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The morning sun cast a golden hue over the Red Keep's courtyard, its light catching on the polished steel of two men locked in combat. A soft breeze whispered through the open space, rustling the banners that draped from the towering stone walls. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint tang of sweat and steel as Gideon and Ser Barristan danced across the training yard. Barristan pressed forward with measured precision, his blade cutting through the air in smooth arcs, yet Gideon remained almost passive, his movements fluid as water. He sidestepped, ducked, and parried each strike with minimal effort, never allowing the older knight's blade to so much as graze him.
The fight continued in this rhythm, Barristan attacking, Gideon evading. Gideon's demeanor was almost eerie calm as if he were merely entertaining an inevitable outcome. Then, in an instant, he shifted. Barristan lunged, and for the first time, Gideon met him with force. The clash of steel rang through the yard as Gideon pressed the offensive, his strikes swift and relentless. Barristan adjusted quickly, but the moment of imbalance was enough—Gideon disarmed him with a deft wrist twist, sending the blade clattering to the ground.
"Yield," Gideon said evenly, his sword resting lightly against Barristan's shoulder.
Barristan chuckled, breathing hard. "A fine match," he admitted, stepping back and offering Gideon a nod of respect.
Before either man could continue, a booming laugh echoed across the courtyard.
"I don't know how you do it, Ser Gideon," Robert Baratheon's voice carried across the yard as he strode toward them, his broad chest still shaking with mirth. "Mostly unknown, yet you've just proved yourself the finest warrior in the realm." He grinned, his eyes alight with the old fire of his youth. "Gods, I would've loved to face you in my prime."
Gideon dipped his head humbly. "Your Grace flatters me too much."
Robert scoffed, shaking his head. "Modesty doesn't suit you, boy! Don't try it." His laughter rumbled through the courtyard again, before his gaze shifted upward.
Joffrey stood on a high balcony overlooking the training yard, his expression twisted in a sneer as he watched Gideon. For a moment, his gaze was filled with open disdain, but then his eyes flicked toward Robert. Realizing he'd been caught, Joffrey stiffened, his sneer vanishing as he turned on his heel and stalked away.
Robert let out a long, weary sigh. "What a son I have, huh?"
Gideon sheathed his sword. "The Prince is at that age. Surely, with time, he will grow out of it."
Robert snorted, shaking his head. "You don't understand," he muttered. His jovial tone had vanished, replaced by something colder. "It's worse than you think."
Gideon studied him. "Your Grace?"
Robert ran a hand down his face as if trying to scrub away the exhaustion. "A few years ago, Joffrey… he gutted Tommen's cat." He exhaled sharply, his voice laced with something bitter. "Took the kittens out one by one, lined them up, and brought the carcass to me as if he expected praise."
A chill settled in Gideon's stomach. "How old…"
Robert barked a hollow, humorless laugh. "Seven name days. And I did nothing. I told myself it was just foolishness, just a boy being cruel. But I should've known better." His jaw tightened. "I see the makings of the Mad King in that boy."
Robert turned his gaze to the sky, rubbing a hand on his face in frustration. "It's my fault. I've been too engulfed in wine and women to be a good king, let alone a good father. And now?" He let out a bitter breath. "It's too late to change anything."
Gideon met his gaze. "If I may, Your Grace, It's never too late." On the surface, Gideon appeared calm, but beneath that, he was concerned. Seven years old, and already capable of such cruelty? He had met boys who were rough, even mean-spirited, but this… Joffrey had done it not out of malice but because he thought it was normal, even praiseworthy.
His first thought was the boy's mother. Perhaps Joffrey had been raised in a household without kindness, without warmth. A cruel mother and an absent father—what else could be expected of a child shaped by such a home? But that explanation didn't sit right. Tommen and Myrcella had been raised under the same roof, yet they were nothing like their brother. He had only encountered them in passing, but they had struck him as sweet and innocent, as children ought to be.
Gideon was forced to abandon his train of thought as Robert turned to him sharply, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Then, finally, the king exhaled. "Tell me, Gideon… have you ever taught anyone?"
"Not in any dedicated fashion," Gideon admitted.
