The sun had barely crested over the walls of the Red Keep, casting a pale orange glow through the tall windows of the dining chamber. Most of the castle still slept, but Gideon and Mors sat at the long wooden table, breaking their fast in quiet. The clatter of a spoon against a wooden bowl was the only sound between them until Gideon finally spoke, his voice low and grave.
"There is definitely something wrong with the Prince."
Mors paused, halfway through tearing a piece of bread. He looked over, brow furrowed. "Again, Gideon?"
Gideon leaned back slightly, folding his hands in front of him. "You don't understand, Mors. The Lord has given me a vision."
That pulled Mors fully into the moment. He put down the bread and turned to face Gideon, his tone shifting from casual to concerned. "A vision? This morning?"
Gideon nodded slowly. "While I slept. It was... vivid. More than a dream. I've had dreams before, but this... this was something else."
"What did you see?"
Gideon exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight with the weight of it. "Prince Joffrey is no longer Prince Joffrey. Or at least... not fully. Something has taken root in him. Something ancient, and evil."
Mors was quiet for a moment, absorbing the words. Then he asked, hesitantly, "You believe he is possessed then?"
Gideon's eyes drifted downward, to the worn edge of his bowl. "I am unsure. If not possessed, then he is heavily under the influence of the enemy. I saw it—fire, fury, arrogance far beyond even what the Prince has shown here. It was like... a mask was peeled away, and what looked out through his eyes was not of this world."
Mors stiffened. "The enemy."
Gideon nodded. "The Devil. Disguised, perhaps, behind the face of what they call a god of light. R'hllor."
The name left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"I fear," Gideon continued, "what may happen to this kingdom and her people should such a being take the mantle of King."
Mors leaned forward, speaking in a hushed tone though they were alone. "So what do we do? How do we go about this?"
Gideon sat back in silence for a few long seconds, the flicker of the morning sun catching the edge of the silver cross around his neck. "I do not know," he said finally. "I will pray. I will meditate on this. The Lord has opened my eyes—He will not leave me blind when the time to act comes."
"But we can't just tell the King, can we?" Mors asked, voice low and cautious. "Tell him his son is... what? Touched by a demon? Taken by a god he doesn't believe in?"
Gideon gave a tired smile, but there was no joy behind it. "No. We cannot."
He raised his cup slowly and took a sip, the cool water doing little to ease the weight in his chest. His gaze drifted ahead, unfocused, as if trying to see through the stone walls of the Red Keep to the storm gathering beyond.
"If I speak too plainly, they'll call me a madman. A zealot from across the sea preaching fire and damnation. But if I stay silent..." He set the cup down, voice dropping. "The kingdom will burn. And no one will understand why."
Mors was quiet for a breath, then leaned forward, his voice steady and sure. "Whatever path you take, Gideon, you won't walk it alone. The twelve of us—we've seen what you've done. We believe. And in Dorne? You've lit a fire in the hearts of many. They may not all understand yet, but they will. And when they do, they'll stand with you."
Gideon turned to him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. There was still weariness in his eyes, but also gratitude.
"I appreciate that, Mors."
—
The streets of King's Landing were already awake by the time Gideon stepped out of the Red Keep's gates. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, but the capital was never truly quiet—not even at dawn. He moved alone, cloaked in a plain wool mantle over his armor, the cross still hanging from his neck, visible despite the fabric's weight.
The city was a chorus of smells and sounds: bread baking in distant ovens, the wet slap of laundry against stone, the clink of iron-shod wheels rattling over cobbles. But it was also a place of ache. Gideon saw it in every bowed back, every sickly cough, every child's outstretched hand.
He stopped near the edge of Flea Bottom, where a mother sat in the shade of a crumbling wall, cradling a boy no older than four. The child was burning with fever, his breaths shallow and rapid.
"May I?" Gideon asked softly, kneeling before her.
She didn't speak—only stared, her eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights.
