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Daryn Hornwood has a mop of brown curls, the sort that hang in his eyes and get stringy when damp or unkept. He’s got a ridiculous, pretentious mustache, though it’s better than whatever is happening on Robb’s face these days. Granted, he’s also got charming dimples and warm brown eyes, so it’s not a complete waste.
Maybe this is not the thing Theon should be thinking about as the sun goes down on the makeshift camp, which they needs must make for the night, but which will be gone by next morning as they make the last half-day march to where Robb intends to engage the Lannister forces in the Whispering Wood. It won’t be a long march – they’ve already begun to see an increase in foliage and tree cover in the landscape. Maybe this is not the thing Theon should ever be thinking about—But on the other hand, what good does it do him not to? Gods know there are no pretty girls around to think about, the camp followers being mostly poxy, pudgy and far below his notice. There will be a hard-fought battle tomorrow night and while Robb is busy fussily sorting his maps and pretending he’s not consulting every move with his mother, Theon is far better off drinking and finding good company for japing.
He doesn’t know Daryn that well, but he could get to know him better.
He’s sitting at the edge of the camp, taking a whetstone to his sword, the long shadows of twilight giving his chainmail an oddly enhanced texture. There’s a wineskin he seems to not have touched for a while and not a squire or manservant in sight. Behind them, the camp bustles noisily and just beyond is the evening stillness of the encroaching woods. Little Sansa Stark would surely have something romantic to say about this.
Theon merely takes a swig from his own wineskin and leans against a tree a few feet away from Daryn. “Don’t you have a squire to do that?”
He looks up, smiles sheepishly. “I like the process. Good for the nerves.”
“Are you nervous?” Theon smirks.
Daryn flushes and looks down. “I’ve never been in a real battle before, but I suppose we will be in one soon. Come tomorrow night, I hear?”
“That seems to be Robb’s plan.”
“Is he confident?”
Theon snorts. “You think I’d tell if he wasn’t?”
Daryn looks up again, meets his eyes. The blush is gone. He seems serious, suddenly. “You ought not to, at least.”
They’re all so eager to die for him, Theon thinks, fights the odd bitterness that creeps up his throat at the thought. Maybe it’s shame. He’s not much better himself in that regard and he’s not even a bloody Northman. He takes another swig of the wine and goes to sit on the log Daryn is occupying, within arm’s reach of the other, let’s his eyes roam over Daryn. The bright, new steel of his sword shines silver-violet in the fading light. How old is he? Theon wonders idly. Around my age, I’d wager. He’d come to feast once at Winterfell, Theon remembers now. They’d shared a girl in a dance. He dances well. Fighting well would do him more good now.
“I wrote to Alys earlier,” Daryn is saying, taking Theon’s change of position as an invitation to start up a conversation. “Mayhap I could even get a raven out – I should have done it from Moat Cailin – but somehow… It seems so odd; I barely know her.”
“Alys Karstark?” Theon scrunches up his face, plagued by flashes of a lanky, plain girl in furs, nearly Robb’s age. “Why would you write to her?”
Daryn smiles ruefully, not bothering to look up from his task this time. “We’re to be wed once she flowers.”
“She’s what? Four and ten now, at least? She’ll be ripe for the bedding once the war is done, that’s for certain.” Theon shrugs. “I see no reason why write to her now. You’re not wed. You barely know her, as you said.”
“Seems nice to write to a girl back home.”
Theon doesn’t have a girl back home to write to. Not that he particularly wishes to spend his time on that sort of drivel. But there is something uncomfortably about the thought that the only girl possibly waiting for him is Kyra. He imagines for a moment her reading a letter from him, full of sweet nothings and romantic promises – that’s if she even can read. Imagines himself writing such a letter. And promptly falls over on his side with a dramatic snort. “Clearly not nice enough if you haven’t sent the letter.”
Daryn shrugs again and for some moments they sit in silence, only the sound of the whetstone and the removed sounds of shouting and laughing men and barely audible crackling of cookfires fill the air. A night bird caws noisily in the distance, one, again, then falls silent.
