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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

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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…

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❝ 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.

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❝ She wasn’t made of porcelain. She was made of fire, trapped in crystal. ❞

Born in Paris, between enchanted tapestries and dinners far too quiet, Cecily Aurélie Duvalier was raised like fine porcelain — beautiful in the eyes of the world, delicate to those who didn’t look too closely.

But inside? She was forged under pressure.

Half Veela, pureblood by her father’s design, Cecily was raised to be the perfect heiress of the Duvalier name — a noble French family cloaked in tradition and danger, whispering allegiance to the Dark while maintaining a flawless public mask.

Rules. Alliances. Silence. That was her childhood.

Her mother, Élodie Lavellan, hasn’t spoken since the night her eldest son was lost — banished or perhaps killed for defying the family’s ideals.

Her father, Alaric, ties silk cravats while signing betrothal contracts with the same ease he uses to erase truths.

Cecily was promised to Evan Rosier before she could even walk, sent to Hogwarts under the guise of “diplomatic interest.”

But truth be told, Hogwarts wasn’t a school — it was a beautifully disguised cage.

And then, something unexpected happened.

She was sorted into Gryffindor.

There, between chaotic laughter and the warmth of true loyalty, she found something her house had never given her: friendship.

She became inseparable from the Marauders — especially Sirius Black, who shared her quiet rage at having grown up in homes poisoned by power.

But even among them, there were things she could never say aloud.

And then came Gilbert Blythe.

❝ He wasn’t supposed to care. And yet, he couldn’t look away. ❞

Ravenclaw’s golden boy. Brilliant. Sharp. Just the right amount of sarcastic.

The kind of student teachers remember with pride — and enemies remember with resentment.

But behind the wit and the perfect marks, there was a boy who had learned that blood and magic never guaranteed protection.

The son of a Muggle mother, Gilbert grew up watching the wizarding world turn its back on anyone who was different.

His mother — kind, cultured, book-loving — was humiliated and threatened simply for loving a wizard.

When Gilbert was seven, his father died. And as he watched his mother be left alone, ignored by the very world her husband had vowed to serve, he made a silent promise:

He would never let anyone be treated like that again.

That’s why he despises blood supremacy.

That’s why he despises the Duvaliers.

He’d heard the stories — about Alaric Duvalier’s untouchable reputation, the darkness that clung to the family name, the perfect daughter raised to marry a Rosier.

To him, Cecily was the living embodiment of everything he hated.

Or so he believed.

Until third year.

He’d noticed her before, of course — those stormy eyes, the immaculate posture, the hair that never seemed out of place.

But when they were paired for a Potions project, everything began to crack.

She wasn’t cold.

She was freezing from the inside out.

Gilbert started noticing things others missed: the shaky wandwork covering up small cuts on her hands, the way she flinched at loud noises, the tight-lipped fury whenever someone mentioned her father’s name.

And, most of all, the look in her eyes — like someone screaming for help without making a sound.

He was supposed to hate her.

But everything about her made his blood burn in ways he couldn’t understand.

He spent years fighting the way he felt.

He knew who she was. He knew what her name meant. He knew she’d never be free.

But still…

He saw her.

And somehow, she let him.

Without meaning to, Cecily revealed his greatest weakness: his heart.

And as he tried to understand her, he exposed his own wounds.

His hatred of the Duvaliers turned into something more human. More dangerous.

Because Cecily wasn’t like her parents.

And loving her was both the rightest and the wrongest thing he had ever done.

But Alaric Duvalier knows.

And he made it clear: if Gilbert doesn’t stay away, his mother — the only family he has — will be left without protection.

It’s a risk he can’t take.

But neither can he stay away.

Especially not after their patronuses took the same form.

Something rare. Something ancient.

Something that should not happen twice in one generation.

What exists between them is forbidden.

But pretending it never existed?

That would be the real impossibility.

#shifting #desired reality #gilbert blythe #marauders dr #harry potter dr

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psa, just bc people use fcs doesn’t mean they’re insecure about how they look and it doesn’t mean you’re better than them bc you use your own face! thank ya 🙂‍↕️