Gideon placed a hand gently on the boy's brow. He prayed not loudly, not for show, but with a whisper of reverence. "Lord, You who healed the sick and gave sight to the blind, I ask only that You ease this child's pain. Not for my sake, but for Yours, and for his mother, who loves him dearly."
When he opened his eyes, the boy was breathing easier. His skin no longer felt so hot beneath Gideon's hand. The mother let out a quiet gasp, her arms tightening around the child in disbelief.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice trembling.
"Thank the Lord," Gideon replied, offering her a small loaf of bread from his satchel before moving on.
He spent the morning weaving through alleys and crooked lanes. In the market square, he helped an old man gather a spilled bushel of onions. In the courtyard behind a tavern, he prayed over a crippled laborer's leg. Word had begun to spread—not from town criers or banners, but through quiet whispers passed from one grateful mouth to another. The man in white, the knight who spoke of one God. Some said he healed. Others said he simply listened. But all agreed he was different.
By midday, a small crowd had begun to form—at first just a handful, lingering curiously at the corners of streets, watching him with cautious interest. Gideon said little. He merely smiled and continued on, until the sloping roofs of the lower city opened into a cramped square not far from the fish market.
There, beneath the faded awning of a crumbling stone house, he stopped.
The stone beneath Gideon's boots was cracked and uneven, the kind of path most nobles never walked. But here—between the sagging buildings of King's Landing's poorest district—men and women had already gathered, drawn by the calm presence of the foreign knight with the almost glowing eyes and the cross around his neck.
He stood beneath a faded awning strung between two buildings, using the stoop of a crumbling house as a pulpit. The sun had reached its peak, and sweat glistened on foreheads, but none left. They listened.
"I have seen kingdoms built by strength fall to weakness," Gideon said, his voice firm but soft. "I have seen lords rule with fear, and I have seen peasants rise in love. Power is not what makes a man great. Mercy does. Truth does. Faith does. And the One True God—He sees not gold, nor birth, nor banners. He sees the heart."
The crowd was silent. A few nodded. One woman wept quietly into her scarf. A beggar pressed his hands together in prayer.
Gideon continued, holding out the leather-bound Bible. "Some of you may ask why I've come. I did not arrive with war in my heart. I came to share this. A message of grace, of salvation, of a kingdom not built with swords, but with spirit."
But the quiet was broken by the sudden, sharp voice of a man stepping through the crowd. A Septon in pale robes, the seven-pointed star gleaming at his throat.
"Blasphemer," he hissed. "You dare preach this heresy in the streets of King's Landing? Among the Seven's faithful?"
Gideon turned to face him, but he did not raise his voice. "I speak only of the truth I know. I force nothing on anyone."
"This truth of yours has no place here," the Septon barked, gesturing to the listening crowd. "This city belongs to the Seven. To our traditions, our faith, our gods. Not to the fancies of some Essosi knight who fancies himself a prophet!"
"I am no prophet," Gideon said calmly. "Only a servant."
"A servant of what? A foreign god with no name in these lands?" The Septon spat on the ground near Gideon's feet. "You twist the weak with your false mercy. The Seven teach justice, duty, honor—your kind teaches rebellion. Confusion."
Gideon didn't flinch. "Mercy is not weakness. And truth is not rebellion. I do not ask these people to forsake what they know—I ask only that they listen. That they look inward. That they choose love over hatred, peace over fear."
The Septon scoffed, now clearly angry at Gideon's composure. "You think yourself above judgment?"
"No. I only trust that the Lord judges rightly."
"You are poisoning this city!" the Septon snarled. "You spread a disease of foreign tongues and dangerous ideas. I will go to the High Septon if I must. You will not be allowed to preach this any longer."
Gideon looked over the faces in the crowd—uncertain, some fearful, some deeply moved.
"If I am silenced," he said, meeting the Septon's gaze, "let it be by truth, not pride. But ask yourself this: If the Seven are strong, why do you fear one man speaking peace in the streets?"
