The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The chill of dawn crept softly through the thin curtains, slipping into Gadriel's small room at the inn like a whispered secret. He stirred beneath the heavy blanket, eyelids fluttering open to the muted light of early morning. Outside, the world was waking slowly—birds stirred in the leafless trees, and somewhere far off, a crow called. The faint scent of wood smoke drifted through the window, mingling with the damp earthiness of Winterfell's cold stone streets.

Gadriel lay still for a moment, letting the quiet settle around him. His muscles were uncommonly relaxed after yesterday's spar with Jon Snow—no aches, no stiffness. The duel had been brief but intense; Jon's determination fierce but raw against Gadriel's practiced precision. He'd made sure the fight remained private, away from prying eyes, for discretion's sake. There was no need for tales of his power to spread.

He thought back to Jon's stance—the tight jaw, the focused glare—and the youth's willingness to push himself past limits despite obvious gaps in skill. Jon fought with heart. Gadriel admired that. Strength was important, but fire and will were rarer.

Slowly, Gadriel sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He ran a hand through his dark hair, still damp from the night's chill, and then carefully unfolded the cloak that hid his dragonbone armor beneath. The thought of donning the heavy set again brought a small smile. That armor, crafted from the bones of dragons long dead, was both a shield and a statement—but it was a statement he preferred to keep quiet.

He dressed quickly and left his room, stepping into the narrow corridor. The inn was beginning to stir—the low murmur of voices, the clatter of dishes, the occasional shout from the street outside. Gadriel moved silently down the stairs, careful not to draw attention. He preferred to remain a shadow—an observer rather than a spectacle.

Outside, the air was brisk and sharp. Winterfell lay blanketed in frost, the ancient stones of the castle gleaming faintly under the rising sun. He inhaled deeply, tasting the cold air, feeling its bite against his skin. This land was harsh but alive. It reminded him of the wilds he'd once roamed—the towering mountains of Skyrim, the frozen tundra, the dense, whispering forests. Here too, ancient forces lingered beneath the surface, waiting to be understood.

Gadriel's thoughts turned to Bran. The boy was eager to learn, despite his recent trials. Training him was a quiet joy, a connection in a world that often felt distant and uncertain. Gadriel found a purpose in guiding Bran's hands on the bowstring, in watching the boy's eyes sharpen with focus.

He made his way to the archery range, the crisp grass crunching underfoot. Bran was already there, standing awkwardly with his bow, trying to steady his breath.

"Good morning, Bran," Gadriel greeted him softly.

Bran looked up, his face brightening with a tentative smile. "Morning. I was practicing a bit already."

"That's good," Gadriel said, nodding. "Discipline is the path to mastery."

They fell into the familiar rhythm—Gadriel correcting Bran's stance, adjusting his grip, teaching him to feel the bow rather than fight it. The sun climbed higher, warming their shoulders as arrows flew and struck the targets with increasing accuracy.

Between shots, Gadriel allowed his mind to wander. His journal entries from last night echoed in his thoughts—the need to stay hidden, the fragile trust forming with the Starks, the silent hopes that one day he might find a new place here.

When Bran finally lowered his bow, satisfied with his progress, Gadriel put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You have promise, Bran. Keep practicing, and you will grow strong."

The boy's smile was shy but proud. "Thank you."

As they packed up, Jon Snow approached from the shadows, his gait calm but eyes alert. Gadriel greeted him with a nod.

"You continue to teach well," Jon said quietly. "Bran has improved since you arrived."

"He's a quick learner," Gadriel replied. "And determined."

Jon hesitated, then said, "If you ever want to spar again... I would like the challenge."

Gadriel met his gaze, the faintest smirk touching his lips. "When the time is right."

Jon nodded, a flicker of respect in his eyes, and turned away.

The day stretched onward. Gadriel returned to the town, moving through narrow alleys and stone-paved streets, observing the daily lives of the people. Children chased each other beneath heavy gray skies, merchants hawked their wares in hurried voices, and servants bustled between the great halls. The weight of history was tangible here; every stone seemed steeped in stories.

At midday, Gadriel found a quiet spot beside a well-worn wooden bench and pulled out his journal. The leather-bound book was heavy with notes, sketches of plants, observations of animals, and thoughts on this strange new land.

He wrote slowly, capturing the detail of the day—the sharp bite of the air, the cautious eyes of the villagers, the subtle shift in Jon Snow's demeanor after their duel.

"Winterfell is a place of endurance. The people here carry their history like armor, hard and unyielding, but beneath it beats a heart of loyalty and pride. Jon Snow's spirit is fierce, a flame held carefully but fiercely guarded. Bran's eagerness is a light in the cold, fragile yet persistent."

Closing the book, Gadriel looked up to the sky. Clouds gathered, gray and heavy, promising snow.

A sudden memory crossed his mind—the distant tales of dragons in this world, whispered legends that seemed as unreal as the magic he once wielded. Here, magic was rare and feared, and power was often measured by steel and blood. He would have to tread carefully.

That evening, Gadriel returned to the inn, weary but alert. He ate a simple meal of salted meat and bread, sharing little with the curious glances of the other patrons. He preferred the solitude of his room, where the fire flickered low and shadows danced on the walls.

Before sleep claimed him again, he reached for his journal one last time, penning a few final lines.

"The path ahead is uncertain, but each day brings new lessons. I am no longer the hero of prophecy, no longer bound by fate's cruel hands. Here, I am a traveler, a teacher, a shadow among many. I will walk this path with patience and watchfulness."

With that, he closed the book, extinguished the candle, and let the darkness enfold him.

Outside, the wind whispered through the streets of Winterfell, carrying with it the cold promise of winter's long embrace.