When he'd been young, Robb's mother had always known precisely what to do and say to comfort him from the little ills of childhood. How many times had he watched her offer solace to smallfolk who had lost husbands or wives or children? Moments like these, he wished he'd inherited even some small portion of her innate empathy, her ability to soothe.

Holding Margaery in his arms, his instinct was the opposite: Alarm, and the notion of retribution to whomever was responsible for putting her in her current state.

"Margaery," he repeated, one hand firm against the small of her back and the other cradling her head. "I love you. What is falling apart? Have you been in the forest all night?"