Sometime later, as they rode abreast of a sloping, lumpen field, Sandor stopped suddenly, pointing to the brow of the hill. 'There's your quarry.'
Sansa squinted up into the sun's glare, following his hand. She could see rabbits scattered about, still or lolloping lazily between mounds of scrubby grass. Sandor slid off Stranger and took Sorrel's reins, waiting for Sansa to dismount.
'Rabbits?' She looked at them despondently. She'd always loved watching rabbits up on the moors near Winterfell, and rarely ate them.
He repeated it stoically, emphatically. 'Rabbits.'
Sansa had never touched a bow and arrow, and told him so, several times, as she got down. Her brothers had been near-addicted to archery, from Robb down even to Rickon – Father had had a miniature bow made especially for him. And of course Arya would take a shot whenever she could, and would practice when she thought no one was looking out in the weirwood. Sandor pretended not to hear, and handed her his bow.
She tilted it warily, away from her body. 'You know I won't be able to do it.'
Sandor grinned, holding three arrows bunched up in his fist at her. 'You'll make do.' He led her to some ash trees at the bottom corner of the field, and took out the arrows, showing her the small, flat blades. 'Blunts. Good for killing birds, but they'll do for these 'uns too.'
'I really don't think this is going to work.'
He was adamant. 'Call it target practice, then. You've got three chances'. He fitted her an arrow. 'Don't do anything yet. Have a look up there and pick your shot.'
Sansa peered up at the small, hunched silhouettes. There were four rabbits in a group lower down in the field. She brought the bow up and pulled the arrow back. There was so much tension in the hide string that her arm shook, and the arrow trembled uncontrollably. She lowered the bow, her cheeks reddening. 'I'm not strong enough.'
'Yes, you are,.' He spoke rather gently. 'Don't give up before you've started. Go on'.
She pulled the bow up again, quickly, and drew the arrow back, so that the fletchling was touching her cheek. With an eye closed, squinting at the trio of rabbits, she loosed an arrow.
It landed some pace short of them, collapsing into the grass. A flock of pigeons, rock-grey with pink flashes, broke into the sky. The rabbits didn't even notice. Sansa's face fell. Sandor tried not to grin, and fitted her another arrow. She pulled it up, and released it, too quickly. It soared further this time, but metres wide of any rabbits. The animals loped slightly away from where it had fallen, untroubled.
Sandor fitted her final arrow. She didn't look at him, furious and embarrassed. He was making a fool of her.
'I can't do it.' Her throat felt as taut as the bowstring.
'Take your time.' He moved slightly behind her and spoke in a low, casual voice. 'Get your prey in sight first. Try one of them right at the top of the hill. They're not moving.' Sansa brought her arrow up, the nock at her cheekbone. 'Bring your arm up so that it's level with your arrow.' He put his hand under the tip of her elbow and gently tilted it.
Sansa took a breath in. With him holding her there, she was able to keep the bowstring taut without shaking, and let it fly. It arced over the field and fell over the line of the horizon, missing her rabbit. She exhaled tightly and lowered her bow. 'Happy now?'
'It was a good first try.' He took the bow off her and moved past her into the field, and then turned, walking backwards. 'Good for those rabbits anyway.' He grinned and turned back to collect the arrows.
Sansa kicked the smooth roots of the ash trees with her boot, hard enough to numb her toes. She was a perfectionist. She hated being made to look stupid. She'd mastered the fire well enough, but she couldn't turn into a head archer in a heartbeat. He was just punishing her again, for doing an act of kindness he disapproved of. He had to humiliate her; he just couldn't help himself.
'Sansa!'
She turned back round to the field to see him, a big silhouette against the sun, which glinted off his armour. He was tramping back down the field towards her, holding two arrows in one hand, and a limp rabbit in the other. He held it up to her. It must have been caught by that third arrow, unseen by them over the brow of the hill. She grinned.