The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The early morning sun had just begun its lazy crawl above the slate-colored rooftops of Winterfell. The crisp northern air hung heavy with dew, the fields silvered with frost, and the courtyard stones gleamed beneath the pale golden light. Gadriel stood quietly by the archery range, his hood low over his brow, the high collar of his cloak pulled up against the cold.

Bran was already there, loosing arrows at a modest pace. His form was improving—more consistent, more measured—but still lacked confidence. Gadriel had observed him over the past several days, offering quiet corrections, gentle nudges, and demonstrations that left the boy watching with wide, thoughtful eyes.

This morning, Gadriel stood with arms folded, watching Bran nock and draw. The boy's shot struck the target just off center. Bran grinned.

Gadriel nodded. "Better. You held your breath before the shot this time."

Bran stood a short distance from the target, the bow held firmly in his small hands. He loosed another arrow, and while it landed just shy of the center, it was far better than the wild shots he'd made before.

"I remembered what you said," Bran said, his eyes shining with quiet pride. "About feeling the tension in the string before the shot. I think I caught it this time."

Gadriel gave a small nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good. A bow isn't just a tool—it's a partner. You don't force it. You let it guide you."

Bran grinned and notched another arrow, clearly eager to improve.

Gadriel folded his arms and watched, his gaze steady but calm. He didn't speak unless necessary, preferring Bran to learn through rhythm and instinct, not just words. When the boy's form slipped, he corrected it with a gesture. When it steadied, he said nothing—letting the silence serve as quiet approval.

It was slow progress, but it was genuine. Gadriel saw the same flicker of dedication in Bran's eyes that he remembered in young students back at the College of Winterhold—those hungry to prove themselves not to others, but to themselves.

As Bran drew another arrow, Gadriel sensed a presence at the edge of the range. He turned slightly, his eyes narrowing beneath his hood.

It was Jon Snow, standing near the fence with his arms crossed, watching the two of them quietly. He looked from Bran to Gadriel, then down to the sword at Gadriel's side—Dawnbreaker, sheathed and resting comfortably at his hip. The elegant golden hilt gleamed softly, the sun catching faint flashes of the radiant runes engraved along the crossguard.

Jon stepped closer.

"That's a fine sword," he said, his tone casual but edged with curiosity. "Don't often see one shaped like that around here."

Gadriel turned toward him. "It serves its purpose."

"Odd design. Almost looks… foreign." Jon eyed it again. "You train Bran in the bow, but I haven't seen you take it out. You any good with it?"

Gadriel shrugged. "I would think I'm pretty good with it."

Jon gave him a challenging smirk. "Prove it, then. After you're done helping Bran. You and I—one on one. A spar."

The air grew still for a beat. Gadriel said nothing, then slowly nodded.

"Very well," he said. "But I'll need to change into something lighter first."

Jon gestured with a grin. "I'll wait."

Bran turned to watch the exchange, curiosity flaring in his young face. "You're going to fight Jon?"

"Just a spar," Jon said. "Nothing serious."

Gadriel gave the boy a nod. "I'll be back shortly."

He left the training yard at a calm pace, his cloak catching the cold wind as he moved through Winterfell's winding paths. The warmth of the inn greeted him as he stepped inside, the hearth still glowing from the early morning fire.

He moved up the creaking stairs and into his room. It was modest, but clean—tucked into the rear corner of the inn. Gadriel knelt beside his satchel, unhooking the enchanted clasps with practiced ease. The bag, far larger on the inside than it appeared, held his alternate gear. (for story purposes think of this as his inventory.)

He laid Dawnbreaker carefully inside, its golden edge catching the light one last time before disappearing into the depths of the satchel.

Out came the Ebony Blade.

The long, jet-black katana gleamed with a faint, sinister sheen. Its surface seemed to drink in the light, the metal cold and ancient in his hand. Gadriel looked at it a moment longer than usual before resting it gently on the bed.

