The battlefield lay shrouded in the golden haze of a dying sun, its crimson rays spilling over the carnage like a mournful benediction. Smoke curled from smoldering remnants of shattered wagons and fallen banners. The cries of the wounded had faded to an eerie quiet, leaving only the rustle of the wind carrying ash across the broken plain. In the center of the devastation, a lone knight stood amidst the wreckage, his battered armor smeared with blood and grime, his breath ragged and labored.
Before him stretched a line of enemy soldiers, their armor glinting coldly in the fading light. Spears formed a bristling wall, and behind it, bowmen stood at the ready. The commander stepped forward with a measured gait.
"You are outnumbered, surrounded, and faced with certain defeat," the commander declared, his voice calm but edged with the finality of an executioner's blade. "Surrender. Live. You have fought valiantly. There is no shame in defeat."
The knight's gaze, dulled by exhaustion, shifted upward. Through the clearing smoke, the sky revealed itself—a deep azure bleeding into a fiery orange, scattered with clouds that seemed to drift in solemn procession.
"Tell me," he rasped, barely audible, "what do you see?"
The commander faltered, puzzled by the question.
After a brief silence, the knight answered his own query. His voice grew stronger as if drawn from an unseen wellspring of resolve.
"I see my parents, my brothers and sisters. I see the line of my people, back to the beginning." He lifted his battered head higher. "They call to me. They bid me take my place among them."
For a moment, the battlefield seemed to still, as though time itself held its breath. The knight lowered his gaze and fixed the commander with a stare that pierced through steel and flesh alike. "I have served my Heavenly Father faithfully in life. I have no reason to fear death."
With an effort that seemed to take his last reserves of strength, he reached down and picked up his sword. The blade, notched and dulled, caught the light in a defiant glint.
"Surrender has never been something I considered."
He planted the tip of his blade into the earth and leaned upon it, standing straighter. The scene carried an aura of solemn finality, the kind that makes even hardened soldiers second-guess their course.
"Very well," the commander said quietly, his voice carrying no malice, only respect. The commander spoke once more, his voice low and reverent.
"In the name of God the Almighty Father, who created you, in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, who suffered for you, in the name of the Holy Spirit, who was poured out upon you, go forth, faithful Christian."
The knight nodded slowly, gripping his sword tightly with both hands. A flicker of gratitude crossed his face.
"Thank you."
With a battle cry that echoed across the barren fields, he charged. His weary legs found strength for a final surge as he swung his blade with defiance. Yet the outcome was inevitable. His strikes lacked the precision of earlier hours; the weight of his exhaustion had sealed his fate. In moments, his movements faltered. A single, well-timed blow from an enemy spear sent him to his knees. A second strike ended it.
The battlefield grew silent once more. The commander approached the fallen knight and removed his helm, placing it underneath his armpit. Then he bowed his head.
"He fought with honor," he said softly. The words were not for his soldiers but for the heavens above. Around him, the sun slipped below the horizon, casting the field into shadow. Somewhere in the distance, the tolling of a solitary bell marked the passing of the day—and a soul.
—
The knight knelt on the edge of a grove, where the sun shone through the canopy of tall, graceful trees, their branches bearing many vibrant fruits. In the distance, the sound of trickling water could be heard; a calming rhythm. Pools shimmered like glass, and a warm breeze almost embraced him. There were marble terraces bordering the water, with carvings that were foreign to him, some seemed to depict scenes of war and others of beauty.
"Where…is this Heaven?" he murmured, his voice wavering. His fingers pressed into the sun-warmed earth as his eyes roamed the dreamlike surroundings. Everything appeared radiant, almost sacred in its perfection. A small smile touched his lips, tinged with the hope that this was indeed the paradise promised in life's final moments. However, something was amiss. According to the scriptures, he should be greeted by his Lord and loved ones to be welcomed into paradise, however, none of these things had occurred.
As the knight rose to his feet, his confusion was evident as he took in his unfamiliar surroundings. Suddenly, a wave of knowledge flooded through his mind. It was not overwhelming but instead deliberate. He was taught that the place where he had found himself was not heaven like he had hoped, but instead a foreign land. The customs of the ones who called this place home unfurled before his eye–their gods were strange and many, bearing no semblance to the Almighty he served. Sadness consumed his thoughts, these people did not know the love of Jesus Christ. They bowed to false idols and placed their faith in empty traditions.
