lecpardd

[lecpardd]

this is for… @bridalribbon ‘s 333 event!

- answering for my arrow reality -

❝ ghost story ❞

what haunts your dr ? not necessarily something supernatural, but the person who should be there but isn’t, the conversation you never had, the choice that changed everything. what shadow follows you around even in your happiest moments ?

My little brother, Alexander.

We were tested on together by our father. He died in the process. I’ve always blamed myself for not stopping him. He’s the reason i became who i am.

A whisper in the night, taking care of the bad men that hurt kids, women and people in general.

I see Alex a lot, it’s like his ghost is watching every step i take. I do everything i do in honour of him. Sometimes at night he comes in my dreams and we just talk. Sometimes i see the visage of him dying over and over again.

He was too young, he didn’t deserve all that.

this is a short one i know <3

[lecpardd]

my dragon queen

we were once the scared ones.

viserra targaryen pov’s

oli’s pov

ib & rmk : juleswrld & kosmosangels

[lecpardd]

when a lion saunters into fire

the LION and the DRAGON

“ i don’t look like a, uh, ghost do i? ”

if you asked Corryn Lannister what he wanted, he would not speak of crowns, nor conquest, nor kingdoms. he’d tell you one thing, maybe even with a tired smile. “i want to be adored, not seen as a lion; but seen as a vulnerable cub under the mane, loved but never worshipped.” he ached to be understood, not just by his warriors, not just by his people but by love not even the Gods above could grant a man like him. a love that forgave him, and saw beyond the shadows of his glimmering armour

but if you asked Velara Valyria what she wanted, she’d smile and shake her head “i only want to be powerful, i want to be feared nor do i wish to be mourned. i want to be remembered. not die as a whisper, but as a legend.” it was imbedded into her veins to irk for power and control, the dragon in her knew what it wanted and would get it at any cost, even if those around her had to suffer and simmer. she’d etch her name into the bones of history and let the world bleed before her.

two souls carved from different truth so predestined in what they wanted, whether they would gain it alone or reign side by side.

and when they met, Corryn gave Velara what no king had dared to: devotion without fear. and in return she gave him, love without conditions, so raw that even dragons flinched when they both became one.

but fate is cruel, and nothing good every lasts in Westeros. Corryn Lannister and Velara Valyria did not die in each others arms, but in each others reflections. Velara died with her name etched into fire and faith, her people chanting her into a legend, not out of fear but love and pure admiration. and Corryn died with the power his late lover once craved, except poisoned and weakened by the longing of being forgotten.

and in the end they both died exactly the way the other had dreamt. “you will not escape me” Velara swore to Corryn “in this life or the next, my fire will find you no matter what name you wear” promising to haunt his soul and spirit as long as the Flamecrags stood.

and now Jaime Lannister starred back at Queen Florencia, the lion inside him recoiling, not in fear but in recognition, something his soul knew long before his mind could name. her violet blood gaze cuts through him like armour meeting molten steel. her lips parted, like she felt the sickening theme burning too.

“ the eyes of a lion once loved,

the soul of a dragon once betrayed ”

Velara Valyria and Corryn Lannister… had met again.

a.n: for my first post i decided to drop probably one of the most insane lores in my dr (there’s definitely more just as crazy as this) but yeah this dr is one of my favs at the moment, shifting to it was definitely not how i expected and i can’t wait for more experiences and discovering more about my past lol

[lecpardd]

a closet full of lies, lace, and longing

Beneath her gentle smiles and well-pinned curls lies a woman dressed not only in finery, but in memory. Soft silks, muted florals, and the quiet rustle of linen—Demitria Tyrell’s wardrobe tells a story far beyond court appearances. Every gown, every color, carries pieces of her: the girl she was, the woman she’s becoming, and the weight of all she’s lost and loved. This is a look into what she wears—not just to be seen, but to feel like herself again.

