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Summary
Her hand rose to the ugly scar on her throat, rough was the skin that marred her there and it never let her forget. Her once sensible mind would have preserve the favour Alicent offered, for she had survived by being sensible long after hope had died within her. Mysaria had always known when to submit and when best to flee, but love, of all things, made a mockery of all those lessons.
OR
The White Worm makes a choice.