See end for author's notes.
Sansa began shaking the moment the first arrow pierced the canvas of the wagon and had not been able to still herself since. The terror she experienced rendered her unable to speak, unable to scream, unable to cry; it all happened so fast she could hardly process it.
Somehow, her father had separated them from the main party during the attack. She and Margaery had managed to escape as her father, mother and brothers fought them off, only to be mercilessly picked off by the mohawked warriors who tracked them. They ran as far as they could until they reached the river, finally taking shelter in the alder stand. Sansa thought they were well hidden, but it did not take long for them to be found and taken by two other Indian men.
After hearing the promise of gold and free land, the Starks had sold their belongings to make the journey from England. They had crossed the ocean to come to the United States, and the sea had been so rough that the family felt fortunate to have survived it. No one had warned them that the real danger laid among the native peoples and that if they wanted to take the land, they would have to fight for it. Whatever made their family think it would be an easy thing, making a life and reaping wealth on the American frontier? It all seemed so ridiculous to her now, and the irony burned bitter as bile in her throat.
Though she refused to give in to outright despair, Sansa dreaded what was to come. Her fiancé back in Boston had told her that mail from the west was unreliable at best. Aside from him, she had no one left who would look for her, no one who would even miss her for months.
Their marriage had been arranged with the hope of combining fortunes as well as powerful family names; love had nothing to do with the match. When news reached him that she had been stolen by Indians, the Baratheons would call off the engagement at once, of that she was certain.
It was a common topic of discussion around the Baratheon table, the horrible tales of what happened to white women who were taken captive. Before she headed west, Joffrey made it clear that rescue was nearly impossible for such captives and even when women were recovered, there was no rightful place for them in a God fearing society.
Sansa felt utterly hopeless. She had lost everything in an instant at the hands of the Indians. She should have stayed in the wagon and died with her family on the plains instead running away and following Margaery into the trees. Why had she done it? And what good had their attempted escape done them? Though they were alive, now they were the only surviving members of their families. Worse yet, they were prisoners heading toward an uncertain future and untold horrors, nevermore to be accepted by decent people and respectable society.
As she pondered their situation, her anger quickly turned into cold fear. Sansa had expected she and Margaery would be ravaged on the spot, but the men who took them didn't seem intent on hurting them, at least not right away. The man with whom she rode was a powerfully built warrior, his coppery skin covered only by buckskin breeches, leggings, a buffalo cloak and an impressive necklace of long claws adorning his neck. Sansa decided that if he had been able to kill the creatures that previously owned them with only a bow and arrows, then he must be one to be feared, and she shivered at the thought.
His hair was as black as a raven, waist length and adorned with eagle's feathers. He had a terribly scarred face, with high cheekbones, a hooked nose and beautiful, silver colored eyes. It appeared to her that he must be a high ranking member of the tribe and hold some measure of authority over the others, for she had seen the men confer with him before they acted and carefully take their cues from his movements and disposition.
The other Indian, the one who currently held Margaery, had spoken at length to him before burying her parents and covering them with rocks, presumably at his direction. After quietly observing their demeanor and appearances, it seemed to Sansa that it was possible they were from a different tribe than the ones who ambushed them. They were dressed very differently, their hair was long instead of shaved on the sides, and they painted their faces in a different way as well.
Slivers of lighting flickered across the blackened sky, temporarily illuminating the distant plains, but the threatening clouds had yet to rain on them. Sansa had no sense of distance in such open country, for one could ride toward the same hill for hours at a time and yet at the end of the day, find themselves no closer for the effort. Briefly she wondered if they would have to camp out for the night with the men, the thought sending a fresh wave of fear through her body.
The men showed no signs of stopping, or even of slowing down. The air was chilly but the large form of the man behind her radiated heat, and Sansa concluded that he must be accustomed to living out of doors.
The miles seemed to pass rather quickly, for the great black horse's gait was very smooth indeed. Still, Sansa was unaccustomed to riding in any manner besides sidesaddle, and soon her body ached terribly. She dared not complain though, for the men understood some English, and so Sansa shivered and pulled her torn dress closer to her body.
"Cold?" The man behind her rasped out as he glanced over her body. As she gazed into his grey eyes, she wondered if it was possible that he was half white.
"Y-yes, cold," Sansa finally stuttered out through chattering teeth. "You speak English?"
"I can make white talk." Gruffly he repositioned the heavy buffalo robe he wore and draped it over her as well. "Not good like you. Warm you will be now."
"Thank you." Sansa whispered.