Robert glanced toward Barristan, who had stepped away, giving them space. The conversation had turned private now, their voices lowered. "Joffrey needs a mentor. Not just a swords instructor—he's had plenty of those, and he listens to none of them. But you?" Robert's gaze was contemplative. "I reckon he's jealous of you. That's where his anger comes from. He wishes he could be like you, though he'd never admit it. Maybe you could teach him."
Gideon hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "Your Grace, I'm not meant to stay here for long. My path leads elsewhere," he began, his tone measured. "And besides…" He met Robert's gaze, his expression firm yet not unkind. "I can think of no better mentor than a father."
Robert flinched, just slightly, as if the words had struck a nerve. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face—guilt, regret, perhaps even shame. His mouth opened as if to respond, but before he could speak, a sudden commotion erupted from the far end of the courtyard.
A servant sprinted toward them, his face pale, his breath coming in gasps. "Your Grace!" he choked out, barely able to catch his breath. "The Prince—Prince Joffrey has collapsed!"
Robert went rigid. The color drained from his face, his expression shifting from contemplation to alarm in an instant. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode away, his heavy steps echoing across the courtyard as he made for the keep.
—
Robert stormed into the chamber, his heavy steps echoing off the stone walls. The room was dimly lit, the midday sun struggling to pierce through the thick curtains. Joffrey lay motionless on the grand bed, his golden hair fanned out against the pillows. At his side, Grand Maester Pycelle hovered, his wrinkled hands fussing over the boy's forehead, while Cersei sat rigidly beside her son, her face carefully composed, though concern flickered in her green eyes.
"What happened?" Robert demanded, his voice thick with frustration and something close to worry.
Pycelle straightened, turning his aged face toward the king. "I am… unsure, Your Grace." He stroked his long white beard, his expression one of perplexed thoughtfulness. "The prince's pulse is steady, his breathing even. There are no signs of fever, nor any indication of ailment. It is as if he simply… fell asleep."
Cersei shot the old man a sharp glare. "Then wake him up."
Pycelle hesitated. "I have tried, Your Grace. He is unresponsive, though there is no reason he should be."
Robert huffed, folding his arms across his chest. "Then what use are you, old man?"
Pycelle bristled but said nothing.
A few moments passed in silence, save for the occasional shift of fabric as Cersei smoothed a hand over Joffrey's hair. Then, suddenly, Joffrey's body tensed. A shudder ran through him, and his eyelids fluttered open.
For a brief moment, the boy's irises flashed—a strange, fleeting shift from their usual Lannister green to something else. A greenish red, unnatural and foreign. The change was subtle, so brief that no one seemed to take notice, or if they did, they dismissed it as a trick of the light.
Cersei was the first to react. "Joffrey!" Her voice was sharp with concern as she leaned closer. "Are you alright?"
Joffrey did not respond immediately. His gaze drifted slowly around the room, his pupils constricting as if adjusting to the dim light. His expression was unreadable at first—blank, almost eerily still—but then, without warning, it darkened.
A deep scowl twisted his young face, his brows knitting together in seething anger. His lips curled slightly, his breaths turning harsh.
"Joffrey?" Cersei asked again, this time with a note of unease.
Then, suddenly, he snapped upright.
"Where is that holy bastard?" His voice was hoarser than usual, as though strained by something unseen.
The room stiffened. Confused glances passed between Robert, Cersei, and Pycelle.
"Joffrey, what are you talking about?" Cersei asked carefully, reaching for his hand.
Joffrey ignored her, his fury mounting. "That holy bastard," he spat, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. "He caused this—he harmed me!" His fingers curled into fists, his knuckles white. "He poisoned me! I'm sure of it!"
Robert's face twisted in disbelief. "Who in the seven hells are you talking about, boy?"
Joffrey turned toward him, his rage unwavering. "Gideon!" His voice was raw, edged with something unnatural. "I want him dead! He dares touch me! I should have him flayed for this!"
His breathing grew ragged, his tone shifting—growing deeper, raspier. The words leaving his mouth sounded almost as if they belonged to another person as if something twisted and unnatural had settled in his throat. His whole body trembled with anger, his nails digging into the bed sheets.
Cersei's concern deepened, her eyes flickering between her son and her husband. She turned sharply to Robert. "You heard your son," she said, her voice cold with authority. "Arrest the foreigner for daring to poison the Crown Prince."
Robert's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Are you serious, woman?" He shook his head in disbelief, his lips curling into a sneer. "You and Joffrey have both lost your damn minds."
