear their laughter through her mirror, she knew that it occurred, and the thought of it brought warmth to even the coldest parts of her heart.

Sansa’s heart was not the only area this maid brought warmth to, the goddess's musings often ranging into the lustful, into the obscene.  On these occasions, Sansa wished for nothing more than a union with her, the thought a bright torch in the darkest of nights, but Sansa knew it was not to be. Sansa lived in a cold realm of darkness, and flowers needed warmth and sun if they were to thrive. The underworld could provide neither.

So, Sansa was content to watch, to sit in front of her looking glass and imagine herself to be a maid of summer once again, always looking and never taking for herself. Sansa was content with this - until Joffrey.

Joffrey, son of Lannister. Sansa knew him, she knew his false kindness and his cruelty. She had been on the receiving end of both, many turns of the moon ago, before the darkness had called her and ensnared her in equal parts. 

He had been evil then and he was evil now. He was a god of sun, but he was also a god of illness, of the plague. Everyone forgot that part of him, except for Sansa, for every so often, Sansa’s realm would be inundated with a new wave of mortals, stricken down by some latest pox. She would retreat to her rooms, to her mirror, and sure as day, find Joffrey consumed by the furor of another childish rage.

Joffrey was a son of Lannister, which already was far too much power for one such as him, but he was also a King’s son. One day, when King Robert’s power waned, when he died the death of all gods, Joffrey would be the one to rule. Sansa dreaded the day that came to pass, but it was a far-off day, and until then there was nothing for it. Joffrey was cruel, Sansa handled the results of his cruelty, it was the way of things.

That is, until Joffrey’s cruelty began to threaten her.

It was a summer day, sweet as all summer days are for the young and beautiful, when Joffrey saw her from his sun-chariot. She was dancing through a meadow, carefree, braiding a crown of flowers into her hair, as was her custom.

Sansa was watching, as her own custom dictated. She could not help it, it was in her nature to chase unattainable, pretty things.

Just as it was in Joffrey’s nature to corrupt those things.

Sansa watched in horror as, behind the maid, the sun-chariot dipped low in the sky. Joffrey cared naught, it was clear, for the harvests or the mortals burned by his wreckless descent.

Joffrey may not have cared, but she was unaware, and Sansa wasn’t quite sure which was worse.

The maid turned as Joffrey dismounted, and she was smiling, Sansa noted, smiling at the boy-god who killed thousands without a thought. The maid was smiling, and though the smile might have carried a conspiratorial air, it was innocent still. Sansa had smiled like that once, and had scarcely survived to regret it.

Joffrey picked a yellow flower, and placed it in the maid’s hair, before once again mounting his chariot and continuing his trek across the sky. Sansa ignored the way her stomach twisted at his show of chivalry, instead searching her face for any sign that she saw the poison underlying the fiery exterior. Seeing no sign, Sansa knew that she had little choice.

Sansa waited until the sun set, until Joffrey’s chariot had sunk far below the horizon and his sister, sweet Myrcella, goddess of the moon, was high in the sky, before she set her trap.

This goddess of spring and summer, flowers and the smell of rain, would only follow one thing into the realm of death - life.

Sansa wished to lure her maiden with a flower, but no flower was willing to do her bidding, there was no flower that did not die beneath Sansa’s feet. No flower but one.

If her mother and father were nearly forgotten, Sansa’s aunt was naught but a whisper, a faint suggestion of a memory. She had died so long ago, none remembered her name, not even her own solemn son. All that anyone knew of her was that, if she could be said to live, she lived in the petals of a blue winter rose.

Sansa had always loved the winter rose, and the winter rose loved her back, as much as a flower could love. Even now, when other blossoms died in her presence, it flourished. It did her bidding, growing throughout the palace of Hades, from which Sansa had taken her second name - Sansa Hades, ruler of the Underworld, guardian of souls.

That night, the blue winter rose chose a new place to bloom - a small clearing not far from the copse of trees where the maiden slept. It called to her, singing a song of ice and a song of fire, a song of sadness and a song of light. 

The maid awoke and, as if in a trance, stumbled through the trees, eyes a-glaze and footsteps faltering.

Seeing the rose, she could not help but to pluck it, to braid it into her hair, a shard of ice amidst the yellow flowers that she so loved. The maiden could never resist pretty things.

And Sansa, seeing her, could not help but to burst forth from where she lay in wait. She sprang from the earth atop a chariot of darkness, propelled by the leathery wings of pegasi long-dead, grasped her prize about her waist and drew her deep into the world underneath.

Unbeknownst to both maid and captor, a silent watcher disappeared into the night to inform their master of their findings.

Chapter Text

If Margaery had indeed been taken hostage, it was a remarkably comfortable hostage situation.

