The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The warm morning light slipped lazily through the slats of the shuttered window, casting long golden rays across the wooden floorboards. Gadriel stirred beneath the wool blanket, his eyes cracking open slowly. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before realizing the sun was already well into its climb. He groaned faintly.

"Eight in the morning?" he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I'm slipping."

The bed had been more comfortable than he'd expected, and despite years of training himself to rise with the dawn, his body had welcomed the rare indulgence. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching cool wood, and stood to stretch.

His gear sat where he'd left it—his armor leaned carefully against the wall, his bow strung and resting within arm's reach, and Dawnbreaker sheathed on the table beside his notebook. Gadriel began packing with methodical efficiency, sliding his belongings back into his pack and strapping the familiar weight of his sword at his hip.

He was just finishing tightening his armor's chest buckle when a deep, resonant bell echoed through the village.

It was not the soft chime of a chapel or the tolling of an hour.

It was an alarm.

He heard it once.

Then again.

The tone was urgent, sharp, and unmistakable. Within seconds, the tavern exploded into a flurry of movement. Voices shouted from outside, feet pounded up and down the stairs, and the building itself seemed to pulse with panic.

Gadriel flung open the door of his room, stepped into the hall, and descended the stairs. The innkeeper was gone. Patrons were scrambling to gather their things or push out the door. He grabbed the shoulder of a frantic man—a gaunt figure with sunken eyes and a thinning beard.

"What's going on?" Gadriel demanded.

The man flinched, eyes wild with terror. "A khalasar! At least two hundred strong! Heading straight for the village!" He tore away from Gadriel's grip and vanished into the crowd.

The Dragonborn stood for a moment in silence, absorbing the words. He felt no fear. Just cold clarity. He had seen what a smaller group could do. He would not let it happen again.

With quick steps, Gadriel emerged onto the street. The village was in chaos. People were running, guards shouting, children crying. The alarm bell tolled again.

He headed for the front gate.

A hastily gathered force of guards—no more than fifty men, poorly armored and less than disciplined—stood gathered just behind the gate, staring out at the dust cloud approaching from the horizon. Gadriel moved beside them without a word, stepping ahead, where he could see clearly.

There they were.

A tide of horses. The thunder of hooves grew louder with every passing second. He could see them now—the riders, lean and wild, wielding curved blades and shouting their war cries to the sky. The Dothraki were close. Too close.

Among them rode a man taller than the rest, adorned in feathered shoulder guards and red paint smeared across his chest. The Khal.

Gadriel unslung his bow from his back and knocked an arrow with calm precision. He took a breath, felt the wind, and focused not on the man, but the horse beneath him.

He loosed.

The arrow struck clean through the horse's chest, piercing heart and bone. The beast screamed and collapsed, sending the Khal flying. He hit the ground hard—and a moment later, was trampled beneath his own warriors.

Panic rippled through the riders.

Some horses stumbled over the Khal's broken body. The charge faltered for just a moment.

It was enough.

Gadriel slung his bow over his shoulder and drew Dawnbreaker in one smooth motion, the blade humming with a low, radiant glow. He began to run.

Faster.

Faster.

The guards behind him gasped as he vanished into a blur. Even the Dothraki had only moments to register the figure racing toward them before he stopped twenty feet from their front line, planted his boots, and roared:

"FUS... ROH!"

The Unrelenting Force exploded from his lungs in a thunderclap of draconic might. The sound shattered the air, scattering dust and rock in every direction. At least fifty riders were launched from their saddles like rag dolls, crashing to the ground with screams and bone-snapping force.

Gadriel ran into their ranks like a bolt of lightning.

Dawnbreaker swung in a wide arc, cleaving through man and horse alike. Where the blade struck, it left trails of holy fire, flames licking up torsos and igniting flesh. Screams filled the air as burning bodies writhed in pain.

A Dothraki charged him from the left.

Gadriel turned, sidestepped, and drove the pommel of Dawnbreaker into the rider's face. Another came from behind—he spun, slicing clean through both horse and man in one fluid motion. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, dark and steaming in the morning sun.

Lightning surged from his fingertips, arcing into a cluster of riders, seizing them with convulsions before dropping them lifeless to the scorched earth.

A scream. Then another. Chaos.

He moved like a ghost. A firestorm. A god.

One warrior tried to flee. Gadriel pointed a single finger, and a blast of chain lightning leapt from his hand, striking the man down mid-gallop.

Within minutes, the battlefield had fallen still.

Charred corpses lay in heaps. The smell of smoke, blood, and burned hair thickened the air. Gadriel stood atop the dead, his chest rising and falling slowly, eyes glowing faintly with divine light.

Behind him, the village gate creaked open. The guards emerged, wide-eyed and cautious, their weapons still drawn.

They looked upon the carnage.

They looked upon him.

But Gadriel was already moving. With a sudden burst of speed, he sprinted toward the wall, leapt high into the air, and vanished over the battlements before they could react.

By the time they reached the top, he was gone.

Night fell like a velvet curtain.

In the heart of the village, lanterns were lit, music played, and fires roared in celebration. The people had been saved—by a man no one could name.

At the center of the square, tables overflowed with food and drink. Laughter echoed through the streets. Children danced around fires, and elders raised their cups.

The guards told stories:

"He stood alone against hundreds."

"The sword he wielded was made of fire."

"He shouted, and the wind knocked riders from their horses."

"Lightning came from his hands!"

Word of the mysterious warrior began to spread. By morning, it would travel with traders, fishermen, and wandering bards. Some would scoff. Others would whisper. They would give him names: Flameborn. Thunderblade. Stormspeaker.

Even among the smallfolk, rumors had begun to spark into legend.

Children reenacted the battle with sticks and crude wooden swords, shouting nonsense words and pretending to cast fire and lightning. A drunk merchant proclaimed that he saw the warrior's eyes glow like the stars, and another swore he vanished into thin air like a ghost.

Gadriel watched from a distance, standing in the shadows of an alleyway.

He observed the joy, the gratitude, the newfound sense of hope. For a long time, he said nothing. Just stared.

Then, slowly, he approached.

He entered a tavern filled with laughter and music, found a seat in a quiet corner, and ordered a drink. A heavy mug was placed in front of him. He sipped slowly, watching the celebration unfold.

He smiled, just a little.

Then he leaned back in his chair, let the warmth of the fire wrap around him, and allowed himself, for one night, to feel joy.

The ale was strong.

The food was rich.

There was stew—meaty and thick, spiced with something foreign yet comforting. Fresh-baked bread and roasted nuts. A bowl of dried fruit. Plates moved around freely, and no one paid him much mind.

He even chuckled quietly at one moment when a man stumbled off a table trying to reenact the Dragonborn's leap over the gate.

A young woman with a lute sang an old Valyrian ballad by the hearth. Her voice, lilting and raw, held a sadness that cut through the revelry for just a moment—and then passed like wind.

And for a few hours, Gadriel Dovahkiin was not a hero, a weapon, or a wanderer.

He was just a man among others.

The night blurred softly around him, and eventually, the tavern faded to quiet.

He left before sunrise, while the coals still glowed in the hearth.

By then, the first whispers of the legend had already begun to drift beyond the village.

And Gadriel was on the road again.