Lady Demitria in Highgarden

When she was still Lady Demitria of House Tyrell, her dresses reflected the gentleness of her youth—soft silks in pale green, lavender, light blue, and muted gold. Floral embroidery trimmed her sleeves, and her gowns flowed like garden winds. Everything she wore spoke of grace, innocence, and the golden calm of a life untouched by sorrow

The Bride’s Quiet Bloom

In the early days of her marriage, Demitria’s dresses shifted to reflect her new role—still soft, but more refined. She wore white, ivory, and pale blush, with delicate lace and light embroidery. Her gowns were simple yet elegant, symbolizing both purity and quiet grace. The colors whispered of hope, youth, and the beginnings of a life she was still learning to understand.

Demitria, Lady of the Vale

Once married into House Arryn, Demitria’s wardrobe took on the cold elegance of the Vale. She left behind the soft hues of Highgarden for the deeper tones of her new home—midnight blue, storm grey, and silver-white. Her gowns became more structured, regal in cut, with high collars and long sleeves lined in fur for the mountain chill. No longer just a Tyrell bloom, she now dressed as a wife of the Vale—dignified, distant, and wrapped in winter tones.

The young widowed rose

When Demitria became a widow, still early in her pregnancy, her wardrobe turned somber and soft all at once. She wore charcoal grey, deep violet, and faded black, her silks growing heavier, her gowns simpler. The embroidery faded, the colors dulled. Sometimes she wore veils. Though she carried new life, her dresses mourned—quiet fabrics for a quiet grief. She moved through stone halls wrapped in sorrow, a young widow bearing both memory and the weight of what was yet to come.

The Green Lady Of The South

In King’s Landing, far from the cold of the Vale and the grief of widowhood, Demitria slowly returned to herself. Her dresses began to bloom once more in the colors of her house—sage green, soft gold, and pale lilac, with threads of rose-gold embroidery winding like vines across her sleeves. She wore lighter fabrics again, flowing silks and sheer veils that caught the sun. Though she had changed, her wardrobe whispered of Highgarden: not the girl she once was, but a Tyrell woman reclaiming her place with quiet grace and sharpened poise.

The Silent Bloom

By the time she reached Winterfell, Demitria was no longer just a lady in fine gowns—she was a woman shaped by loss, silence, and survival. The cold bit through the silks she once wore, so she dressed in heavy wool cloaks, deep greens, muted browns, and dusky blues, lined with fur and stitched for warmth, not beauty. Her hair was often braided and tucked beneath a hood. There was less gold in her wardrobe now, fewer flowers.

wardrobe closed . . .

A.N: I’m honestly quite proud of how this turned out. I tried to keep everything as accurate as possible—so fingers crossed I did a good job, lol. This is pretty much how I pictured each era I went through in this dr. I’ll definitely be scripting more eras soon, but for now, I’m especially excited to start writing more about my married life as Lady of the Vale. That era is without a doubt one of the most important to me. It was beautiful—maybe not a fairytale (because let’s be honest, nothing really is in asoiaf)—but still deeply meaningful in its own way. (I guess…???? Anyway)

[lecpardd]

❝ She was not a daughter of winter. She was what winter became when no one came home. ❞

There are no songs about Valda Thenn — no bard ever wandered far enough north to find her, and if they had, she would’ve slit their throat before they could rhyme “storm” with “form.”

She wasn’t made for legend.

She was made for survival.

She was born in silence.

Raised in ice.

Her cradle was a cave floor, her lullaby the howls of wolves too close to the fire.

No milkmaids. No halls of carved stone. Just the steady beat of blood and bone.

Her people, the Thenns, were remnants of the old world — older than kings, older than Andals, older than the idea of kneeling.

They believed in the cold not as a season, but as a god.

And Valda?

She was the cold’s favorite.

By the time she could walk, she could track.

By the time she could bleed, she could kill.

By the time she turned fifteen, the other Thenn warriors stopped calling her child.

They called her Storm's Eye

because she never flinched in a blizzard.

Because she stared down a wight once and didn’t blink.

Because her eyes saw too much and gave away nothing.

❝ She didn’t fear death. She feared becoming soft. Becoming small. Becoming someone who waited to be saved. ❞

When the Long Night came, she didn’t cry.