Of course, she wasn’t entirely sure whether such a kidnapping had occurred at all. Perhaps this was all a strange dream, and Margaery would soon wake up disoriented and confused, but back in the woodlands she had fallen asleep in. 

After all, the bench that she had been tossed upon was suspiciously comfortable, and the chariot was moving along smoothly, like a ship rolling along gentle waters. In Margaery’s experience, chariot horses did not move in that manner unless they were figments of one's imagination. 

It is important to note that Margaery’s experience, while valuable for the purposes of storytelling, was also unfortunately limited to her betrothed’s poor horsemanship. Chariot horses (or in this case, undead equine chariot-creatures) did, in fact, move in that manner, and at that time they were moving Margaery away from all that she knew and loved.

As Margaery drew closer to full consciousness, she slowly became aware of this fact. It was a testament to her strength of character that she did not immediately faint away again at the revelation.

No, Margaery kept ahold of her consciousness, straightened her spine, and rallied. She was not some two-bit forest nymph! No-one could abduct her and get away with it, she was a Tyrell, she was a deal-maker, she was -

She was very much prepared to turn into a tree if things looked like they might head south. (Ros might have been a silly, vapid girl, but her evasive techniques were nothing to laugh at.)

Margaery pushed it all aside, her panic and her self-righteous fury. At the present moment, she needed to focus on escape - preferably, escape with virtue intact, if she wished to remain engaged to the crown prince. 

Know your enemy, Grandmama said. Margaery would have to become an expert. 

They were tall, cloaked in layers of tattered black cloth that swirled around their frame, making it impossible to identify them by build or gender. A hood obscured much of their face, but Margaery thought she was able to identify a sharp chin. From time to time, they would turn towards the chariot’s rear, as if checking on her. Margaery would have thought that the gesture was sweet, were they not also spiriting her away to a secondary location. 

And what a location it was, dark and hollowed-out, like the inside of a gourd. It was covered at its base by a skeletal forest, shades twisting and turning through a maze of dead tree limbs. Rivers scarred the earth, bubbling with acid or lit aflame. It was terrible and strangely beautiful, all at once.

It was Hades.

In the distance, Margaery could see a palace that seemed to have been constructed entirely of ivory and ebony, bone-white towers stretching up like stalagmites into the roof of the great cave.

Stalagmites, mayhaps, or teeth. 

Before she knew it, the palace was nearly underneath her, sending Margaery reeling. Just how fast had the chariot been traveling? How much had the realm of death skewed her sense of distance, in the short time she had spent there?

How long had she spent here?

The chariot landed lightly. Margaery couldn’t help but feel a muted sort of admiration- Joffrey always seemed to crash even the easiest landings. Her captor stepped out first, lending Margaery a hand. 

She took it, of course, but not without a scathing glare in what was hopefully the general direction of their face.  

Margaery’s abductor kept ahold of her hand, gently leading her to the palace doors, which were tall and considerably more severe than Margaery was accustomed to. They swung open without prompting, releasing a gust of wind strong enough to sweep a yellow flower out of Margaery’s braids. She watched it float away, affording herself a brief moment of mournful sentimentality amidst her usual scheming. 

The moment was fleeting. Margaery composed herself and swept into the castle hall, slipping her arm through the crook of her captor’s. 

Escape by - nearly - any means necessary, Margaery thought to herself. 

She was led through a maze of rooms, corridors twisting between them rather similarly to the shades she had seen traversing the forest outside. Nonetheless, Margaery felt vaguely unsettled by the emptiness of the place, the only living people being her and her captor. It was disorienting, to be so alone with another person. In all her years as a lady of the court and of the glade, she had never felt such a sense of isolation.  

The silent castle tour came to an awkward, startling halt in one such room. It was similar to every other chamber she had seen, uncompromising and bleak, but for its central feature - the throne. 

Once she noticed it, she could not look away. It reminded Margaery of the iron throne that King Robert held court from, except it was carved out of jagged obsidian, rather than Valyrian blades. It was stark and unornamented, but it held a certain sober majesty, that drew the eye despite its plainness. Naturally, Margaery was entranced. 

Margaery stepped towards it, a sudden movement that caused her captor to go stiff. They stayed frozen in place as Margaery began to walk away, until her arm slipped out of the crook of their elbow. Then, they moved too-fast, grasping at her retreating hand with both of their own. 

Margaery did not stop. 

“Wait!” they cried, voice high and scratched with disuse. 

A woman, then. Mayhaps even a goddess. 

Margaery turned. 

“Yes?”

“You may not want to sit upon that throne,” the strange woman’s voice found it’s timbre, a bell-tone tinged with Northern vowels, a strange tone for such overly formal speech. “It would have several unfortunate consequences.”