Daryn finishes with his sword and sheaths it, reaches for his wineskin and drinks, his eyes moving to Theon’s face again. He smiles uncertainly as Theon watches him. He does have very warm eyes. It’s not a thing Theon is used to in a Northman.
“You volunteered for the van,” Theon muses curiously. The cheap wine burns the back of his throat but he’d still rather the wine than the watered-down bitter ale the men are drinking.
Daryn shakes his head. “I volunteered to be part of Lord Robb’s guard.”
“You volunteered or your father volunteered you?”
The lad flushes again, red as a maid. “My father is not opposed, but no it was my own decision.” He scrunches up his face as though in puzzlement. “You seem very perplexed by this.”
Theon laughs. “Never thought you and Robb to be close. But you don’t seem the ambitious sort to me either.”
“it’s an honor, but I wouldn’t call it ambition. I’m also…best at protecting people, I suppose. My mother always said so. It’s very sentimental, I know.” He laughs self-consciously. “But you’re to be in the guard as well.”
“I grew up with Robb. Or rather, he’s grown up with me. I’m Lord Stark’s ward, but you know that.” Theon sits up, giving Daryn a challenging look, daring him to say hostage aloud, to speak a truth everyone has always been too cowardly or sanctimonious to voice, as though ignoring it would change it or make it better somehow.
Daryn’s eyes are soft in the settling gloom. Theon can’t quite read their expression and it bothers him. He’s ready to bolt at the first sign of pity, but he can’t very well do that if he can’t see. “Still,” Daryn says after a pause, quietly, but without much intonation, “You’re not sworn to him like my House is.”
Theon snorts into his wineskin. “No,” he says. It’s worse than that, but this is the closest to an acknowledgement he’s ever gotten, so he’ll take it with some grace. “Well. Since we’re to see battle tomorrow, best we spend our last night drinking and fucking. Or, well…drinking at least. I wouldn’t recommend any of the camp followers.”
In the last fading light, Daryn smiles and raises his wineskin. “Seems drinking will be difficult for me as well.” He turns it over to demonstrate that it’s empty.
Theon hums noncommittally and passes him his own. Daryn takes it, drinks. “You came to feast at Winterfell the other year. We shared a girl.” Theon grins when Daryn looks over at him sharply in askance. “For a dance.”
“Right. Was it a Mormont?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You danced better than her.”
“You were prettier.”
Daryn laughs for real this time and flicks the wineskin at him. Theon makes a grab for it, and they tussle for a few moments. Daryn ends up on the log under him, the wineskin forgotten on the ground beside them.
“You asked if I’m nervous about tomorrow. I’m not a coward. But I do like this better than dying.”
Theon grins at him. “Perhaps. But as for me, I’d like a taste of lion blood. A dead enemy is an even nicer sight than a pretty girl.”
“How would you know that?” it’s almost too dark to tell now, but Daryn is nearly smirking at him
“I’ve killed a man, that’s how.”
“An enemy?”
There’s laugher in Daryn’s voice and Theon shoves his knee between the lad’s legs as a warning. Daryn lets out a small gasp, though Theon cannot be certain if it’s fear or something else. His eyes go wide. “A greater one than you’ve ever encountered, Hornwood.”
The laugher has come out of Daryn’s face and his eyes are almost black in the settling dark. His fingers running across the back of Theon’s hand are as warm as his eyes. “I yield,” he says.
Theon takes him at his word.
*
Robb finds him early, gives his disheveled appearance a judging look and rolls his eyes like the sanctimonious little shit he’s been of late. He holds his tongue though, so Theon proceeds with dressing and waits to see what Robb wants.
Robb squats down, pokes at the little cookfire with a stick, clearly desperate for something to occupy himself with. He really needs to get laid, Theon thinks, pulls on his jerkin.
“At least it’s a bright morning. If we’re lucky the moon will be out and we won’t be fighting in complete darkness,” Robb muses.
“That would be ideal.” The men are beginning to tear down the camp around them, though most of the supply train will stay further back to not inhibit the fighting men.