His eyes traveled over her once more until he settled his eyes on her own. "Can you teach me? To make the white talk good?"
"Yes." Sansa replied, surprised.
He gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied and then motioned the horse onward.
It seemed like a long while passed before Sansa finally asked: "What is your name?"
He looked at her questioningly. "What is you mean?"
"What are you called?" Sansa tried again.
The burned side of his mouth twitched. "Three Hounds. Sandor Three Hounds. What you are called?"
"I am Sansa. Sansa Stark."
"Sansa?" He slowly said the word, the man seemingly testing out the feel of it on his tongue. "Sansa. Sansa. Your white words have a slant."
He means my British accent. "Yes," she nodded. "I was born across the ocean."
"What is it mean Sansa?"
Sansa thought for a moment, wondering how to explain it to him. "It means charm."
"Charm?" He eyed her sharply. "I know not that word… to me it mean…"
She waited as he searched for the word.
"Takuni…nothing." Bronn answered, grinning at her. "We have not heard the word."
"Takuni. Nothing." Sandor nodded. "That charm word mean nothing to me." He smirked at her, the man seemingly pleased with himself. "You are more little bird than Sansa."
"What do you mean?" Sansa quietly asked, all the while wondering if it was wise to engage them in conversation. She once heard her father say it was harder to hate a man once you got to know them, and so Sansa decided that her best chance for survival was to act somewhat friendly toward them.
"Kitala Zitkala. Little Bird." Sandor looked toward the other man, who smiled in return. "Sansa Little Bird."
"Sansa Little Bird." Bronn repeated in English and then laughed outright. "A good name. She Yellow Flower."
Margaery cast her a worried glance, though she herself did not seem worried. Nor did she share Sansa's reservations about resting into the men for warmth, for she was leaning into Bronn's arms. It was then that Sansa realized Margaery was using a far different tactic to ensure her survival.
Sansa began to grow afraid. "Why is it funny?" She finally squeaked out.
"Little Bird?" Sandor raised his brow.
"Yes."
Sandor shook his head. "The way you hid in tree. Like a scared little bird. "
"Oh, yes." Sansa sadly stared at her hands as she nervously fumbled with the blanket around her shoulders.
Tipping her chin up to him, Sandor's grey eyes studied her face so intently that her fear returned at once. Cautiously he reached out and ran a lock of her hair through his fingers. "Kissed by fire you." Ignoring his attentions, she steadfastly stared into his eyes, looking for clues as to what he had planned for her. She gained no such information, for Sansa's shy gaze was met with cold reserve by Sandor. "I will not hurt Little Bird." He rasped quietly before steering the horse westward.
Of course you would tell me that, you don't want me to try to escape. But while Sansa longed to do just that, one glance around her revealed that even if she did manage to get away, there was no place to hide. Praying silently, Sansa fingered the cross her grandmother had given her.
Margaery cried most of the way, but Sansa's tears eluded her until the lines of smoke from the cook fires appeared over the ridge. Sandor kicked the horse in the flanks and Bronn Blackwater did likewise, urging the animals onward.
No one will ever find us here, she thought, even if they do come looking for us. A deep fear coiled in her belly as they rode into the village.
"Wasicu! Wasicu!" White people! White people! The people cried out. Women gathered their children and ran into the tipis, while others came forward, staring at them. Sansa wondered what the word meant, when suddenly she and Margaery were surrounded by the members of the tribe.
"Yamni Sunka! Yamni Sunka!" Three Hounds! Three Hounds!
Shaking, Sansa looked up at him. "What-"
"They call me Three Hounds." Sandor interrupted without looking at her. "Do not make white talk in camp. Wait."
Sansa was so frightened she forgot to answer. Hands grabbed at her skirts, feeling her bare legs and her hair. The indignity of being manhandled combined with her all-consuming fear drained the last of Sansa's strength and rendered her speechless.
Reaching across her body, Sandor blocked their grasp, and not knowing what else to do, she turned and began to whimper into the buffalo robe. A warm wetness trickled down her legs, shaming her further still.
Sandor and Bronn shouted words that Sansa did not understand at the people, who at once moved away from them.
"Amáyuštaŋ yo po!" He turned to Sansa. "It mean leave us be." Sandor explained. "Come." With a gentleness surprising in so large a man, he lifted her down from the saddle. He eyed her skirts, now soaked down both sides of her legs. "You made water." There was no humor in his gaze; in fact, Sansa only saw sadness there.
"You have stolen us, what did you expect? I am afraid." Sansa sobbed out angrily. She no longer cared what happened to her, she was through with being submissive. "I am heartsick. My family is dead!"