Joffrey's face blackened. "You don't believe me?"
"No, I don't," Robert said flatly. "Gideon has no reason to poison you. Plus here you are, totally fine. You're talking madness."
"Of course he does!" Cersei interjected, her voice sharp as steel. "He and Joffrey had an altercation at the feast last night. Perhaps he was embarrassed by it and took his anger out on poor Joffrey in retaliation."
Robert let out a bitter laugh, running a hand over his face. "If anyone should be embarrassed, it's Joffrey." His gaze flicked to his son, his expression hard. "The boy made a fool of himself."
Joffrey's lips curled in fury, his entire body seething with barely restrained rage. "You always take their side," he spat, his voice warping into something almost unrecognizable—a deep, guttural snarl that sent a shiver through the room. His breaths came fast and sharp, his chest rising and falling with each trembling inhale. "Never your own blood. Some father you are."
Robert stiffened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "What has gotten into you, boy?" His voice was low, but there was an unmistakable edge, a warning.
Joffrey's lip curled in disdain. "Oh, now you care?" he sneered. "A foreigner stands above your son in your eyes. Do you kneel to his false god as well? Is that why you defend him?"
Cersei tensed beside him, sensing the shift in Robert's mood. She had seen him lose his temper before, had seen what happened when his anger boiled over. Her grip on Joffrey's hand tightened. "Enough," she said, her voice low but firm. "You need rest, my love."
But Joffrey ignored her, his fury only growing. He threw his arms out in mock celebration. "Behold, the mighty King of the Seven Kingdoms!" he jeered, his voice dripping with scorn. "Defender of the Realm! Protector of the people! Yet he cannot even protect his own son from a treacherous bastard! Tell me, Father, do you simply have no spine left to stand against him?"
"Enough!" Robert's voice cracked like a whip, silencing the room. His eyes bore into Joffrey, his expression dark with barely controlled fury. He turned to Pycelle, his voice sharp. "Is there any evidence of poisoning?"
Pycelle, who had remained silent through the exchange, jolted at being addressed so suddenly. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Robert's glare. "W-Well, Your Grace, as I stated before, I find no clear signs of poison. The prince's pulse is steady, his breath unlabored. There are no tremors, no sweating—nothing indicative of the usual toxins we know." He stroked his long beard, his wrinkled face pinching in thought. "If it was poison, it was… unlike any I have seen before."
Robert let out a scoff, his patience worn thin. "So, no evidence then," he said sharply.
Joffrey sat up suddenly, his greenish-red eyes flashing. "You fool!" he spat. "He must have used something unknown to you, something foreign! You've seen his magic, who knows what else he can do?"
Robert's expression darkened. "Magic, is it now?" His voice dripped with skepticism. "Next, you'll be telling me he turned into a bloody dragon and breathed fire at you."
Joffrey's fists clenched at his sides, his body trembling. "You refuse to see the truth. You're a weak, pathetic excuse for a king!"
Robert moved before anyone could stop him. In one swift motion, he crossed the room and backhanded Joffrey across the face. The sharp crack of the strike echoed through the chamber, silencing everyone.
Cersei gasped, moving protectively in front of her son, her eyes blazing with fury. "How dare you!" she hissed, her voice laced with venom.
Robert loomed over them both, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. "How dare I?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Your son sits here, spewing madness and treason, and you expect me to coddle him?" He turned to Pycelle. "You say there's no evidence of poison. Then the boy's just sick in the head."
Joffrey's hands trembled against the sheets, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. His expression twisted in fury, but beneath it, there was something else—something lurking behind his eyes, something cold, calculating… inhuman.
Cersei pulled him close, whispering soothing words, but her glare remained locked onto Robert.
Robert ignored her. "Pycelle, keep an eye on him. If anything changes, let me know." His voice was rough, strained with frustration. He shot one last glance at Joffrey before turning toward the door.
"Your Grace," Pycelle said cautiously. "What of Gideon?"
Robert stopped but didn't turn back. "He's done nothing wrong," he said, his tone final. "I won't punish a man because my son's throwing a tantrum."
With that, he pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stormed out, leaving behind a room thick with tension.
Joffrey wiped the blood from his lip, his expression twisted with hatred. "You'll see," he muttered under his breath. "You'll all see."