The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The sun rode high in a pale blue sky as Gadriel moved swiftly across the plains, the steady beat of hooves beneath him a welcome rhythm. The horse beneath him—a strong, lean beast taken from the Dothraki raiders he'd slain—carried him without protest, its dark coat slick with sweat but unwavering. He had not named the creature; he had learned not to grow too fond of anything that bled.

From the villagers he had helped, Gadriel had gained only a vague understanding of the people he'd fought. "Dothraki," they'd whispered, as if the word itself carried weight. Raiders. Nomads. Horse-lords who feared nothing save the sea. That was the extent of their knowledge, but it had been enough for Gadriel to jot down brief notes in his weathered notebook:

Dothraki - mounted warriors, ruthless, tribal structure. Large khalasars follow individual leaders (khals). Unfamiliar with armor. Poor archery compared to Skyrim's standards. Terrifying in numbers.

His quill scratched against the paper as the wind brushed through his hair, sunlight glinting off the bone buckles of his worn dragon armor. It had been hours since he last saw another soul, only the endless plains, the winding river at his side, and the warm breeze whispering across the open land.

Eventually, thirst made its presence known. Gadriel slowed the horse and led it to the riverbank. He dismounted and crouched at the edge of the stream, splashing water onto his face before taking deep gulps of the cool liquid. The horse followed suit, snorting softly as it drank from the shallow edge.

Gadriel wiped his mouth, looked up—and paused.

Far in the distance, blurred by heat and haze, a shape moved. A cart, pulled by horses, trailed slowly along the distant horizon. The wheels creaked faintly, barely audible over the wind.

Gadriel narrowed his eyes.

Travelers.

He mounted again, keeping his distance. Always at least a couple hundred feet back. Far enough not to be noticed, close enough to track. He wanted to see where they were going.

The sun fell slowly toward the west, casting long shadows across the grass. Gadriel rode patiently, observing the slow progress of the cart ahead. Eventually, as dusk painted the sky with streaks of crimson and violet, the caravan crested a hill and descended into a settlement below.

The village was larger than the last one he'd encountered—sturdier buildings, more people, the distant clang of a blacksmith's forge echoing through the air. Not quite a city, but more than just a dot on a map.

As the cart passed through the gates, Gadriel slowed and dismounted. He led his horse toward the outskirts, tying it to a post beside a worn public trough. It drank greedily as he surveyed the town.

He walked the streets without drawing too much attention, though a few eyes lingered on his pointed ears and strange clothing. No one stopped him. Just another outsider in a world full of them.

His boots clacked against cobblestone as he approached a modest two-story inn tucked between a blacksmiths forge and a stable. A wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, etched with faded letters he couldn't read. The place smelled of roasted meat and ale.

He stepped inside.

The warmth hit him first, followed by the low murmur of conversation. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, casting deep shadows. A hearth crackled at the far end of the room. Locals sat scattered at tables, some eating, some lost in quiet games of dice.

He approached the counter. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a sharp eye, looked up.

"One night," Gadriel said, producing a gold septim.

The man raised an eyebrow at the strange coin but tested its weight between his fingers. It was gold. That was enough. He nodded and handed Gadriel a simple wooden key.

"Upstairs. Second on the left."

Gadriel took it without a word. But he didn't go up yet.

Instead, he turned toward the common room and selected a seat in the corner, his back to the wall. A serving girl came by, and he ordered a drink—something light, just to taste. He took slow sips, letting the atmosphere settle around him.

At the table nearest the fire, two men in long robes hunched close together, their voices low. Scholars, by the look of their ink-stained sleeves and fur-lined journals. Gadriel tuned his ears.

"The Dothraki haven't raided Meereen in over two months. That's not normal," one of them murmured.

"And Astapor's gates are sealed. I heard Volantis sent three emissaries. None returned."

"Some say the slave markets have dried up. That can only mean something terrible's happening."

"Or something powerful is coming."

They sipped from tin cups and leaned in further.

"The khalasars are restless. I heard one even turned on itself—no leader, no direction. That doesn't happen unless something disrupts the balance."

"Or someone."

Gadriel's hand moved to his notebook under the table. He flipped it open and jotted quick, silent notes:

Slave cities - Astapor, Meereen, Volantis. Dothraki raiding disrupted. Rumors of unrest. Trade destabilized. Nobility nervous.

He underlined the final phrase and closed the book.

They mentioned no names. No explanations. But the whispers were enough. Gadriel didn't believe in coincidence. Something had rattled the foundations of this land. He didn't know what yet. But he would find out.

The drink was bitter. He pushed the cup aside, stood, and quietly ascended the stairs.

The room was small but clean—a simple bed, a narrow window, a basin of cool water. He undid his armor and let it rest beside the bed, stretched once, then collapsed into the mattress with a long breath.

The sounds of the tavern murmured below like the tide. The wind tapped at the window.

For now, Gadriel allowed himself rest.

But his mind did not sleep as easily as his body.