The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The faint golden blush of dawn had only just touched the treetops when Gadriel stirred. A low fog blanketed the forest, the cold air still and damp with the breath of the earth. His campfire had long since burned to embers, its warmth fled into the night. Gadriel sat up beneath his furs and blankets, blinking away the last haze of sleep. For a moment, he simply listened—the chirr of insects, the rustle of leaves stirred by morning winds, and the soft snort of his mare, Dust, tethered nearby.

He rubbed a hand through his golden hair, now tousled from sleep, and stretched slowly, each movement deliberate. Though he had rested, he felt a gnawing pull—not of fatigue, but of hunger. A deeper, darker hunger.

His tongue ran across his teeth, and he sighed.

"Not yet," he murmured. "Not if I can help it."

He rose and began packing his things with practiced efficiency. The cave had served him well—dry, defensible, and hidden. As he loaded his saddlebags, he made quick notes in his journal, crouched beside the embers of the fire.

Woke near ridge, trees are old-growth pine. Moss thick, damp. Northern forest showing signs of heavier snowfall—possible early winter? Bear scat found near tree line. Continued west.

Once Dust was saddled and fed, he mounted and guided her through the winding trail. The morning sun filtered through the canopy in thin shafts, casting patches of light across the leaf-strewn path. Gadriel kept his eyes sharp, his senses wide. He traveled in silence, letting the forest speak around him.

Hours passed.

Occasionally, he stopped to inspect new flora—deep blue vines clinging to pale birch trunks, or black thistle growing near a streambed, its roots fragrant and bitter. Each was carefully noted, sampled, and sketched.

At midday, he paused near a hilltop overlook. Below him, the forest gave way to rolling white hills, a gentle descent toward what he knew must be Winterfell's domain. The wind carried with it a sharper chill. He drew his cloak tighter, but a sense of familiarity curled warmly in his chest. The land reminded him so much of the Pale in Skyrim—endless snowfields and wooded ridges where wolves hunted and men moved like ghosts.

He was smiling faintly when he descended the next trail, weaving between thickening trees.

Then he heard it.

A snap.

Dust whinnied sharply, and Gadriel froze in the saddle.

Too late.

Figures emerged from both sides of the path—at least six, garbed in mismatched leather and fur, their weapons drawn and eyes gleaming with hunger. Bandits. Local, judging by their crude accents and familiarity with the terrain.

"Well now," said the leader, a tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek. "What have we here?"

Another stepped forward, eyeing Dust with interest. "Fancy horse for a lone traveler. And you look like you've coin. Or somethin' better."

Gadriel said nothing. He dismounted slowly, calmly, arms raised slightly but loose at the joints. They saw a traveler. A foreigner. Maybe a soldier.

They didn't see the truth.

The scarred leader sneered. "Smart man. Toss your pack over. And the sword. No need for anyone to get hurt."

Gadriel's voice was quiet. "No."

Silence fell. For a moment.

"Wrong answer."

They charged.

In that frozen second, Gadriel exhaled and whispered a word of power.

"TIID... KLO... UL."

Time buckled around him. The world slowed. Leaves hung mid-fall. Arrows crawled through the air like drifting snowflakes. The bandits moved in sluggish, desperate lunges.

Gadriel's form shimmered.

His eyes glowed blood-red.

Wings of bone and shadow erupted from his back as his body twisted and grew, reshaping into his true form—tall, lean, monstrous. A Vampire Lord, terrible and ancient.

He moved through the frozen moment like a storm.

He struck the first bandit with a clawed hand, crushing his throat with a single blow. Another he lifted and threw against a tree, bones breaking like twigs. His wings snapped outward, knocking two others off their feet.

The last tried to flee, even in slow-motion.

Gadriel's gaze fell upon him, and with inhuman speed he surged forward, lifted the man by the neck—and drank.

Hot blood filled his mouth. The hunger burned. It was not just nourishment—it was life, strength, a core of ancient magic rekindled inside him. He drank deep, then dropped the lifeless husk.

Time resumed.

The corpses fell. The silence returned.

Dust stood unbothered nearby, used to the scent of blood.

Gadriel shifted back into his Elven form, panting. He wiped his mouth with a cloth, stained red, and stood over the bodies with cold eyes. He was not proud of it—but the thirst had grown too strong.

And these men had chosen their fate.

He cleaned his hands and face as best he could from a waterskin, then dragged the bodies off the trail. He whispered a quick word to ignite a small fire among the brush—enough to catch and spread. Let scavengers deal with the rest.

Then he returned to Dust, mounted, and resumed his journey.

The forest thinned after an hour. He crested a low ridge and paused.

There it was.

Winterfell.

Still some miles away, but unmistakable. A great stone fortress nestled within snow-laden trees and open fields. Black smoke curled gently from its chimneys. The banners of House Stark fluttered against the gray sky.

A memory stirred—of Whiterun, of Solitude. Of noble keeps that stood against dragon and storm. Gadriel's heart ached with a strange mixture of homesickness and hope.

He guided Dust to a nearby stream and let her drink. As she grazed, he took out his journal and began to write.

Ambush at forest bend—six men. Locals. Possibly deserters or scavengers. No markings of allegiance. Blood taken. Temporary relief.

Northbound road stable. Flora: black thistle (mild stimulant). Blue vine bark slightly numbing. Document more when time allows.

Winterfell now visible. Fortress resembles Nordic construction. High walls. Central keep. Smoke indicates life within.

He closed the book.

Night approached.

He would not enter the town yet—not under moonlight. Better to approach at dawn, as any traveler might.

He set camp a short way from the trail, beneath a canopy of snow-laden boughs. As the fire cracked and Dust settled beside the warmth, Gadriel watched the stars emerge overhead.

The sky here was different—but not unwelcome.

He leaned back against a log, his eyes half-lidded, thoughts already drifting toward the cold stone walls he would soon walk within.

Toward what fate he might forge there.

And as the wind whispered through the trees and the fire cast flickering shadows, Gadriel allowed himself one more night of quiet before the next step of his journey began.

He slept deeply.

And dreamed of snow-covered halls.