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Summary
His mind drifts to the morning's violence, to the end of it and Ser Duncan's wails. He'd been near unrecognizable except for the ice chip of his one open eye, bruised and battered like the rest of them. The milk of poppy distances him from his emotions, even with as little as he had consumed, so his thoughts slip like silk over the complex landscape of the tragedy to settle on something more pleasant.
Ser Duncan himself.