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Barristan tossed and turned, as the sky changed its hue.
The King had survived the boar, barely ambling out of its way as he pierced the beast’s skull. He had been in a good mood as he returned, but that would not last long. The Hand stood, grave and brooding, almost emotionless, the bearer of bad news.
Yet the Hand was the one who cried out in horror, in distress, as King Robert exacted his vengeance on the Queen who had wronged him, the Kingslayer who had cuckolded him. And on the children.
If I had seen him smile over the red ruins of Rhaegar's children, no army on this earth could have stopped me from killing him.
Yet Barristan did nothing when the king laughed hysterically, over the red ruins of those he once called his own.