She didn’t pray.

She painted her skin in ash and bone, kissed her elk between the eyes, and went south with twenty warriors who still believed in the old gods and her name.

Only three returned.

She was one of them.

And they said she came back wrong.

Quieter. Sharper. Like a knife left too long in snow.

[lecpardd]

𝓦endy’s ☥. 𝓢wan 🦢. 𝓛ake

wendy ‎ ‎☥. 5teen. max verstappen lover. cabin 6 🪽. slytherin. ‎ ‎ district 2. lana del rey. house stark.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎sagittarius. estp. redbull. english-maltese.

dni ☥. racist, homophobic, transphobic, support genocide, use ai, tr*mp supporter, if you judge people’s drs (unless they’re killing people ofcourse), unoriginal, anti shifters or anything just straight up wrong.

i have shifted more then 20 times and have been since i was 11 years old (2020)

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the last time i shifted was a few nights ago to ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎my game of thrones dr.

𝓢ome of ☥. my drs

🪽 = shifted to

fame. 🪽 f1 wag. 🪽 game of thrones. 🪽

supernatural. 🪽 formula one. 🪽 the 100. 🪽

yellowjackets. stranger things. 🪽 gladiator.

maze runner. 🪽 mcu. tvd. + more…

[lecpardd]

no, your awareness wasn’t created here when you were born. you are energy. energy cannot be created or destroyed. you’ve been here since the beginning of time. you’ve already travelled the universe, and you actively still are. stop thinking you’re tied to one reality. you’re constantly shifting. by the time you started reading this post you’ve shifted more than once.

[lecpardd]

this is gorgeous oh my gosh

a history of heroes, fools and liars.

❝ will love you, no matter the cost, Demi. If need be, I will raise the child as mine—on my honour, I swear it. Only stay with me… and love me as I am. I’m yours, Demitria. I always have been. ❞

— They met in the cold halls of the North, far from roses, far from songs . . . Demitria Tyrell was not what he expected. She was softer spoken than the stories had said, yet every word she spoke had the sharpness of someone who’d been made to defend herself too young, too often. She wore her grief not in weeping, but in silence and control—in the way she held her cup at feasts but never drank, the way her eyes never lingered too long on joy.

And still, when she laughed—truly laughed—it was like sunlight breaking through snow clouds.

Jon found himself watching her too often. Not openly, not foolishly, but in the quiet moments. When she spoke, he looked not only at her mouth but at her hands, how her fingers twisted her ring absentmindedly when she was nervous. When she stood to leave a hall, his eyes followed, not with desire alone, but something else—something gentler, more dangerous. A longing.

He listened more when she spoke. Even when others dismissed her suggestions with a polite nod, Jon remembered them. Sometimes, when no one else did, he answered her. Not with flowery praise or courtly flattery, but with respect, with truth.

And she noticed.

He never touched her. Never dared. But sometimes their eyes met in passing—briefly, as if by accident. And something unsaid would hang in the air, just long enough to burn.

She was a widow carrying another man’s child. He was a king with no name and no place for softness. Their love, if it could be called that yet, was not a fire—they had no luxury for flames.

But theirs was a love forged in war, shadowed by grief, and surrounded by ghosts.

She had a past she could not bury. He had a future he could not promise.

Still, when she looked at him, she did not see the bastard of Winterfell, the King in the North, the man the realm tried to shape. She saw Jon. And when he held her, he did not see the widow of a southern lord, nor the last rose of a fallen house. He saw Demitria— thorns and all.

And for a while... that was enough.

- A.N : i definitely did not listen to young and beautiful by Lana while writing this… duh i did lol and fun fact i decided to post it today cause it is is indeed mid of July.. don’t we love these little details??? I was heavily inspired by that song I tried to keep it very poetic lol, sorry if it’s too short ( and rushed at the end) i just couldn’t think of anything else to add…

[lecpardd]

[lecpardd]

welcome to lyssandra's multiverse

lyssandra. she/her. district 2. 16. slytherin. intp. cabin 3. virgo. martell.

shifts! the hunger games. fame. the maze runner. game of thrones. outer banks. harry potter. marvel. descendants. singer. the 100. ect.

socials! pinterest. instagram. tiktok.

dni! anti shifters. racists. transphobics. homophobics. sexists. islamophobics. copy cats.