Next came his armor. He pulled off the layers of cloak and underpadding, trading the heavy dragonbone plate for a set of fitted leather armor—still dark and protective, but far more suited to movement and dueling.

His helmet he left inside the satchel. There would be no need for it today.

When he stepped back out into the cold, the change in his appearance was immediate. The cloak was gone. His features were sharper now, his golden skin more striking in the morning light. The leather armor hugged his frame with precision, and the ebony blade at his side gave off a quiet, almost ominous weight. Those who saw him now might not know what he was—but they'd know he was dangerous.

Jon waited just outside the courtyard. He turned as Gadriel approached and raised a brow at the sight.

Jon led him away from the practice grounds, down a narrow path between two storage buildings. Behind them was a stretch of flat, packed dirt—rarely used but ideal for what they needed.

"This'll do," Jon said, stepping onto the bare earth and drawing his sword.

Gadriel followed and stopped opposite him. The wind shifted, stirring the edges of his hair.

Jon raised his blade. "Ready?"

Gadriel drew the Ebony Blade with a slow, fluid motion. The weapon gave off a faint whisper of steel, almost a hiss, as if eager.

He nodded.

Jon charged first.

Their swords clashed in a ringing arc, Jon's heavy northern steel meeting the unnatural edge of the Daedric blade. Gadriel didn't block—he turned, letting the strike glance past him as he stepped inward and twisted, using Jon's momentum to pull him off balance.

Jon stumbled and corrected himself quickly, slashing low. Gadriel deflected it with a precise downward parry, the ebony blade moving like liquid shadow.

They traded blows for nearly a minute, the clash of steel sharp in the morning air.

Jon was strong. Well-trained. Disciplined.

But Gadriel was faster.

He danced around the blows, his movements impossibly smooth, his blade flicking out like a serpent. When Jon lunged again, Gadriel spun behind him in a blur, and with a deft movement, swept Jon's legs out from under him.

Jon hit the dirt hard.

Before he could move, Gadriel was already standing over him, the tip of his sword just inches from Jon's throat.

"Yield," Gadriel said, voice calm.

Jon blinked up at him, breathing heavily.

"…Yield."

Gadriel stepped back and lowered his blade.

Jon sat up, wiping the dirt from his brow. "Alright," he muttered. "You weren't lying."

Gadriel offered a hand.

Jon took it and pulled himself to his feet.

"That sword," Jon said, nodding toward it. "It moves like something alive."

Gadriel sheathed it with care. "It has its quirks."

"Don't suppose you'd tell me where it came from?"

Gadriel met his eyes. "No."

Jon chuckled and shook his head. "Fair enough."

They parted ways soon after. Jon returned to the training yard. Gadriel walked back through the side paths, drawing his cloak once more around his shoulders as he entered the inn.

In his room, he placed the Ebony Blade back into the satchel and retrieved Dawnbreaker and his armor. He donned the familiar weight, securing each plate with precision.

The dragonbone armor glinted faintly in the afternoon light. Most would not notice its origins unless they looked too closely. To them, it might seem like ivory or carved horn—strange, yes, but not impossible.

He pulled his cloak tight and flipped the hood back over his head.

The sword Dawnbreaker once more found its place at his hip.

As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Gadriel took up his journal. He dipped the quill, paused, and then began to write:

"Today, I tested my sword arm against a young man named Jon Snow. He's brave, earnest… a touch proud. But not foolish. He'll be something someday, I think.

I kept my power hidden, as always. They see only skill, not truth. It's better that way.

The Ebony Blade remains unpredictable. Still… I feel it watches. Hungers.

I will stay wary.

But for now, I believe I've earned a moment of peace. It was a good duel."

He closed the journal and set it aside.

Outside, Winterfell bustled. Children's laughter rang through the courtyard. The clang of hammers echoed from the forge. For a brief moment, Gadriel allowed himself to listen.

Then he leaned back against the chair and shut his eyes.