‘Help me.’ She clutched at him. ‘Please. I used to watch you in the yard, playing with your swords. You were so handsome.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘If we ran away, I could be your wife, or your… your whore… whatever you wanted. You could be my man.’
Theon wrenched his arm away from her. ‘I’m no… I’m no one’s man.’ A man would help her. ‘Just… just be Arya, be his wife. Please him, or… just please him, and stop this talk about being someone else.’ Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, it rhymes with pain. The music was growing ever more insistent. ‘It is time. Wipe those tears from your eyes.’ Brown eyes. They should be grey. Someone will see. Someone will remember. ‘Good. Now smile.’
Jeyne did no more than stare at the portion set before her. When she raised her head and looked at Theon, he could see the fear behind her big brown eyes.
No longswords had been allowed within the hall, but every man there wore a dagger, even Theon Greyjoy. How else to cut his meat? Every time he looked at the girl who had been Jeyne Poole, he felt the presence of that steel at his side. I have no way to save her, he thought, but I could kill her easy enough. No one would expect it. I could beg her for the honor of a dance and cut her throat. That would be a kindness, wouldn’t it? And if the old gods hear my prayer, Ramsay in his wroth might strike me dead as well.
Theon was not afraid to die.