"Why not?" Daemon asked, nonplussed. "Isn't that all you highborn girls are good for, bearing a lord's brats and furthering his line or some equally ridiculous horseshit?" He shrugged his sleeveless jerkin back over his shoulders, but didn't bother with its laces. "Your mother never educated you how to please your imbecilic husband so that he didn't rut you like a beast and blacken your eyes if you looked pert his way?"

If not, then no wonder the girl was so clueless. Yet a lifetime of such "hardships" didn't explain why she held herself aloof like a marble statue.

"I was a Dothraki warslave for six years, princess. Their woman took what they wanted from their male slaves, willing or not. I wasn't asked if I wanted to stud for them, I was choked until I obeyed. We've all had our roughhousing with sex and intimacy, Sansa." Daemon snorted, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

"I bloody well refuse to believe that you know nothing about men and women and what they do behind closed doors."