the thing about dragons

chapter one (III)

in which Lyra realizes it's a fucking isekai.

part III

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warnings: (more) mentions of violent death (of the protagonist), canon-compliant violence, Daemon Targaryen as a POV character, blood, breaking and rearranging of the book-show timeline

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Her name was Lyra Clark, thirty-two years old at the time. She had her own flat, an okay-paying job, and a hobby for music she hoped to eventually turn into a career. Rascal, the cat she had since she was eleven years, passed away two months prior, two weeks after turning twenty-one.

And when she was grieving for her best friend, Warren Slater, her boyfriend of then-eight-months finally crossed the line for the last time, so she broke up with him and kicked him out; he had been shifty about his job and income ever since she let him move in, after all, and she wasn't willing to support him, especially when his comments started to get unpleasantly snippy.

You're too tall. Too muscular. I don't like your piercings.

Why is your makeup so dark.

You should remove your tattoos, not get more.

When will you stop fucking around with that guitar.

Why can't you be more feminine. Wear a dress for once.

She kept him because he was pretty, but when his mouth turned foul not even his sparkling eyes and pouty lips could stop her from showing him the door.

He kept calling, insisting that it was all am misunderstanding, saying he was sorry and can she please take him back. She didn't.

One week, two, a month—

And just when the blessed silence finally reigned, she came back from work to find him in her kitchen. There was an argument, a screaming match, really, him trying to guilt her into taking him back. She was just about to grab him by the throat and throw him onto the hallway—

There was a knife on the counter. She didn't put it there, she always kept tidy, so the only explanation was that he prepared it. Put it within his reach.

Premeditated fucker.

Forty-three stabs, she thinks hysterically. She counted.

Forty-three premeditated stabs, and while she wouldn't have much problems overpowering him otherwise, a knife to the lungs really does knock the wind out of you.

She dies, not quite upset about it but not quite happy about it either. She just met a nice and interested girl at the club yesterday and got her number and wondered if that'd go anywhere. But with Rascal gone and her not being on speaking terms with her parents, and her lack of closer friends... She wasn't that upset about it. She was only really upset about not being able to do music anymore.

She found glee in the fact that Warren wouldn't be getting out of it. Her next-door-neighbour was full-on renovating his flat, he and his workers wouldn't miss Warren. They probably noticed the yelling and the scuffle, too. Someone might've gone to check up on her, and she's a little sorry for the traumatizing sight.

She died, she figures, the way she lived—not terribly upset about it, but far from happy about it, her energy drained from her by someone else.

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The world, it seems, wasn't quite as done with her as she was with it, though.

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Remembering your death in high definition is a decidedly unpleasant sensation, Lyra decides as she opens her eyes to gaze at—