The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen: Paths Crossed



The sun had not yet crested the wall of Winterfell when Gadriel stirred from his slumber. His room was quiet and dim, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers. He sat up slowly, adjusting to the cold stillness of the stone chamber, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, rolling his shoulders to chase the stiffness from them. Snow dusted the corners of the windowpane.

He dressed in silence, pulling on his fitted black tunic, reinforced with dark leather. Over that, he slid into his dragonbone armor—its off-white, almost ivory-colored plating fashioned with sharp, layered edges that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Though elegant, its fierce contours whispered of battle and death. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed carved from the bones of some great beast, but no one could guess the truth. When asked, Gadriel would only offer a half-shrug and say, "Some beast from the far north. Large. Dangerous."

The armor was mostly hidden beneath his heavy black cloak, the hood drawn low to shadow his face and disguise the pointed tips of his ears. Even his helmet—crafted of the same ghostly material—rested obscured beneath the folds of fabric strapped behind his pack. Only when the wind shifted or the sun hit the folds just right did the bone-white sheen beneath his cloak reveal itself.

His longbow, forged from dragonbone and strung with sinew stronger than steel, was slung diagonally across his back. Most folk who saw it could tell it was made of bone, but few dared ask what creature it came from. When they did, Gadriel offered the same noncommittal answer as he did about his armor.

Outside, Winterfell stirred to life slowly. Gadriel made his way to the courtyard as pale light bled into the sky. The yard was mostly empty, save for a few yawning guards changing posts and a stablehand tending to the horses.

He passed by them with a nod and continued toward the archery range.

The targets stood quietly under a light curtain of snow. Gadriel removed his cloak, letting it fall across a wooden rail, then pulled an arrow from his quiver and took his stance. His motions were fluid, deliberate. Draw, breathe, release.

Thwack.

The arrow struck near center. He followed it with another. And another. The repetition brought a calmness to him, like meditation with purpose. He barely registered the sound of soft footsteps approaching.

"You're really good," a voice said.

Gadriel glanced sideways and saw the young boy, Bran, watching him with wide eyes. Bran wore a thick woolen coat and gloves, his cheeks red from the cold.

"You again," Gadriel murmured, not unkindly. "Out early."

"I wanted to practice," Bran said, gesturing to the shortbow slung over his shoulder. "But I saw you here and... well, you don't shoot like Ser Rodrik."

Gadriel smiled faintly. "No, I imagine I don't."

Bran approached the range, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and set up to shoot.

"May I?" Gadriel asked, stepping closer.

Bran nodded eagerly.

Gadriel placed a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. "Relax here. Now your grip—softer. The bow should feel like an extension of your arm, not something you're strangling."

Bran adjusted, drew, and loosed. The arrow struck off-center, but not badly.

"Better," Gadriel said. "Again."

They continued in silence for a time. Gadriel corrected posture and breathing; Bran listened intently, repeating each motion with growing precision.

Eventually, Bran broke the quiet. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Gadriel tilted his head, pausing. "Far from here. A place where the snow falls thicker, the skies burn with green light, and the wolves are larger than horses."

Bran blinked. "You make it sound like a story."

"Most truths do."

They trained until the yard began to fill with others. Gadriel handed Bran one final arrow.

"One more. Then breakfast."

Bran grinned and took his shot. This time, it hit true.

Later that day, Gadriel walked the perimeter of the keep, noting the walls, towers, and positions of guards. He paused at the forge to speak with Mikken, the smith, about metals. The conversation was short but meaningful—Mikken, though puzzled by Gadriel's strange knowledge, respected his sharp eye and insight.

As Gadriel moved on, he noticed Maester Luwin watching him from a balcony above. Their eyes met briefly. The maester looked thoughtful, perhaps curious.

In the great hall, servants whispered. A few cast glances his way. Rumors had begun to circle, as they always did. Not of his power or past—that remained unknown. But of his presence. His bearing. His otherness.

No one knew what he was, but all could sense he was not ordinary.

As evening crept in, Gadriel returned to the stables to check on Dust. The mare whinnied softly at his approach, and he stroked her muzzle gently.

"She likes you," came a voice from behind.

Gadriel turned and found Lord Eddard Stark standing nearby, his face calm but unreadable.

"She's a fine horse," Gadriel said simply.

Ned stepped forward. "You've been helpful to my son. Bran speaks highly of you."

Gadriel offered a modest nod. "He learns quickly."

"You've an eye for the bow," Ned continued. "And the stance of a soldier. But you claim to be a traveler."

"I am."

Ned studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well. You're welcome to stay, as long as you bring no trouble with you."

"I seek none."

"Then we'll have no issue."

Ned turned and left without another word, leaving Gadriel alone with the quiet snorting of horses and the fading light of day.

That night, Gadriel sat at the small desk in his chamber, candlelight flickering against parchment. He opened his leather-bound journal and dipped his quill.

Winterfell. Cold as the teeth of the Throat of the World. Still. Strong. These people endure not by might, but by unity. Iron in their bones.

The boy, Bran. Quick mind. Eager spirit. Has the will to become something greater.

They watch me. As they should. I would, in their place.

He set the quill down and gazed toward the narrow window. Snow drifted beyond the glass in soft spirals.

He thought of Serana. Of the child she carried. Of the destiny he had already fulfilled—the songs sung, the dragons slain, the realms saved.

And yet, here he was, carving something new, step by step.

He smiled faintly, closed the journal, and leaned back in his chair. The fire cracked low. The wind whispered along the stone.

He was no longer the legend whispered by bards or feared by ancient foes.

Now, he was just a traveler in a strange land, cloaked in mystery, his armor hidden in plain sight, his past buried beneath centuries.

And that, for the moment, was just fine by him.


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