As he processed this new knowledge, a soft voice echoed in his thoughts–gentle yet resounding with authority. "Go Forth, my child, for you are chosen." The knight froze, his breath caught in his chest, There was no doubt in his mind, that he had just heard the voice of his Lord, and every ounce of exhaustion from his earlier battle disappeared.
At that moment, a brilliant light enveloped the knight. The golden glow surged like a wave, and he felt a transformation take hold. His battered armor, stained with blood and tarnished by battle, began to shimmer and shift. It reformed into a set of resplendent plate—gleaming white and adorned with intricate golden etchings, as though forged by divine hands. Its front bore a magnificent engraving of a cross.
At his side, his broken sword dissolved into light, reshaping into a weapon of unparalleled beauty. The blade was pure silver, glowing faintly with an otherworldly radiance, and engraved with scripture.
As the light around him subsided, he glanced at his hands and saw one last gift appear. A Holy Bible, bound in radiant gold and silver, materialized in his grasp. Its weight was both literal and symbolic, a reminder of his calling and the power he now carried. The knight instinctively clutched it to his chest, a deep reverence filling his heart. Alongside it came the same understanding—the knowledge that he had been blessed with the ability to perform miracles in the name of his Lord.
"I... I will obey, Lord," he murmured, his voice steady and reverent. As he spoke, he lifted his gaze to the sky, his hands gripping the Bible with unshakable resolve.
—
Arriane Martell stormed from the hall, her heart seething with frustration. Her father will choose Quentyn, she thought bitterly. Not me. Never me. Was it because she was a woman? Why? Dozens of Princesses of Dorne ruled successfully before her. Every lesson she had ever taken prepared her for the day that she would take the mantle of Princess of Dorne, but lately, it felt like her rightful place was being taken away.
She did not know why her father had not made any moves to formally name her heir yet. Any questions she asked would be sidelined with the same "Don't worry Arriane, you will rule," at first she trusted his words, believing that her father would never push her aside, but she could only be so foolish.
In her anger, she went to the one place that seemed to calm her mind, the Water Gardens. With a minimal escort, she took the short journey and told her guards to wait outside, her tone brooking no argument. There was no need for an entourage anyway, the entrances to the gardens were always guarded, and no one aside from the Martells, their guests, and the ones who tended to the gardens were allowed inside.
She strolled through the gardens, the sound of gently flowing water bringing some relief to the turmoil within her. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape her anger over the thought of her good-for-nothing cousin Quentyn taking her rightful place as ruler of Dorne. She had been training for that title her whole life; she had earned it she told herself. Why did her father not see that?
Her steps faltered as her eyes were drawn to something—a figure before her, standing bathed in the light of the setting sun. The sight made her eyes nearly bulge out of her skull, and her breath was caught in her throat.
The figure was tall and regal, but it was the air around him that was unlike anything she had ever seen. Clad in armor more intricate than she ever thought possible, with a sword that looked somehow dangerous and comforting at the same time, and holding onto a beautiful book, seemingly glowing in his hands. Though his face was hidden beneath the edge of a helmet, everything about him radiated something… otherworldly.
For a moment, her frustration with her father and her cousin was forgotten, her mind seemed to dismiss the fact that there was no way for this figure to be inside the Water Gardens aside from sneaking in, an alarming thought.
Her words slipped from her lips before she could stop them: "Who are you?" They echoed in the stillness of the garden.
The figure before her, previously unaware of her presence, turned slowly towards her. After a few moments of silence, the figure slightly tilted his head, as if confused.
This man, if Arriane could even call him that, shone with a light that was surely impossible. She should be afraid, terrified even, stories of magic had been told to her throughout her youth, yet she could not find herself feeling the slightest fear of the figure in front of her.
"What manner of sorcery is this?"
—
The knight looked at her with quiet resolve, his stance unwavering as he registered her skepticism. Beneath the divine radiance of his transformed armor, a thought began to take hold: she could be the first. This woman could be the beginning of his mission to spread the truth of his Lord in this foreign, godless land.
"Not sorcery, my lady," he replied, his voice steady yet warm. "This is the work of my Lord."