Sandor winced at her, his mouth stretching into a thin line but he remained silent as he stared at her.
Sansa stomped her foot. "I should have died with my family!"
"No, you not die. Not then. Not now!" Sandor hissed as he stepped closer. Stunned, Sansa stumbled backward until his hand grasped her wrist and held her on her feet. "You not die." Behind her she could hear Margaery yelping as Bronn dragged her from his horse. Turning, she saw him jerk her to her feet.
"You cannot keep me alive if I want to die." She saw fear enter his eyes then.
Sandor turned to Bronn. "Wawat'echala Misukala Ki." Gentle, my younger brother. "Ci wiyape kokipe." The women are afraid.
Two elderly women at once came forward and spoke to her and Margaery in soothing tones, stroking their hair. Even though she did not understand their words, it seemed a very similar tone to the one her mother used with her when she was a little girl, bringing Sansa to tears. Soon she sunk to her knees, sobbing into her skirts, the young woman giving vent to her anguish and grief.
Sandor sat down beside her, watching her. "What will you do with us?" She asked in a decidedly different tone once she regained her composure.
Raising his brow, he nodded toward an elderly man with long white hair. "We speak to father."
Out of the midst of the tribe emerged a tall man resembling Sandor who had eagle feathers woven in his white hair. The people moved aside for him as he made his way toward them.
"Ateweya Ki." My father. Sandor bowed slightly and Bronn quickly followed suit.
Not knowing what else to do, Sansa bowed slightly in imitation of them, which at once drew the man's attention to her. Awkwardly she waited, listening to the lengthy discussions between Sandor, Bronn, their father and several elder members of the tribe without understanding any of it, until Sandor abruptly left the group and led her to his tipi.
"Wait! Stop! What are you doing?" Panic took hold of her. "Stop, please!" Sansa struggled against him, twisting in his grasp.
"You stop!" Iron fingers gripped her arm. "You come with me. Now."
"But-"
"No!" He growled harsher than Sansa had heard him speak before. "Chief Standing Bear asked what should do with you and Yellow Flower. I want you as mine." Sandor pulled her closer still. "He gave you to me. I found you. You are mine now."
"Yours? I'm not yours!" Sansa glared at him, digging her heels into the soft dirt.
"Yes, mine." Sandor lifted her over his shoulder. "My woman."
"You mean: your wife?" Sansa cried out in disbelief.
"Yes. Father gave me you." Sandor snapped angrily. "I keep you safe."
"But I am already engaged! And I don't want to marry you! I don't even know you-" She shouted as he carried her onward. They couldn't be married-she hadn't agreed to anything! She couldn't even understand what was said. How could a wedding take place without the bride and groom saying vows?
And why would he even want to marry her? Did he think she owed him? Well, he was very mistaken if he did. She didn't owe him anything but gratitude for taking her away from the Pawnee. Besides, she didn't ask him to take her from their hiding place.
The previous crippling fear she felt melted into fury, and the more she thought on her situation, the angrier Sansa became. No longer did she care if they killed her, she would not just give in. Kicking her feet, she shouted: "Who do you think you are? I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter, you cannot just carry me off and say we're married-"
She knew Sandor probably didn't understand most of her words, but her tone and volume left little doubt as to her feelings on the matter. But her behavior seemed to have little effect on him, though it did earn the stares and giggles of some of the old people as they passed. Bronn merely watched her with the same sad expression Sandor wore.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sandor's father watching them gravely, frowning his displeasure at their behavior. Undeterred, Sandor walked with her that way through the village to the farthest tent from the Platte. Incensed, Sansa continued shouting out her indignation.
Sandor didn't stop until they reached his tipi. Clearly bewildered, the man set her down and stared at her for a long moment before he opened the tent flap and pushed her inside, oddly gentle. Fuming, Sansa glared at him silently until the tent flap opened once more.
A/N: Oftentimes Lakota captives would be given to members of the tribe who had lost loved ones in battle, or who had young children and wives who had died. This was the case with my great uncle's 3x great grandmother; she was given to Running Bear as wife to take the place of his wife and infant son who had died during an especially bitter winter.
Some tribes did torture and mistreat captives as a form of revenge but such was not often the case with Lakota for one simple reason: a captive woman belonged to the first man who touched her, and he became her protector. Those who were taken as wives were treated as a member of the family. Of course, this varied according to bands and depended upon the individuals as well, but the rumored widespread mistreatment of captives is based less on fact and more on propaganda.