𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ-ɴɪɴᴇ

Alright alright alright, new chapter! Thus begins my favourite arc of this story so far.

Fair warning that the dove isn't going to be in a very good condition from here on out. I don't think it's dead exactly but it's definitely not living its best life.

Quick TWs for this chap:
— Robb throws up/feels nauseous pretty much throughout the entire thing so beware if you have emetophobia, and
— in the very last paragraph, Robb briefly considers suicide to prevent himself from revealing secrets to his enemies. This is not further elaborated, and not at all graphic.

Take care of yourselves!
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There were two things Robb noticed immediately as consciousness returned to him. One: his head and side hurt like a bitch, and two: he was about to throw up.

The swaying of whatever it was he was on did not help. Neither did the fact that he was upside down. With every jolt, Robb felt bile rise—slide down?—further in his throat, and every dull throb in his skull chipped away at his already sleep-addled self control.

The nausea pulled Robb into awareness just enough for him to gather that someone was carrying him. It did naught for him but make him feel the full effects of their stepping into a rabbit hole just moments later. This was the final straw. The sudden jerk sent a sharp sting of pain through Robb's head and his stomach gave up every effort.

With a painful retch, a gush of vomit forced its way out of his mouth. Robb heard it hit the ground and something closer to his face—the person carrying him, most likely. Robb tried to apologise, but all that left his lips was a weak groan, followed by another gag.

He needn't have bothered. The person gave a disgusted snarl, their frame rumbling against Robb's, and then he was shoved off their shoulder. He had no time to even realise the feeling of weightlessness before he hit the ground hard. All air left his lungs with a wheeze. He did not even have the breath to cry out as even more pain shot through his body. His head, his side, now his shoulder and hips: there was no part of his body that did not hurt.

Lying on his side, gasping for air, Robb finally opened his eyes. It was a mistake. Bright light assaulted his retinas, worsening the thumping in his head. He squeezed them shut immediately and retched again. A small trickle of acrid bile spilled out of his mouth and made its way down his cheek.

Only now did sound come rushing in. He heard shouting—several voices, he was certain, but he could not say how many. They were deep and growling, and Robb did not recognize them.

The bile drip, drip, dripped onto the ground next to his ear.

Robb forced himself to focus. The voices were speaking in a language he did not understand. It did not sound Elven, but beyond that it could have been anything. Dwarvish, the Old Tongue, hells, even Valyrian. Perhaps it was even Common, and Robb's brain was too out of sorts to realise it. In his state, that was not unlikely.

Perhaps, if he could only see—

With another groan, Robb tried to drag his sluggish arm up to his face. The other one came with it.

Ah.

Robb twisted his wrists to be sure, but there were no two ways about it. His hands were tied. Wriggling his feet experimentally, he came to the same conclusion. When he finally got his hands in a good enough position to block the sun from his eyes, Robb saw why.

The voices belonged to Orcs. Tall ones, like those in the woods just days before, like the ones who—

Oh.