[lecpardd]

a history of heroes, fools and liars.

the beginning of it all . . .

HOUSE OF TYRELL. growing strong.

284AC - 307AC

what if it was a dream . . . and I have only now begun to wake? What if none of it ever came to pass—the war, the fire, the betrayals whispered behind silken veils? what if i am still she, the Lady Demitria of Highgarden, with sun-warmed stone beneath my bare feet and the scent of blooming roses clinging to my hair? What if the banners still fly golden and green, and my mother is in the solar laughing over some petty court tale, and Garlan is sharpening his sword in the yard, and I—

I am simply myself again.

Not bowed, not broken, not lost. Just Demitria. Whole. Clever. Alive. There are moments, just before waking, when I believe it. When I swear I hear the music of the summer birds, and feel the weight of my braid against my back, and I almost turn to call for Margeary or Loras or Father. And then the dream ends.

And I remember.

Gods, I remember.

what if it was a dream? . . . that question haunted her more than most things. she had been a girl born into luxury, yes, but not into stillness. even as a child, Demitria moved like wind through the gardens, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons. she had a way of looking at the world that made it feel like a game she was already winning. her tutors taught her numbers and heraldry, and how to curtsey just low enough to flatter and never to submit. but no one taught her how to carry grief.

no one taught her how to survive a world where beauty meant danger, and kindness meant weakness.

she had brothers who loved her in their own ways—Ser Garlan with his long silences and tired patience, Loras with his flashing smile and rare moments of honesty—but she was the youngest, and the most watched. there was always someone watching. her mother, her Septa, the ladies of the Reach. even her husband, once she was wed.

that marriage had not been her dream, but dreams did not matter. she smiled at the wedding feast. she said the right words. she played the perfect lady. and when he died—quietly, and without glory—she wore black and said little, just as was expected.

but inside, something shifted.

widowhood gave her a different sort of power. there were no more lessons. no more talk of matches. no more eyes on her belly or her posture or her embroidery. for the first time, she was left alone with her thoughts. and that was when Demitria Tyrell began to see things clearly.

the court was full of cowards. the roses were not always red. and not all brothers kept their oaths.

she was no fool. she saw what was happening in King’s Landing. she saw what was being whispered behind goblets of Arbor gold and gritted smiles. and when the raven came—when the seal of her house arrived scorched and broken—she knew before she opened it. her house was gone. Her family, scattered or dead.

the golden girl of Highgarden became a ghost overnight.

some said she fled. some said she was taken. others swore she died in the chaos. but none of it was true.

she lived.

in shame, in shadow, in silence—she lived.

and sometimes, late at night, when the wind rustled through whatever forgotten place she now called home, she would close her eyes and pretend.

pretend the bells were ringing for her name day.pretend her father was still alive, stroking his beard and telling her to speak less boldly in court.pretend her siblings were laughing in the halls.pretend the roses still bloomed.

pretend she was still Demitria Tyrell, Lady of Highgarden.

and not the ghost the world forgot.

because the world had taken everything from her—her name, her family, her place, her peace. everything… except one thing.

she had not fled alone.

beneath the folds of black silk and silence, she carried a secret: the child of her late husband, growing quietly within her. unseen. unknown. the last small piece of a life lost to fire and betrayal.

and for that reason alone, Demitria endured.

A.N : finally done with this sort of intro lol i tried to keep it short but somehow failed so be aware that initially it was longer than this, anyway I am so excited to share more lore for this dr. This post is sorta a summary of many eras i went through but I’ll definitely post more detailed versions of each, kiss kiss.

[lecpardd]

sometimes I forget he's actually going to kiss me, cuddle me, make love to me, take care of me, caress me. like, I'm gonna feel all of those things for real

[lecpardd]

i absolutely love my dr family. that’s it. that’s the post.