“Did you get any sleep?” Robb is still not looking at him.
“Well enough. You?”
“I looked for you last night.”
Ah, there it is. “Bit preoccupied.”
“You can’t just wander off hell knows where, Greyjoy.” Robb throws his stick down in frustration.
Theon rolls his eyes. He’s not really in the mood for this sort of bickering. “I wasn’t wandering. I was well inside the camp. It’s not my fault if you didn’t care to search very hard, Stark.”
Robb pouts, eyebrows drawn together as Theon finishes fastening the boiled leathers. He’ll wait until after breakfast to fuss with the armor. Theon looks up in time to notice Daryn emerge from a nearby tent. His curls are all over the place, drooping in his face. They’re softer than Theon had expected. He grins at Daryn good-naturedly and likes the smile he gets back. Robb looks between them with some confusion.
“Good morning, Hornwood,” Robb says, a little too stiffly, shooting uncertain glances in Theon’s direction.
“My Lord,” Daryn nods, deferential as always before moving away to fetch his breakfast.
Robb sighs and runs a hand through his hair, looks over at Theon with an eyebrow raised. “Do I want to know?”
Theon doesn’t bother to look at him as he responds, “There’s nothing to know.”
*
Theon is doing a final check of his saddle straps and bridal, when Daryn reins up beside him. Robb is riding down the line, stifled chears of “Winterfell!” and “for the North!” pursue him. Theon knows he’s behind but he has to go slow to make sure his hands aren’t shaking.
“Is everything alright?” Daryn asks.
Theon nods. “Fine.” He looks up with his customary, easy smile. He can’t see Daryn’s hair under his half-helm, but the moon is bright enough to see his eyes – dark and determined, and still warmer than anything Theon’s ever seen on a Northman. Theon mounts, fumbles the reigns for a half-second, forces his shoulders to relax. “Excited?”
“If that’s the word you’d like to use.”
It’s better than frightened, which is what Theon actually feels. He hadn’t been before. But now, in the dark, with Lannister men coming over the ridge, the woods full of whispers as though there were ghosts in the trees instead of men— He bites his lip, gently urges his horse as close to Daryn’s as he dares. “Cheer up,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll be drinking to a glorious victory come dawn.”
Daryn nods emphatically, as though to convince himself more than Theon of his agreement. “Of course we will.” His eyes snap to something behind Theon and he raises his sword. “Winterfell!”
Theon turns around, catches sight of the rear end of Robb’s horse as he trots past them. Theon knows Robb’s nervous, perhaps even frightened. He’d felt it in the stiffness of his shoulders and the unsteadiness of his hands as Theon helped him don his armor. Robb had seemed all too willing to dismiss his squire when Theon had walked in, already armored, with a smirk and jape just like before. No use to let on that anything has changed. It’s changed enough without me letting on. Only now Robb looks invincible on a horse that’s almost too big for him and Grey Wind beside him, in armor and helm and men shouting his name—
Something sharp pinches inside his chest as he turns back to Daryn, who’s looking at him once more. “Be careful out there.”
“And you.” He realizes he means it as he spurs his horse past Daryn and into position just behind Robb.
The woods are a dark mass before them. Theon’s horse snorts and shifts nervously from foot to foot. They wait for the horn.
*
The clash of steel is deafening and Theon’s arms have begun to ache. There’s a point at which the blood runs too high, and the smells and sounds of battle overwhelm the mind until there is nothing but instinct.
Robb is beside him one moment and gone the next. He thinks he spots one of the Karstarks shoving someone off a horse; at one point he fights in tandem with Smalljon. Grey Wind snarls somewhere nearby and Theon’s horse skitters a little too much to the left. He steadies her with a curse and spurs ahead into the newly formed knot of combatants.
Someone is shouting. Robb’s name. They’re shouting for Robb. He looks around wildly in the chaos, finds the flash of ginger somewhere to his right and moves toward him. Robb’s guard is closing ranks around him. It’s impossible to make too much sense of anything with the shouting and the neighing horses.
