Daryl isn't a soldier. He's never been formally trained to fight. He just grew up fighting. Mostly Merle, who was always at least twenty pounds heavier and a foot taller, who was a marine, who'd been to juvie and a few prisons besides. Daryl is sick and confused, but fighting is in his blood. He knows what Miles is doing, and isn't quick enough to dodge the hit. He takes it without much of a grunt, and turns immediately to grab Miles.

Daryl goes down, but he drags Miles with him, rolling with him in the snow. Swearing the whole way, he fights dirty, slamming raw strength and weight into Miles' stomach when he turns on the snowy ground, attempting to get leverage. He's all instinct, expression an ugly snarl.

"Fightin' an infant," Daryl hisses, "real fuckin' brave."