The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The days following the pirate attack settled into a tense, quiet rhythm. Though the crew had returned to their duties, the sting of bloodshed still clung to them. The wind had turned cool, the sea calmer, and the sails once again filled with steady breath. Gadriel spent most of his time above deck, letting the sun warm his skin as he observed the horizon and chronicled the patterns of sea life.

He documented the migration paths of seabirds—sleek gray-winged fliers that dove like spears into the water—along with the tide's effect on the ship's drift and the behavior of dolphins that surfaced in playful bursts beside the hull. Every detail found its place in his notebook: wind direction, changes in cloud formations, types of barnacles on the side of the hull. He often leaned against the railing, eyes squinting at the deep blue horizon as he made small notes with a quill.

Sometimes, he spoke with the crew. One grizzled sailor with a broken nose and fingers stained with tar told him stories of storms off the coast of Dorne.

"One time," the sailor rasped, gripping a mug of watered-down ale, "waves came up so high I swear they touched the moon. Lost three men that night. Sea don't care how strong you are."

Another, younger and more curious, asked if Gadriel was from the East.

"You don't look like a Summer Islander," the boy had said, eyeing Gadriel's golden skin and angled ears. "You some kind of mountain folk? From Yi Ti or one o' those far-off places?"

Gadriel only smiled faintly and shrugged. "Just a traveler," he replied. "Passing through."

He was no one of importance here.

At night, he returned below deck and listened to the crew murmur about Westeros. They spoke of the gold in Lannisport, the politics of King's Landing, the superstitions of the North.

"Place called Winterfell up there," one sailor muttered. "Never stops snowing, they say. Wolves as big as horses roam the woods."

"Northmen are mad," another chimed in. "Tough folk. Half-feral. But if you want honor, that's where you find it."

Gadriel remained quiet, noting names and geography in his journal, cross-referencing what he heard with what little he had already learned. Names like Baratheon, Stark, and Lannister began to form a web in his mind—a web of power and blood.

On the sixth night, he found it hard to sleep. The steady creak of the ship was calming, but his mind was restless. He climbed topside and sat beneath the stars, his journal open across his lap. He sketched the constellation patterns above him, drawing familiar lines between unfamiliar stars.

His thoughts drifted to Serana, to the child he'd never meet—his bloodline left behind in a world forever out of reach. He thought of what came next.

He had fulfilled the destiny he was born for, had defeated Alduin and saved Nirn from destruction. He had walked the path fate demanded. But now, there were no dragons, no Daedric Princes guiding him, no Elder Scrolls to decipher. The gods were silent here. He had to make his own way. Forge a new purpose. That truth echoed louder than the waves.

By the seventh morning, something had changed. The gulls flew closer to the deck now. The smell in the wind was different—sharper, tinged with pine and stone. Gadriel was among the first to notice.

"Land!" one sailor shouted from the crow's nest just before dusk. "I see land!"

Excitement broke across the ship like a sudden gale. Men scrambled to the rails, peering westward. Gadriel stood at the prow, golden eyes narrowing.

Westeros.

Dark cliffs jutted up from the sea, waves crashing into them with white fury. Beyond them, green hills rolled like the shoulders of giants, dotted with trees and what looked like faint traces of roads. Smoke curled in the far distance, perhaps from a village tucked beyond the rocks. A ruined watchtower perched precariously near the edge of a cliff, weather-beaten and half-collapsed.

It was not a warm welcome. It was not a gentle coast. But it was familiar.

The rough stone, the cold air, the silence of high cliffs—it reminded him of Skyrim. Of the Pale and the Reach. Of strongholds lost to snow and time. He could almost hear the echo of a thu'um on the wind. The land's untamed beauty spoke to him, just as the jagged peaks on the Throat of the World once had.

He remembered frost-covered pine forests and ancient barrows hidden beneath the snow. He remembered the scent of burning pine in the hearths of Whiterun and the crash of waves along Solitude's coast. The towering cliffs of Westeros didn't just remind him of Skyrim—they ached with its memory.

But there were no dragons here. No Greybeards. No Nords singing of Sovngarde.

Just a new land, with old bones.

Gadriel tightened the strap on his pack as the ship veered toward a distant harbor. The last rays of sunlight streaked the sky in orange and violet, casting the approaching shore in silhouette.

The ship groaned as it shifted direction, sails angled to catch the wind. The port town ahead was small—low stone walls, scattered towers, flickering torches marking its docks.

As the vessel rocked gently toward its destination, Gadriel stood alone at the bow.

He wasn't arriving as a hero, nor as a legend. Here, he was a stranger.

And that suited him just fine.