The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The early morning air was crisp and still as Gadriel stepped off the wooden dock, his boots thudding softly against the packed earth of the coastal town. The last shreds of sea mist clung to the rooftops and coiled around the weathered hulls of docked ships. He glanced over his shoulder once at the vessel that had carried him across the Narrow Sea. It rocked gently in its berth, sails furled and crewmen beginning the labor of resupply. No fanfare marked his arrival, and that suited him.

The town was modest—a jumble of timber-framed houses, stone paths slick with dew, and narrow alleys that twisted between crooked walls. Most of the locals spared him little more than a second glance, though a few stared at the pointed ears that marked him as something unfamiliar. Even so, they didn't question him. To most, he was just another sellsword or trader from the far corners of the world, come seeking work or gold.

His cloak drawn tight against the wind, Gadriel moved through the streets with purpose. His goal was clear: Winterfell. Of all the names he had heard whispered aboard the ship, none had struck him more deeply. A fortress in the North, set amidst snow and stone, ruled by a family known for their honor. It reminded him of Skyrim in the best of ways—of the great mountain strongholds ruled by jarls, of cities like Windhelm and Solitude that stood proud against the elements. He missed the scent of pine, the crunch of frost underfoot, and the distant howl of wolves in the night. Winterfell, he hoped, might echo those memories.

But first, he needed a horse.

At the edge of town, he found what he was looking for: a stableyard run by a burly man with a missing eye and a pipe clamped between cracked lips. The horses here were northern-bred—thick-coated, long-legged beasts meant for enduring harsh terrain. Gadriel spent nearly an hour inspecting them, watching how they moved, how they responded to voice and touch.

The stablemaster leaned on the fence and gave him a long look. "You got a keen eye, stranger. You lookin' for something to ride the Kingsroad? Or somethin' off it?"

"North," Gadriel answered simply.

The man grunted. "Winterfell way, then. You'll want this one." He patted the flank of a steel-gray mare with a mane like stormclouds. "Sure-footed, calm. Name's Dust. She won't spook in snow or shadow."

"I'll take her."

The stablemaster's gaze lingered on Gadriel's ears and handsome features, but he nodded without comment and took the offered coin—a piece of looted gold stamped with a foreign crest. With Dust saddled and provisioned, Gadriel mounted and turned his gaze inland.

The road stretched ahead, framed by sparse pine trees and rolling hills. The farther he rode, the colder the wind became, until even midday carried a bite. But Gadriel welcomed it. Each mile northward felt like a return to a home that no longer existed. The landscape shifted from coastal forest to tundra, patches of snow stubbornly clinging to shaded hollows.

He kept his notebook close, stopping often to sketch a peculiar tree, record the movement of birds, or collect samples of northern herbs. A cluster of red-tipped ferns grew near a frozen stream. He jotted down: "Fronds stiff in cold. Smell of mint. Possible frost resistance."

Once, he passed a group of merchants heading south. They gave him curious looks but offered a polite nod as they passed. He caught snippets of their conversation—worries about bandits, about wolves growing bolder near the treeline. One of them mentioned hearing how the Lord of Winterfell had begun stockpiling grain. Gadriel took note.

One night, as he camped near a ridge overlooking a wide valley, Gadriel cooked over a small fire and stared at the sky. The stars were different here. Less dense, but still familiar. He traced patterns between them as he ate.

Dust nickered softly from where she was tethered nearby. Gadriel smiled and looked back to his notebook, scribbling idly:

"Northern air sharper than Skyrim's. Hills resemble those of the Pale. Less frost, but the wind cuts deeper. Sky clearer. Wolves howled last night. One close. Possibly a lone scout."

The next day brought snow.

Not a storm, but a soft, steady fall that dusted the trees and muffled the sound of hooves. Gadriel pulled his cloak tighter and pushed forward, the land rising slowly as the hills grew steeper. He passed the remains of an old watchtower, stone black with age, ivy gripping its sides like skeletal fingers. An old banner, faded beyond recognition, still clung to a half-broken pole.

Another note made.

At midday, he came across a frozen pond, its surface glazed with a fragile sheen of ice. Dust paused to drink from a hole chipped into the edge. Gadriel took the opportunity to gather more samples—thin, wiry reeds poking through the frost, their stalks a dull purple. He noted their unusual flexibility and tucked a bundle into his pouch.

By evening, the snow ceased, and the clouds broke just enough to reveal the final stretch of road ahead. There, distant but undeniable, stood the edge of the great northern woods. And somewhere beyond them, nestled in the snow and silence, was Winterfell.

He dismounted on a rise and let Dust drink from a half-frozen stream. Gadriel looked out over the wilderness before him, breath fogging the air. Twenty miles more, perhaps. The town of Winterfell must not be far past the tree line.

He found a place to camp—a shallow cave hidden beneath an overhang of ice-covered rock. He laid out his furs and fed Dust a handful of oats. The fire crackled quietly, throwing long shadows against the stone.

Gadriel sat with his journal once more, writing slowly.

"This land is colder than I expected, but rich. Wild. Beautiful. It echoes with a silence I haven't felt since Skyrim. Winterfell draws near."

He paused, quill hovering.

"I wonder if the people there will recognize me for what I am. Or if, like the rest, they'll only see strange ears and a handsome face."

The fire popped, sending a spark into the dark. He closed the book, laid down, and let the cold cradle him.

Tomorrow, he would arrive.

Tonight, he rested beneath a foreign sky that already felt just a little like home.