“Such as?” Margaery kept herself collected, but secretly reveled. Her captor was female, which removed the majority of her concerns over her virtue, and seemed attached enough to Margaery to protect her from danger. Perhaps this ordeal wouldn’t be quite as horrible as she had feared. 

She still had to engineer her escape, of course. One does not sacrifice a queenship without something better already lined up. 

The other woman did not respond to Margaery’s question; instead, she gently untangled her hand from Margaery's own, and silently drew back the hood covering her face. 

The woman - no, goddess , Margaery was sure - had a head of brown-black hair, straight and unstyled except for a circlet of swords. Her face was all sharp lines and soft angles, a long straight nose with a button end, an angular jaw and soft lips. She was pale and gaunt as death, but she held herself upright, tall and strong.

Yet removed from her contradictory features were the other goddess’s eyes. They were clear blue, the color of the sky in mid-morning. Or the wings of a bluejay. Or the petals of a - a winter rose. 

Margaery cursed herself. How could she have forgotten? The hints of a Northern accent, the blue winter rose, those eyes . 

Margaery had seen those eyes before, in two faces only: Bran, the god of prophecy, and Robb, the violent Northern wind. Brothers. Sons of Stark. And now that the thought occurred to her, she saw some of the expressiveness of the goddess of the hunt, and perhaps that was Rickon’s sharp jawline, Rickon of Skagos. Margaery was supposed to be better than this.

After all, it was as simple as black and white; she was in the presence of a daughter of Stark, a princess of Winterfell, and her name was not Arya. 

Stepping back and falling into a curtsy, Margaery kept her eyes fixed on the other goddess, a show of respect with no real weight, no demure lowering of her eyes. “Princess Sansa,” she addressed her captor. 

Sansa looked distinctly uncomfortable, and looked away for a long moment. 

“That is not my name, nor my title.” Sansa said softly. 

“Then what is?” Margaery asked, still bent in a curtsy before the not-princess.

“I am Sansa of Hades,” the silence stretched out as Sansa seemed to gather herself, “and I am the queen of this wretched realm.”

Rising from her curtsy, Margaery regained eye contact with her queen. 

This changed everything . 

Chapter Text

The woman sat at a crossroads, and watched as the leaves above her began to yellow.

It was strange, she thought, but not altogether unusual, considering the circumstances. The rest of the world was ablaze - one could not fault the trees for following.

A wolf had taken a flower in between her teeth, and everywhere, it seemed, was suffering for it. It had only been five days, but they were the longest five days of the woman’s life.

For five days, the sun had sped close to the earth - too close - burning harvests and mortals alike. Ostensibly, it was all part of a search, but the woman had lived through enough to recognize a rampage when she saw one. And when the sun raged, the sky followed suit. Lightning struck the already pock-marked earth, and great claps of thunder rang out every few seconds.

Meanwhile, the goddess of all that was green and plenty, perhaps the only being who had the right to rampage, stayed strangely silent. Her icy demeanor seemed to be catching - any scrap of earth that had avoided the scorching heat found itself freezing over. What little ground was left had grown hard, and nigh on impossible to cultivate.

Everywhere, leaves caught fire and drifted down to the earth. Everywhere, mortals died, pestilence struck, and suffering worsened. Pyres were burning higher than ever, and it was time for someone to do something .

Five days ago, Spring herself had been ensnared by the great jaws of death.

Five days ago, a polecat had slipped from a copse of trees, and returned to his mistress to report his findings.

The woman was faced with a decision. She could inform the Lady of the Harvest of what she knew. She could tell the world what she knew, what her scrying bowl told her was happening beneath her feet.

Or. She could take matters into her own hands.

Soon, the decision would be made for her. The flames were advancing, after all. The woman let them, and continued to sit and ponder.

Either course would have its consequences. But so would inaction - already, the woman could feel the heat at her back, flames licking at scarred skin.

Abruptly, the woman made a choice. It was the predictable choice, the one she was always going to make - if you retain any part of this tale, let it be the simple fact that in the end, we cannot change our natures. Whether that is for better or for worse is impossible to know.

The woman had made her choice, but she was not yet ready to set out on her course. You see, she had been sitting at this crossroads for years now, and she had unfinished business to attend to.

She rose from her cross-legged position on the ground, turning slightly to face the growing fire head on. 

Her hands outstretched, the woman allowed the inferno to begin to consume her, flames licking at her fingertips. Just as it appeared as though she would be lost forever, she whispered an incantation, and pulled . 

The fire struggled against her, bucking and rearing like a disobedient steed, but she held strong. Soon enough, twin ropes of flame were twisting and shortening in her hands, until they were reduced to two torches. The woman held her torches high, and walked into the night.

Hekate smiled - night had fallen, but her path was lit for miles ahead. Such brilliance would prove useful in the journey ahead.

The underworld was dark this time of year, after all.