The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The first light of dawn crept slowly over the valley, casting pale hues of pink and gold across the rolling hills. Gadriel awoke in his modest bedroll beside the gentle murmur of the river. He rubbed the last traces of sleep from his eyes and began methodically packing his belongings. His horse, tethered nearby, nickered softly, eager to move.

For the next three days, Gadriel traveled steadily along the coast, drawn first by the sudden, breathtaking reveal of the ocean itself. He had crested a ridge and there it was—an endless, glittering expanse stretching beyond the horizon, its waves crashing rhythmically against the rocky shore. He stood for a long moment in awe, watching the sun glint off the restless water before nudging his horse forward to follow its edge.

The air grew tangier with salt, and a constant breeze played with his cloak as he traced the shore's meandering path. Each step revealed new marvels to his ever-curious eyes. He found strange coastal plants with thick, waxy leaves that grew in clusters along sandy banks, some with flowers like pale lanterns swaying in the wind. He knelt to examine them, noting their resilience and unique coloration, and carefully documented them in his notebook. "Salt-tolerant. Root system tight and fibrous. Possible alchemical base—resinous sap," he muttered to himself as he sketched their likeness.

He observed seabirds with brilliant, iridescent feathers diving with uncanny precision into the shallows to spear silvery fish. He made notes on their wing structure, their cry patterns, and their nesting behavior when he discovered a clutch of eggs hidden among tall reeds.

On craggy outcrops, Gadriel found thick mats of seaweed clinging stubbornly to the stone, the long tendrils undulating with each retreating wave. Small crabs scuttled between tide pools, and he even caught sight of translucent shrimp flickering through the water like ghosts. "Ecosystem remarkably robust," he wrote, noting temperatures, colors, and terrain. "Potential uses for kelp—binding agent or sustenance?"

He pressed dried samples between pages and recorded everything—the way driftwood weathered into strange, bone-like shapes, the scent of crushed shell and salt, the way the tide pulled debris into natural formations. It was slow, deliberate travel, but deeply fulfilling—the kind of wandering that returned a sense of purpose to his exile.

He recorded every detail in his worn notebook—the shape of shells, the salt-crusted driftwood, the flocks of gulls that cried overhead. The land here was wild and untamed, a different sort of wilderness from the snowy peaks of his homeland, but no less compelling.

On the third evening, as the sun dipped low and turned the sky to fire, Gadriel spotted the outlines of a sprawling settlement ahead. A tangle of wooden piers jutted into the water, laden with nets, barrels, and crates. The scent of brine and smoke mingled in the air.

A fishing city.

The narrow streets bustled with activity as men and women hurried about their tasks, calling out orders, hauling in nets heavy with fish, or bartering goods. Gadriel guided his horse carefully through the maze of carts and wagons, finally finding a quiet stable where he could secure the animal.

Hungry and thirsty, he entered a modest tavern near the harbor. The warmth of the fire and the low murmur of voices welcomed him. He took a seat at a rough-hewn wooden table and ordered salted fish and coarse bread, along with fresh water for himself and oats for his horse.

As he ate slowly, Gadriel's ears caught fragments of conversation from the nearby tables. The tavern was alive with voices, each carrying the weariness and hope of those who lived by the sea.

From a shadowed corner, two men spoke in low, urgent tones.

"You heard about Westeros?" one asked, voice rough like the sea winds. "Lords and ladies ruling over castles and lands, all answering to a king. The North's colder than it's been in years—snow piling high, and the wind cutting like a blade."

His companion nodded grimly. "They say the Wall's still standing. An old stone fortress that keeps out the wildlings—and worse. I've never seen snow like that, but the tales make it sound like a land carved from ice and stone."

Nearby, a young woman carrying a tray of drinks added softly, "The king in King's Landing holds the realm, but it's a shaky peace. Lords scheme and plot, always looking for power. The people suffer when their games begin."

A grizzled sailor slammed his mug on the table. "Peace? Ha! Every noble wants the throne. Dragons once flew their skies, they say, but now it's all swords and politics. I'd rather brave the Narrow Sea's storms than their wars."

Gadriel's thoughts stirred at the mention of dragons, those mighty beasts from his past—fire and wings that had once ruled the skies. The stories here echoed something familiar, yet distant and strange.

And then he felt it—an odd ache, a dull yearning.

Westeros. The name alone sparked something within him.

A land ruled by noble houses, fractured yet held together by a tenuous monarchy. A harsh northern region blanketed in snow and ice. Tales of warriors hardened by winter, of ancient walls holding back forgotten terrors. He could almost see it in his mind's eye—frost-laced forests and storm-wracked mountains, of long halls warmed by hearths and ale, of bitter rivalries and ironbound honor.

It reminded him deeply of Skyrim.

Not just the snow, but the spirit—the raw, untamed wildness of the North; the pride of clans who would kneel to no one but their own; the traditions forged in battle and hardship. Skyrim had been a land of legends, of power and of solitude. And though Westeros was foreign, the echoes of that same fire seemed to stir just beneath the surface.

It made him feel... closer to home, even in a world that wasn't his.

He put down his cup, feeling a quiet resolve take root. This was a land worth seeing, a place to learn, to test himself.

Outside, his horse munched contentedly on oats beneath the fading light.

And as the stars began to pierce the night sky, Gadriel allowed himself a rare moment of hope—for adventure, for discovery, and for the road ahead.