"The Seven, then?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
The knight sighed softly, a sorrowful pity passing over his striking features. Slowly, he raised his hands to unfasten the helm that rested atop his head. Arriane couldn't help but double-take at the sheer beauty of this man's countenance.
"My Lord," he began, his tone imbued with conviction and reverence, "is so much more than that. My Lord is the one true God, the Creator of everything."
Arriane had never been particularly devout, her faith in the Seven more an inherited custom than a deeply held conviction. Yet as she stood here, in front of this otherworldly man(?), she found herself questioning what she had earlier dismissed as mere fairy tales, after all, was this man not proof that the world had more to it than what she originally thought?
"These are the Water Gardens of Dorne, open only to the Martell family and invited guests. Why would your Lord send you here of all places?"
The figure, replied evenly, "I cannot begin to question the actions of my Heavenly Father. I can only interpret them to the best of my abilities and trust in His divine will."
Arriane arched her brow, "Heavenly Father? Are you claiming to be a god, then?"
A deep laugh escaped him, "no, my lady. I am no more a god than you are," he said with a smile. "I am a man, no different from any other–simply one whom the Creator has chosen to bear His message. My Heavenly Father is not just any god, but the God, the creator of everything–the earth, the skies, the seas, and all life within them. As His creation, we live under His love and His law, guided by His light."
He gestured around them, "This beauty you see, the harmony of this place–none of it is mere chance. It is the handiwork of my Lord. And it is through His will that I stand before you now."
"This garden was created by my ancestors, not your Lord," Arriane countered. "And how is it I've never heard of your ever-powerful Lord before, does He even have a name?"
The man gave her a gentle smile, "My Lord has many names. Some call him simply the Almighty, others Jehovah or Yahweh. But to all who know Him, he is simply God–Father, Redeemer, Sustainer."
The man paused before continuing, "Also, you have heard of him now no? Perhaps His purpose in sending me here is so that you and your people might come to know His love."
Arriane's lips curved slightly. "And do you have a name, or shall I simply call you 'servant'?"
He chuckled at her words, dipping his head in a courteous nod. "Forgive my oversight, my lady. My name is Gideon Engel. A knight, but ever His servant."
"Ser Gideon then? You call yourself a knight but do not believe in the Seven?"
Gideon nodded calmly, "I am a knight, but my vows are made in His name, and my sword only serves His will."
"A man who calls himself a knight, yet without banners or allegiance to any houses in all the realms. A man who preaches of a singular deity, a god none in Dorne, or even Westeros, have heard of?" A small smirk tugged at her lips, "do you not see the absurdity of your claims?"
Gideon chuckled, "I do not blame you for doubting, my lady. Faith often appears strange to those who have not walked in its light. But I speak only the truth. I was sent here, not by my choosing, but by divine purpose."
After a few moments of silence, where Arriane was processing his words, her expression sobered and she gestured to the areas surrounding them. "Your divine purpose seems to have brought you trespassing the lands of House Martell. Regardless of the truthfulness of your… admittedly far-fetched tale, you have unlawfully entered private grounds. As such, you shall be detained and brought before my father, Prince Doran Martell, for judgment."
Arriane tried to sound as confident as she could, but she found herself struggling to do so. What was she truly planning to do? Could she disarm this stranger, who seemed to possess otherworldly weaponry and qualities? She expected him to resist–maybe even attack her in response to her words. Instead, Gideon simply inclined his head and smiled, catching her off guard.
"I will go willingly, my lady," he said calmly.
Arriane narrowed her eyes in suspicion, "And what of your armor and sword? Are they simply for show?"
Gideon shook his head with a chuckle. "I assure you I was trained to use these weapons from my youth. However, I wear this armor and wield this sword not to harm but to protect. Protect the weak and defenseless–this was one of the oaths I took when I became a knight."
"And if me or mine wished you harm?"
Gideon's previous friendly and disarming gaze instantly steeled, catching Arriane off guard and instantly confirming her worries that this man was not to be trifled with. "That would be most unfortunate, my lady. For though I pray for peace, I would not falter in defending myself or the cause entrusted to me by my Lord."
The air between them grew still, heavy with tension. A few moments of silence passed, the only sounds being the faint trickle of water nearby.
Finally, Arriane opened her mouth, saying, "You have my word no harm will come to you,"
Gideon inclined his head in silent gratitude. "Thank you, my lady."