But there’s really no confusing Lannister once he comes into Theon’s line of sight. It’s the glowing blonde hair and the red-gold plate, the way he maneuvers his horse as though he was born to ride it. But even more unmistakable is the way he cuts through men as though through butter. His retainers ride and fall beside him, but Jaime Lannister is unstoppable.
Theon’s heart beats in his ears. He settles himself just in front of Robb, bites the inside of his cheek. He now realizes it’s Lannister who’s yelling. Stark! Robb Stark! Come out, Wolfpup! Stark! Theon is vaguely aware that Ed Karstark is beside him. Lannister comes barreling at them. Theon watches him cut through the first ringlet, then the second. Two of his men make it through with him. “Robb, stay back!” Theon shouts as Ed’s brother, Torrhen, raises his sword and immediately loses his right hand.
Theon spurs his horse forward as Robb shouts something in alarm. Their swords gleam in the moonlight and Theon can see murder in Lannister’s eyes. Lannister’s man reaches him first. Theon shoves him away, straight into someone’s waiting sword, wheels around, off-balance, to meet the Kingslayer’s first blow, his heart in his throat. He tugs on the reigns too hard, his horse stumbles—
Something comes between him and Lannister’s sword.
A man. Theon doesn’t have time to dwell on who as his horse rears and finally succeeds in throwing him. The world spins and for a moment there’s nothing but dirt and mud in Theon’s sight. He scrambles to his feet in time to see Lannister embed his sword in Ed’s neck. Blood spurts everywhere, but Lannister has no more men to guard him and the remainder of Robb’s guard sweeps in to encircle and overwhelm him.
Robb sits rigid and pale on his horse, his helm gone and sword stained red. Theon can’t read his face.
Theon turns to see who had gotten himself between him and the Kingslayer and immediately tastes blood and his teeth sink into the inside of his lip.
Daryn, he thinks numbly as victorious shouts of “Stark!” and “Winterfell!” fill the air.
*
Theon doesn’t understand where the wound is until he’s pried Daryn’s dented helm off. Blood soaks the right side of his face and has turned his brown curls nearly black. Daryn’s eyes are unfocused, glazed. Theon doesn’t even know if he’s conscious until he reaches out and gently cups his face.
With some effort, Daryn manages to focus on him. “Th—Theon.”
Why? Theon wants to ask. You bloody fool, he wants to shout. All he says is, “Yes.” Daryn blinks, slowly, painfully, and Theon swallows down the instinct to say something to fill the silence There’s nothing comforting he could say. Nothing that wouldn’t be a lie.
But no, that’s not quite true. He tries for a smile, a real one. “We won,” he says. “And it’s daybreak.”
Daryn finds his hand and Theon doesn’t have it in him to look away. “Safe,” Daryn says, with the ghost of a smile, his eyes closing.
Who? Theon wants to ask. Sure as hell you aren’t, idiot.
But it doesn’t seem to be a question, or at least Daryn doesn’t seem to want an answer. His head lolls to the side, cheek pressing into Theon’s hand, and then he’s still.
“Theon.”
Theon looks up. Robb is standing a few feet away, his expression pinched. Theon takes a deep breath, tries to find it in himself to feel relief that Robb’s unharmed. For a moment, he feels only emptiness.
“We need to go.”
*
The emptiness fades soon enough, even as they ride back into camp. The jubilation of the other men is infectious, and Theon is laughing and shouting with the rest soon enough. After all, forgetting is what he does best.
But several moons later, he will tell Dagmer Cleftjaw about how he almost crossed swords with the Kingslayer and how Daryn Hornwood had come between them and died for it. He will remember the confusing moment of emptiness as Daryn faded in his arms. Even more bitterly, he will remember Robb Stark telling his mother how it was him Lannister had wanted the whole time and if they had not tried to stop him. He will remember the sudden flash of anger that had darkened the rosy dawn into bloody red for just a moment before flickering out like an ember.
Just a moment, in which something in Theon burns away forever.