The last Dragonborn in Game of Thrones (GoT)

The scent of salt and sun-warmed tar clung to the coastal air as Gadriel made his way through the harbor district. The fishing city bustled with motion and noise. Crews hauled in heavy nets teeming with silver-scaled fish, merchants haggled over crates of dried goods and smoked eel, and gulls circled overhead, shrieking at every dropped scrap. Gadriel took his time, moving quietly along the docks, absorbing the atmosphere and committing details to memory.

He had spent the morning watching the port come alive, the fog burning away under the rising sun until only clear skies and the cries of the sea remained. He noted how the tides shifted the sand, how the long boats were lashed together with ropes woven from grasslike reeds, and how children chased each other barefoot through puddles left by the tide.

After refilling his pack with provisions and scribbling a few more notes in his journal, he found himself lingering near a cluster of sailors shouting over one another. Amid the noise, one voice rose above the rest.

"Westeros," a broad-shouldered man said, hoisting a barrel onto a waiting cart. "That's where the coin is. Nobles pay thrice what a spice-seller's worth, if you've got what they need."

Gadriel paused. His ears perked.

"You shipping out, then?" asked a wiry youth beside him.

"Aye. Master Halvar's got a hold full of ambergris, glass, and silks from the east. He's hiring swords, too. Bastard expects pirates."

Another man grunted. "And he'll get them. Narrow Sea's been thick with raiders these past moons. Took down three merchant ships just last week."

The broad man leaned in, lowering his voice. "Word is, one of those ships carried Lannisport gold. Disappeared. Just like that."

That was all Gadriel needed.

He found Halvar near the prow of his vessel—a stout, deep-bellied ship painted in dull reds and browns. The merchant stood amid a stack of cargo, barking orders while scribes checked the manifests.

"You need protection?" Gadriel asked.

Halvar turned, blinking up at the High Elf's sharp features and strange golden eyes. He studied him a moment longer than most would.

"What are you? Some kind of sellsword with a tailor's jawline?"

"Just a traveler with a strong arm and a quiet step," Gadriel replied simply.

The merchant snorted. "Odd ears, but you look like you could put a blade through a man. Can you use a bow?"

Gadriel nodded.

"Fine. You'll bunk with the others. We leave on the evening tide."

That night, under a curtain of stars and the creaking rhythm of ropes and canvas, Gadriel stood at the stern of the ship and watched the last lights of the city shrink into darkness. The scent of pine and smoke faded, replaced by brine and wind. Waves rolled against the hull in slow, steady rhythm. The mainland slipped behind them, swallowed by the sea.

He kept mostly to himself in the days that followed, sharing space below deck with a half-dozen other guards—a mix of hardened warriors and loud-talking mercenaries. He listened more than he spoke, observing their habits, their tempers. One liked to polish his spear compulsively. Another whispered to his sword every night before sleeping.

Each morning, Gadriel returned to the deck. He watched the way seabirds hovered above the mast, how schools of fish flashed just beneath the surface, and how the wind tugged constantly at the sails. He made notes about the shifting weather patterns and traced constellations in his book by lantern light.

But the calm did not last.

On the fifth morning, with the fog thick and clinging low to the waves, the lookout shouted from the crow's nest.

"Sails! Three of them! Port side!"

Panic rippled through the crew.

The ships approached fast—lean, black-sailed cutters with jagged prows and no flags. Pirates.

Halvar screamed orders. The crew scrambled to arm themselves. Gadriel moved with silent precision, drawing his bow and taking a perch above the quarterdeck.

The pirate vessels flanked them quickly. Grappling hooks flew. Wood splintered. Armed men spilled onto the deck, roaring curses.

Gadriel inhaled sharply.

"Tiid... Klo... Ul."

The world around him slowed. The roar of combat became a low, muffled hum. He moved through the chaos like a ghost, loosing arrows with deadly accuracy. Each shot found its mark—throat, eye, heart. He spun, ducked a blade moving as if through molasses, and sank a shaft into the attacker's side before the man could blink.

The spell faded.

Time resumed.

Screams erupted as pirates dropped dead in a synchronized ballet of death. Gadriel slipped down into the fray, dodging blades, parrying with the flat of his hand, and moving with the kind of reflexes that defied reason. But to the rest of the crew, he was simply faster, better.

By the time the remaining pirates fled back to their boats, half their number dead, the deck was awash in blood and breathless silence.

Halvar limped to the helm, coughing. He spotted Gadriel wiping blood from his bow.

"Didn't think you'd live through that," the merchant muttered. "But you fight like a damned shadow."

Gadriel gave no answer. Just a nod.

That night, with the wind settled and stars returning to the sky, Gadriel rested in a gently swaying hammock below deck. Around him, the crew murmured stories of the battle, most not realizing who had tipped the tide. The scent of salt and blood hung in the air, but the worst had passed.

He stared at the wooden ceiling above, his notebook tucked beneath his arm, and let the slow rock of the sea pull him toward sleep.

Westeros drew nearer with every wave.