Gideon lingered in the courtyard for a moment, watching as Robert vanished through the castle doors.
With a quiet sigh, Gideon bowed his head in prayer. He clasped his hands together, and whispered a plea for the Prince's health. And bidding farewell to the inhabitants of the courtyard, he departed towards the hall, his stomach grumbling at the thought of breakfast.
—
The hall was alive with the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation as Gideon approached the long table where his twelve companions sat.
He dropped onto the bench beside Mors, grabbing a hunk of bread from the center of the table. "You've saved me some, I trust?"
"Not if Barrus had his way, the man would've eaten the whole table if we let him," said Marcus, raising his cup.
Laughter rumbled through the table as Gideon shook his head. He tore off a piece of bread, gave thanks, and took a bite before speaking. "You'll never guess what happened this morning."
"What, you lost to Ser Barristan?" quipped Roderick.
"Not quite," Gideon said, swallowing. "Prince Joffrey collapsed."
A silence fell over the table, surprise flashing across several faces—save for Mors, who scoffed. "Serves him right."
Gideon's head turned sharply, his expression unreadable. He set his cup down, looking Mors directly in the eye. "Do not wish harm upon others, Mors. As is written, 'Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and do not let your heart be glad when he stumbles, lest the Lord see it and disapprove.'"
Mors shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his plate.
Darnell, however, was less subdued. "Gideon, that boy is nothing but trouble," he said, leaning forward. "You haven't been here long enough to see or hear of it, but the rumors of his cruelty reach even Sunspear. If he is to be King one day, I pray I am far from these lands when it happens. The last thing Westeros needs is another Mad King."
Gideon's jaw tightened. His voice, this time, was firmer. "That is no reason to wish a boy of eleven name-days harm."
The tension between them held for a moment—but then Marcus sighed loudly.
"All this talk of princes and kings so early in the morning. Can we not discuss something lighter? Like how Halvar snores loud enough to wake the dead?"
Halvar scowled. "I do not snore."
"Aye, you do," Mors said, eager for the change in subject. "Like a dying boar."
"A dying boar?!" Halvar repeated, offended. "I'll have you know, I was once told I sleep like a babe."
"A babe possessed by a demon, maybe," muttered Roderick.
Marcus turned to Gideon, feigning concern. "I hope you're praying for us, Gideon, because if we share a room again, I'll not survive another night."
Gideon chuckled. "I'll be sure to pray for your endurance, brother."
Darnell leaned in with a wicked grin. "And what of Mors? Shall we discuss how he claims to be the strongest among us yet couldn't lift his pack last week?"
Mors turned red. "It was heavier than it looked!"
"Ah yes," said Marcus, stroking his chin. "And the ground was slipperier than it seemed when you fell into that ditch as well?"
The laughter grew, filling the hall with warmth. Gideon smiled, glad to see the earlier tension fade into good humor.
But just as he lifted his cup, a servant approached, hesitating near the table.
"Ser Gideon?" the young man said.
Gideon set his cup down, looking up. "Yes?"
"The King has requested your presence."
A hush fell over the group.
Gideon sighed, glancing down at his half-finished meal. "May I at least finish my breakfast first?"
The servant hesitated, clearly unsure.
Gideon smiled knowingly. "I would not make your job harder. I understand." He pushed his plate away and rose. "Brothers, try not to get into too much trouble without me."
"No promises," called Halvar.
Gideon smirked, clapping Marcus on the back before following the servant out of the hall, toward Robert's solar.
—
The room was dimly lit, the heavy drapes drawn to keep out the midday sun. A fire crackled in the hearth, but the warmth did little to brighten the somber atmosphere. Robert Baratheon sat slumped in his chair, a goblet in his large, calloused hand. But for once, he wasn't drinking. Instead, he turned the cup slowly, watching his distorted reflection shimmer in the dark wine.
Gideon stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. He bowed his head. "You called for me, Your Grace?"
Robert let out a long breath, still staring at the goblet as if it held all the answers to his woes. "I barely recognize myself, you know," he muttered. His voice was softer than Gideon expected, almost wistful. "The Conqueror King. The Usurper. So many titles. And yet, I cannot even control my son."
Gideon furrowed his brow. "Did something happen with the prince?"
Robert let out a dry chuckle. "Something, indeed." He finally lifted his gaze, fixing Gideon with a weary look. "Ser Gideon, you don't strike me as the lying type, so I shall ask this only once—out of formality." His fingers tapped against the goblet. "Did you poison my son?"
Gideon's face twisted in shock. Looking appalled and confused.
Robert waved a hand. "Your expression tells me all I need to know." He chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "I doubted it from the start, but my son seems dead set on the idea."
Gideon shook his head, still reeling. "The prince truly believes I poisoned him?"
"Aye," Robert grunted. "When he awoke from his rather short 'slumber,' he seemed fine at first. Pensive, even. But then his face twisted with anger—and pain. He started spewing accusations, called you a 'holy bastard.'" Robert exhaled sharply through his nose, turning again to the goblet, downing the wine in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward. "I called you here for advice as well."
"About the prince, I assume?"
Robert nodded, setting the goblet aside. "Yes. I know what you told me before, about being a presence in my son's life. That I should make the effort." He let out a bitter chuckle. "You made it sound so damned simple."
