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Robb has grown his hair out.
Amazing, Theon thinks as the young king emerges from his tent, his normally wild curls tamed back by a length of leather cordage (a few wiley strands bouncing free of their confines). When did it get so long? He would have noticed, surely, as eye-catching red as his hair is, as often as he finds it winding between his knuckles, vibrant against his calluses and far too soft for a man at war.
In his arrogance, Theon thinks it’s for him. Robb has always loved his long hair, after all, loves to run his fingers through it and grip it with too much vigor on their shared nights. He must be returning the favor now. Theon imagines how nice it will feel to slip that cord away, to watch the curls tumble back in place, to thread his way through it once more, and how the black of his will contrast to the earthen red as they tangle in the margin between their bodies.
If I’m lucky, tonight, he plans as Robb approaches him, having caught his eye almost immediately. Theon doesn’t even think before he finds himself swatting at the tied-back tuft like a cat with a toy. “Prettying yourself up for battle planning?”
“No,” Robb flushes, “It just gets in my eyes.” He brings a hand to the tail, slapping Theon’s away and patting down the strands. A huff. “If anyone, you should understand.”
Theon flicks at one of the wayward scarlet locks that teases at Robb’s forehead. “Well, mine isn’t quite so curly.” (An understatement, to be sure.) “I like it. Suits your face.”
The high noon sun dapples upon the king through dense foliage. It makes his blush ten times brighter, brings the skin beneath his ever-thickening beard (someone who knew him less may fool all of that hair for maturity) to a matching shade. How much of that is just the windchill? Theon wonders. Even still, Robb cannot hide a small smile as he turns away.
Now is not the time for him to sort out the way that makes his chest flutter. Clearing his throat, Theon follows his king as he walks off towards some other bannermen, his eyes trained to the tied hair bouncing with every step. Against the white fur of his cloak, against the golden sunlight and the browning autumn leaves, crimson is all Theon sees.
It may grow, he thinks, but the red will remain. Tully red, he has heard some call it, but for Theon it’s just Robb. The first thing he knew of a young boy so ready to befriend him. It’s fitting, then, that red is the last he knows of him, too, weeks later: the unassuming pink of a morning that comes too soon, the hardened ruby wax on the note he is to deliver to his father, the soft scarlet of a sad smile as his king sees him off. When he takes one last indulgent glance behind him, Robb is still there, dawn breaking on his silhouette and red hair aglow for the final time.