The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The morning sun spilled through the high windows of Winterfell's Great Hall, its light cutting across the dark stone floor in long golden beams. Lord Eddard Stark sat behind his desk, parchment and ink laid out before him, though his attention had wandered far from his paperwork. He stared at the fire crackling in the hearth, its warmth doing little to thaw the quiet unease growing in his chest.

Bran's words from the evening before echoed in his mind:

"He's been helping me, Father. That traveler. I'm getting better. I can feel it."

Ned trusted his son, and Bran was no fool. Still, the traveler remained an enigma. The man carried himself with quiet dignity, sharp eyes hidden beneath a dark hood, and a posture too poised for a mere wanderer. His armor—mostly hidden but unmistakably crafted from bone—raised more questions than it answered. Ned didn't like unknowns, especially ones near his children.

He leaned forward, fingers tented beneath his chin. He's teaching Bran, yes. But why? What does he gain from this? He claims to be a traveler, but no traveler moves like a trained killer and speaks like a scholar.

Still, the boy's form with the bow had improved. Confidence had bloomed in him again. And if this man had meant Bran harm, he had ample opportunity and never acted on it.

Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, Ned mused. But in a world where caution keeps you breathing, it's a habit hard to break. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. But gods help me, the way Bran smiled yesterday...

Ned stood, his decision weighed and measured, and made his way to the courtyard.

The archery range was quieter than usual that morning. A gentle snow drifted from the sky, collecting on the low walls and straw targets. Gadriel stood alone near the far end, loosing arrows with calm precision. His cloak was drawn back slightly, revealing the sleek curves of his strange bow. The bone-white gleam of it caught Ned's eye.

The arrows flew straight and true, each one thudding deep into the center of the target. The force of each impact echoed faintly across the courtyard.

Gadriel drew another arrow, held his breath, and let it fly.

"Figured I'd find you here," Ned said, stepping forward.

Gadriel turned his head slightly, bow still in hand. "Good morning, my lord."

"I'd like a word," Ned said.

Gadriel nodded once and followed Ned behind the range, where the walls shielded them from the view of others. The sounds of the castle faded to a muffled hum, and the cold air seemed heavier there, charged with quiet tension.

Ned crossed his arms. "My son speaks fondly of you. Says you've helped him."

"He has potential," Gadriel replied. "All he needed was guidance."

"He's asked that you train him formally," Ned said. "I'm willing to allow that. But you should understand what that means."

He stepped closer, voice lowering, tone firm and sharp as a drawn blade.

"During every lesson, there will be guards present. Men loyal to me. And if they see anything—anything out of the ordinary, or if they suspect you of even the smallest harm toward my son... they will cleave your head from your shoulders. Swift and without hesitation. Do I make myself clear?"

Gadriel held his ground, calm and composed. Then he gave a small nod. "Understood."

Ned narrowed his eyes, searching for any flicker of arrogance or resistance. He found none.

"Do you accept?" Ned asked.

"I do."

There was a brief silence. Then Gadriel added, "I've never properly introduced myself."

Ned tilted his head slightly.

"My name is Gadriel Dovahkiin. I hope that in time, you'll find reason to trust me."

Ned stared at him for a long moment, unreadable.

Dovahkiin. Not a name of these lands, he thought. But names carry little meaning without deeds.

Then he gave a single nod. "Bran will be at the range tomorrow at midday. Don't be late."

He turned and walked away without another word, his cloak billowing slightly in the morning breeze.

That night, Gadriel returned to his chamber and opened his journal. The candlelight danced across the aged parchment as he dipped his quill.

Winterfell accepts me, piece by piece. Today, I met its lord as more than a stranger.

He is cautious. Protective. As he should be. I would be no different.

He now knows my name. That is a beginning.

I played the part he expected—a traveler with little to hide but enough sense to stay quiet. That is truth enough, for now.

He paused, tapping the feathered tip of his quill against the edge of the page.

The boy shows promise. His stance is better. Breath steadier. I believe I can teach him something—perhaps more than just how to shoot. Perhaps how to endure.

Lord Stark is a man who weighs every word. I must tread carefully. The less I reveal, the longer I remain useful—and alive.

Gadriel set the quill down and leaned back in his chair. The wind howled outside the tower, but within the walls, it was warm.

His past lay far behind him.

His future now walked the snowy paths of the North.