The room was quiet save for the scratching of a quill across parchment. Gadriel set the feather aside and leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams as though they might offer an answer. Two days had passed since the hunt. It had been nothing grand compared to the battles and journeys he had endured in his life, but the memory lingered with a certain warmth. Hunting alongside others—Robert's booming laugh, Robb's steady aim, even Joffrey's sulking face—had reminded him of simpler days when a man could find purpose in something as plain as food for the table.
He let out a soft breath. It was fun, for a time.
But fun, like smoke, did not last. The quiet pressed in again, the stillness of Winterfell's stone halls and their endless routine. He thought of Whiterun, bustling markets and tension always humming just beneath the surface. There had been comfort in the familiar rhythm of that city, but even there, he had never lingered too long. The Dragonborn was not made for stillness.
Shaking the thought away, Gadriel rose from his chair. It was nearly time for Bran's lesson. He strapped on his boots, slung his journal into his pack, and headed to the yard. The cold bit his cheeks as he stepped outside, the kind of chill that lingered even when the sun stood high.
The boy was already crossing the yard by the time Gadriel reached the range.
"Hello, Bran," Gadriel greeted with his usual calm smile.
"Hello, Gadriel," Bran answered, his voice eager though his eyes carried the weight of practice.
They began at once. Gadriel set the boy's feet, corrected the line of his elbow, and watched as arrow after arrow found its way toward the target. Some struck wide, others near, and a few thudded into the center with a satisfaction that drew Bran's grin. An hour passed in the rhythm of string and bow, arrow and target.
At last Gadriel raised a hand. "That's enough for today, Bran. You're doing well. You're learning to see the shot before you take it, and that's half the battle."
Bran exhaled heavily, sweat dampening his hair despite the cool air. "Thank you," he said, voice tired but grateful. He unstrung the practice bow and set it away before giving a short nod and turning to leave.
Gadriel watched him go, the boy's small shoulders square in their stubborn way. There was pride in teaching him, a sense of giving back something to a world that had given him much and taken even more. But as the boy's figure vanished through the arch, Gadriel felt the emptiness close in.
Winterfell was strong, steady, a fortress of tradition. The people were kind enough, honorable in their way. He liked speaking with Jon, training Bran, and even listening to the blunt wisdom of Ned Stark. But it was not enough. The stillness gnawed at him. After everything he had done, after standing at the edge of worlds and facing monsters out of nightmare, the quiet walls of Winterfell felt less like safety and more like a cage.
This is not for me. Not yet.
He returned to his chamber with the thought already growing into resolve. At the desk he pulled out parchment and ink, dipped the quill, and began to write.
*Hello.
This letter is for those who might notice my disappearance.
None of you know me very well or for very long, but I would like to say that I am sorry for my sudden departure. I have never been any good with farewells, which is why I write this instead. I will keep it short.
I am leaving because staying in one place has never suited me. I grow restless in stillness, and here I have found boredom—not for any fault of yours. Perhaps one day I will return, but for now I must go.
Bran—you have been a fine student. I enjoyed teaching you, and I leave you a gift. Attached to this book are notes and instructions for your practice. Follow them, and you will grow stronger with the bow.
Sincerely,Gadriel Dovahkiin
P.S. Jon, perhaps one day I will come and visit you at the Wall.*
He let the ink dry before rolling the letter tight and binding it with a length of string. Beside it he placed the small book of notes—drawings of stances, reminders on breathing, advice written in a hand both clear and patient.
The hours stretched, and he waited. By the time night fell, Winterfell's halls had grown quiet. Gadriel draped himself in a black cloak, Dawnbringer hanging at his side, his dragonbone armor fitted beneath. He slipped through the corridors with the silence of long practice, the guard patrols none the wiser.
Bran's chamber door creaked faintly as he pushed it open, careful not to stir the boy. The room was dark save for the glow of the dying embers in the hearth. Bran lay curled beneath the furs, breathing slow and deep. Gadriel padded across the floor, placed the rolled parchment and the book upon the small table at the bedside, and lingered just long enough to look at the boy's sleeping form.
"Keep at it," he whispered, words meant only for the silence.
Then he turned and left as quietly as he had come.
A few minutes later, under the watch of cold stars, Gadriel mounted Dust outside the walls. The horse snorted softly, the sound carrying into the night. Gadriel settled into the saddle, cloak drawn tight, the pale bone of his armor catching faint light beneath the fabric. With one last glance at Winterfell's towers—strong, proud, and heavy with stone—he tugged the reins.
The gates were behind him soon, the sound of hooves fading into the northern dark.
Winterfell slept. Gadriel rode on.