That struck something in the Septon, who went red-faced and turned to storm off, muttering curses under his breath. The crowd remained silent, the tension broken only by the sound of birds overhead.
Gideon turned back to them, voice once more quiet and steady. "You must not hate him. He fears what he does not understand. That fear can become cruelty… or, through faith, it can become compassion."
A hush fell over the square. Some of the gathered folk looked down, others shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
Gideon scanned the crowd, his eyes calm but firm. "I have not come to bring war to your gods, nor to tear down your ways with fire and iron. I come to offer truth freely. No coin. No blood. Only truth." He paused, letting the silence sit with them. "If you find no truth in it, you are free to walk away. But if you do… then let it change you. Let it free you."
A small child stepped forward—a girl, no older than eight, with tangled hair and bare feet. She clutched something close to her chest. Gideon knelt down to her level, and she slowly opened her hand. A crude wooden carving of the Seven. She stared at it, then up at him.
"My mum says you're not from here," she whispered. "But you're kind. Are you a knight?"
Gideon smiled gently. "I try to be."
The girl hesitated. "Even if you don't pray to the Seven, will you still pray for my brother? He's sick."
"I will," Gideon said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "And so will the Lord."
Gideon stood once more, his hand slipping away from the girl's shoulder. "You do not need to cast away all you've ever known in one breath," he said, his voice quieter now, almost a murmur carried on the morning breeze. "But let your heart question. Let it wonder. Let it hope."
He let his gaze rest on each of them—faces young and weathered, hopeful and hardened. "There is something greater than fear. Greater than fire. Greater than death. And He does not demand your gold, your blood, or your shame. Only your heart."
A silence followed—not of confusion, but of thought. Reflection. A few heads bowed. A few eyes lingered on the wooden cross at his chest.
And then, quietly, as if afraid to disturb the peace of it, someone whispered, "Amen."
Gideon said nothing more. He simply smiled and stepped down from the stone, blending once again into the crooked lanes of the city—just another man walking with dust on his boots and truth on his tongue.
—
"You're quiet," Robert muttered, not looking up.
She didn't respond at first. Then, slowly, as if weighing every word: "It's him. That knight. Gideon."
Robert snorted. "You're still brooding over that? He's a fine swordsman. Damned impressive, actually."
"That's exactly the problem." Cersei turned, her voice sharper now. "He is too impressive. Too clean. Too powerful. And the way the smallfolk look at him—as if he's already king."
Robert rolled his eyes. "They always fawn over something new. He heals a few beggars and now he's a saint. Let them have their hero for a week."
"You think it's just the smallfolk?" she snapped. "He's gotten into your court. Into your council. The way Varys watches him, how even Selmy speaks of him like he's some bloody legend. And what of Jaime? You saw how easily Gideon disarmed him. That alone should give you pause."
Robert frowned, setting his goblet down. "Are you saying you fear him?"
"I fear what he might become," she said coldly. "Men with that kind of power always want something, even if they say they don't. And he's wrapped himself in this veil of humility and righteousness—"
"That's better than half the liars I have surrounding me," Robert said, standing. "At least the man's honest."
Cersei stepped forward, voice low but intense. "You don't understand. He speaks of a god no one here knows, one who answers. And Joffrey—"
At the mention of her son, Robert's face darkened.
"—Joffrey's already made his hatred of the man clear," she continued. "But what happens when the realm starts listening to him instead of the boy who's meant to rule it one day?"
Robert didn't look at her.
He turned back to the window, the city stretching far below, bathed in gold.
"You were better when you were quiet," he muttered, the words tossed carelessly like scraps to a mutt. Without sparing her another glance, he grabbed his goblet and strode out of the room, the heavy door groaning shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cersei stood there alone, her nails digging into her palm, chest rising and falling as her fury boiled beneath her skin.
She had tried to warn him.
And now he'd left her like some dismissed servant. Like a child.
Her jaw clenched. She stared at the closed door for a long time before finally whispering, more to herself than anyone else:
"Then I'll handle it myself."