The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The wind had sharpened overnight, carrying with it the biting scent of pine and snow. Gadriel awoke to a quiet world, blanketed in frost. The small camp he had made the previous night—no more than a narrow bedroll nestled between two slanted stones—was cold but dry. Dust stood nearby, her breath pluming into the morning air, tail swishing lazily.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand through his golden hair and shaking off the stiffness in his limbs. Above, the sky was a pale wash of gray and white, the light just beginning to spill over the horizon. The faint outline of Winterfell's towers stood in the far distance like a fortress drawn in charcoal.

Gadriel took a deep breath and smiled faintly.

"Stone and snow," he murmured. "Feels like home."

Packing quickly and with practiced hands, he saddled Dust, ensuring she was fed and brushed before mounting. As they crested a small hill, the forest thinned behind them and the open plains of the North rolled out ahead.

He traveled slowly at first, taking time to observe the environment. The trail twisted alongside frost-covered rocks and groves of ironwood trees. The wildlife here was sparse but hardy—a fox darted across his path once, and crows wheeled overhead.

Each time he spotted something unusual, Gadriel dismounted to investigate. He found a cluster of deep red berries clinging to thorny branches and documented their scent, texture, and the mild numbing effect they had on his tongue. A small bush with silver-dusted leaves caught his attention next. He noted the oily texture and pungent odor—likely unfit for consumption, but possibly useful in a salve.

He sketched both into his journal, labeling them with symbols from his personal alchemy code. As he worked, he hummed an old Nord tune, his breath misting with each verse.

A while later, he came across a strange fungal growth clinging to the base of a split tree. It was dark blue, soft as velvet, and shimmered faintly in the low light. He scraped a sample into a wax cloth and muttered to himself: "Possibly bioluminescent... investigate with heat or darkness."

As he rode further, he came across a half-frozen stream where reeds bent under ice and birds flitted low to drink. Gadriel crouched by the bank, dipping his fingers into the frigid water. He brought some to his lips and tasted the metallic cold.

"Clean," he murmured, jotting a note. Streamwater east of Winterfell—crystal-clear, no scent of rot. May host freshwater mollusks or leeches. Revisit in warmer season.

By late morning, the road widened into a proper trade path, muddied and marked by recent cart tracks. The spires of Winterfell loomed closer now, flanked by wind-swept fields and distant woodlands. Gadriel spotted movement along the high walls: sentries pacing, their cloaks flapping like the banners above them.

He drew Dust to a halt a few hundred paces from the outer gate. Two guards stood watch, clad in leather and fur over chainmail, their spears planted firmly in the frozen earth.

One of them raised a hand. "Hold there. State your name and business."

Gadriel dismounted, his boots crunching softly in the snow. He kept his hood pulled just low enough to shadow his features, though his distinct appearance and demeanor were hard to miss.

"Just a traveler," he said calmly. "Heading south. Thought to resupply before the next stretch."

The guards exchanged a look, noting his strange accent, fine gear, and the longbow strapped across his back. One of them stepped forward, squinting.

"You don't sound from anywhere around here."

"I'm not."

The guard studied him another moment, then nodded. "Keep to yourself. No trouble."

"Of course."

They opened the gate with a groan of wood and iron, and Gadriel stepped into Winterfell.

The courtyard bustled with morning activity. Servants rushed between buildings, smiths hammered away at steel, and stablehands guided snorting horses into warm stalls. Smoke curled from chimneys and the scent of roasted meat drifted faintly on the wind.

Gadriel took it all in without comment.

He stabled Dust with a silver coin and a quiet word, then moved through the courtyard toward what looked like a guest hall or inn. Inside, warmth enveloped him. Firelight flickered against stone walls, and the smell of stewed vegetables and bread filled the air. He purchased a simple room and a hot meal, then sat near the hearth to eat.

As he did, he listened.

Local gossip swirled in the background. Traders spoke of distant towns struggling under early snow. Some muttered of wildlings near the Wall, others of the King's planned arrival in the coming weeks. Gadriel kept his eyes low but his ears sharp.

Later that day, Gadriel wandered the grounds and eventually made his way to the training yard. A group of boys—mostly noble sons by the look of their garb—were firing shortbows under the half-hearted guidance of a Stark retainer. One boy in particular, younger and slimmer than the rest, struggled to string his bow properly.

Gadriel lingered.

When the retainer stepped away, Gadriel approached slowly, boots whispering against the packed snow. The boy noticed him but didn't flinch.

"You're holding it too tight," Gadriel said, voice low and steady.

Bran blinked. "What?"

"The bow. You grip it like it might run away. Ease your fingers. Let the wood breathe."

Bran adjusted slightly and loosed the arrow. It hit closer to center.

Gadriel nodded once. "Better."

"Who are you?"

"A traveler."

The boy grinned. "You shoot?"

"A little."

"Could you show me how to shoot better? Please?"

Gadriel tilted his head, considering. "Perhaps. But first, show me another shot. Do as I said. Breathe, aim, release."

Bran nodded and did as instructed. This time, the arrow struck true.

"Good," Gadriel murmured. "You've got an eye for it. Just need the discipline."

Just then, the retainer returned and eyed Gadriel with faint suspicion. Gadriel offered a polite nod and stepped back, blending into the activity of the yard without another word. The boy, Bran, watched him go, a thoughtful look on his face.

That night, Gadriel returned to his room, lit a candle, and opened his journal.

Winterfell—stone built with care. Stark faces. Quiet strength. Smells of snow and steel. Like the holds of Skyrim. These people endure. The boy, curious, proud. Good instincts. Could be taught.

He looked to the window.

Snow had begun to fall again, light but steady. The wind murmured past the stone walls like an old lullaby.

He watched it for a while, silent and still.

And when he finally lay down to rest, it was not with longing or sorrow.

Only with readiness.