Blood.
Sansa Stark used to be a delicate girl.
She never liked to be around for the preparation of food, the pigs and chickens that were gutted, squelching and spurting blood from slitted flesh.
She liked eating them just fine, but the process had always been disgusting to her. She was too "prim and prissy", Arya, her boyish little sister, would say, and playfully aim an arrow at her, much to her dismay.Sansa didn't understand why her unrefined little sister wanted to learn how to fight so badly. She had never comprehended her affinity for arrows and sparring and God forbid, sword fighting.
She herself, a lady of noble blood, much preferred an afternoon of reasonably rationed lemon cakes and sewing elegant crafts.
Now, as she was being fucked by Ramsay Bolton, face first into the bloody mattress, body bent in awkward angles, she thought she should have learned a lesson or two.