The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The morning came cool and gray, with a silver fog blanketing the land in a gentle hush. Mist rose in ghostly tendrils from the dew-drenched grass and the low shrubs that crouched close to the earth, as if reluctant to face the light. Gadriel stood just outside the eastern gate of the village, the echoes of last night's revelry fading behind him like the embers of a dying fire. The scent of spiced meat and wood smoke still clung faintly to the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of wet soil and river water. Villagers were just beginning to stir, but he preferred not to linger. A few scattered birds flitted between the rooftops, calling to one another in clipped, metallic notes.

He turned his gaze eastward, where the land opened up like an unwritten scroll—vast, quiet, and veiled in the mystery of morning. With a slight shift of his shoulders, he adjusted the strap of his pack, its familiar weight settling snug against his back. Then, without a word, he stepped onto the road, leaving behind the warmth of stone and thatch for the uncertain promise of the wild.

He had left before the sun crested the hills, not wanting to draw attention. The world beyond the walls stretched vast and unmarked, a canvas of wilderness he had yet to study. A wide stream glittered off to his right, its waters running eastward. It had been the same stream he'd followed since before the last village, and it still whispered with the promise of direction.

Water always draws life, he reminded himself—a truth in every land he'd ever known.

He guided his horse along the riverbank, keeping a measured pace. The beast was sturdy and quiet, one of the mounts he'd taken from the fallen khalasar. It responded well to his commands, though he sensed it still carried some of the wildness bred into Dothraki stock.

Around midmorning, Gadriel dismounted beneath a twisted tree with broad, flat leaves and bark that peeled in thin, curling sheets. He reached into his satchel, retrieved his well-worn notebook, and knelt beside the plant's base.

"Unknown tree species. Bark extremely thin, flakes in light wind," he muttered as he scribbled. "Leaves aromatic, faintly citrus. Possibly medicinal."

He plucked one and brought it to his nose, inhaling. Then, carefully, he tucked the sample into a folded scrap of cloth between the pages.

For the next several hours, he wandered on foot, letting the horse trail behind. Every step took him deeper into the strange ecology of this world. He paused often—sometimes every few paces—to kneel beside an unusual sprig of undergrowth or a curious fungal growth clinging to fallen logs. The wildflowers here were unlike anything in Tamriel. Some had translucent petals that shimmered like crystal in the sunlight, refracting light into soft hues of pink and blue. Others curled in tight spirals, releasing tiny bursts of pollen when disturbed.

He found a patch of low, velvet-leafed plants that exuded a syrupy resin when cut. He tasted it—just a drop—and noted its bitterness and mild numbing effect on the tongue.

"Potential anesthetic. Resin stable in open air. Grows in shaded groves."

Further along, he came across a bush heavy with berries that leaked milky sap from their skins. One burst as he gently pressed it between two fingers, the sap sticky and pungent.

"Toxic? Test cautiously. Note discoloration in fingertips after prolonged contact."

Near a sun-warmed clearing, he crouched quietly for nearly half an hour, observing a cluster of small, gliding mammals that chirped to each other as they leapt from tree to tree. Their limbs were webbed with skin, allowing them to soar short distances. When they stopped, they hung upside-down from branches, grooming themselves or nibbling at insect-covered bark.

He sketched their profile and jotted down observations:

"Rodentia subtype. Skin membrane used for gliding. Diet appears omnivorous. Communicate via short frequency chirps. Behavior suggests complex social structure."

As he made his way further down the stream, the terrain grew softer, the grass longer and woven with swaying stalks of gold and violet. A few frogs—pale with splotches of crimson—leapt from the river's edge and into the underbrush, their croaks guttural and deep.

Midday passed quietly. The sun finally burned away the mist, and with it came the song of birds—harsh, high-pitched chirps unlike the melodic trills of Skyrim's forests. He spotted a pair of hawk-like raptors wheeling overhead, one of them diving suddenly into a tall grass patch and emerging with a wriggling lizard.

"Apex predator. Silent dive. Diurnal. Scales on talons suggest adaptation to venomous prey."

He wrote everything.

Every bend in the river brought something new—a mossy outcrop rich with mushrooms, a shallow pool ringed with toadstools, a broken stone ruin overtaken by vines. At one point, he found the skull of an enormous creature, perhaps a buffalo or something similar, half-submerged in mud. Its horns curled in spirals, each larger than his own arm.

He sat beside it for a time, sketching its features.

There was peace in this work. A rhythm. He moved slowly, deliberately, hands always busy, eyes always scanning. It reminded him of the early days of his adventuring—when he was still fresh from the College of Winterhold, curious and unburdened by prophecy.

As the sun began to dip, Gadriel came upon a gentle bend in the riverbank. The land widened here, forming a natural clearing surrounded by thin-trunked trees whose branches formed a loose canopy overhead. The grass was soft. The river gurgled pleasantly.

It would do.

He unpacked the skins from the animals he'd hunted days before and began constructing a crude but serviceable shelter—a tapered cone of poles lashed with cord and covered in hide. He reinforced it with stones at the base and packed dirt around the edges. When finished, he stood back and surveyed it with a small nod.

"Not pretty," he muttered, "but it'll keep the wind off."

He started a fire with a flick of magic, just enough flame conjured at his fingertips to light the dry kindling. The warmth was immediate, comforting. He boiled a small pot of water, added some dried herbs and salted meat, and sat with the simple stew until it was ready.

As he ate, the sky above turned deep blue, the stars beginning to wink into view. The fire crackled beside him. Insects buzzed lazily in the reeds. Somewhere across the river, an owl gave a low, mournful call.

Gadriel opened his notebook again, this time writing slower.

"The land east of the village is fertile—abundant flora with possible alchemical applications. Fauna is alert, wary of larger predators. I spotted no signs of large settlements. No markers. No roads. But the river persists. Reliable guide."

He paused.

Then, quieter:

"Feels familiar. Like Skyrim, but... untouched. Wilder. Older."

He sat in silence for a while longer, the firelight playing off his golden skin, his sharp features made soft by shadow.

His mind drifted. To Serana. To the child she carried. To the oath he made to Akatosh. To the gods who had sent him here and the world that remained a stranger.

But for now, he was alone. By choice.

And tomorrow, there would be more river.

More roots.

More pages to fill.

With a final breath, Gadriel laid down on the makeshift bedding, the stars above his only ceiling. The night was cool. The wind was light.

Sleep came easily.