Gideon tilted his head but didn't respond.
Robert scowled, rubbing a hand over his bearded jaw. "The boy is… different. Normally, he clamors for my attention. My praise. But today, when he woke, he did not seek my approval. He insulted me and wanted nothing to do with me. I admit I lost my temper with the boy, but something had to be done to set him straight."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Gods, I don't even know what's wrong with him." His voice was quieter now, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. "Is it his mother? She coddles the boy too much, makes him more Lannister than Baratheon." His lips curled in frustration. "Or perhaps it's me. I've been too absent, too busy warring, drinking, fucking—too busy being a 'king' to be a father." He let out a bitter chuckle. "And now the boy I should have guided sees me as little more than an obstacle in his path."
Robert gave Gideon a flat look. "And how, exactly, do you propose I fix that?"
Gideon was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "With patience. And persistence."
Robert snorted. "I have neither."
"That is a failing you must correct, Your Grace."
The king barked a laugh, shaking his head. "You speak boldly for a man in my court."
"You asked for my advice."
"Aye, I did." Robert leaned back in his chair. Silence stretched between them, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. His eyes, unfocused, drifted toward the flickering candlelight as if searching for something in the depths of the flames.
After a long pause, he exhaled through his nose. "Tell me, Ser Gideon, where do you hail from?"
"The Holy Roman Empire, Your Grace."
"Essos, then?"
Gideon shook his head.
"Sothoryos?"
Another shake.
Robert let out a short, amused huff. "Fine, keep your secrets. I'll ask Pycelle about it later. It's the only thing the old man is good for." He took a long swig from his goblet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. "Well, that's enough talk for one morning. I've spent too long brooding as it is." He stretched, rolling his shoulders. "I think I'll go lose myself in the company of some whores. A far more pleasant way to pass the time."
Gideon frowned, his posture straightening. "Your Grace, such… escapes will not solve anything."
Robert paused mid-step, turning his head just enough to fix Gideon with a sidelong glance. There was a moment when the air between them felt charged, the weight of the king's authority pressing down like a great storm cloud. But then Robert sighed, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head.
"You've got some nerve, I'll give you that," he muttered before letting out a bark of laughter. "I don't think I've ever had someone tell me outright not to do so. Not even my damned wife." Robert studied Gideon for a bit, before grunting and rubbing his jaw. "Seven hells, lad. You remind me of someone." He didn't elaborate further. Instead, he sighed and waved a dismissive hand. "Go on, then. I'll think about what you said."
Gideon didn't press further, realizing that it would be impossible to change the king in a single conversation. Robert Baratheon was a man set in his ways, and while he had listened—perhaps more than Gideon expected—it would take more than words to shift the weight of years of neglect and indulgence.
Still, there were more pressing matters at hand. Joffrey's hostility was nothing new, but his sudden shift in behavior, his erratic rage, and his near-delirious accusations were concerning. The prince had always been cruel, but this felt different—wilder, more unhinged. And now, the boy seemed dead set on painting Gideon as his enemy, and the enemy of the Realm.
That alone was dangerous. He had much to think about.
Gideon inclined his head respectfully. "Your Grace," he said in farewell, before turning on his heel and striding toward the hall's great doors.
—
Prince Doran Martell knelt before a wooden cross, his hands resting on his knees as he bowed his head in silent prayer. The cross was simple and unadorned, yet its presence was weighty. It was a gift from Gideon before his departure—a reminder of the faith that had taken root in Sunspear's halls.
A soft knock disturbed the stillness, and his daughter, Arianne, stepped inside. She hesitated at the threshold, watching her father with an unreadable expression before finally speaking.
"Father."
Doran exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, shifting his weight as he rose to his feet. He turned to her, his face calm as always, though there was a shadow of thoughtfulness in his dark eyes. She held out a letter, the wax seal freshly broken.
"News from King's Landing," she said.
He took the parchment, unfolding it with careful fingers. His eyes moved over the words, and a slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Seems like Gideon is making quite the fuss." He hummed, folding the letter. "Well, we cannot stay complacent in such times. It is time to begin."
Arianne frowned, her grip tightening around the folds of her dress. "Father, this may cause war," she warned. "Should we not seek Gideon's counsel beforehand?"
Doran studied her, then sighed. "Arianne, Gideon is a great man, do not mistake me. But he is a messenger." His fingers brushed against the wooden cross. "I have sought God's counsel, and in doing so, I have received my answer. 'For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven... a time for war, and a time for peace.'"
Her brows knitted together. "Ecclesiastes."
Doran nodded.
Arianne's lips pressed into a thin line. "I understand, Father, but surely the Lord would not wish for needless death and suffering? Is the bridge to truth not through love? Perhaps we should wait until the Dornish lords meet Gideon themselves?"
Her father turned and walked slowly to the balcony, looking out over the red-tiled roofs of Sunspear, the people moving like ants below. His expression remained composed, but his voice was tinged with something heavier.
"The lords of Dorne will do as they always do—argue, bicker, delay," said Doran. "The status quo must change, I understand your hesitation, Arianne, believe me. But this is something we must do."
He turned to face her fully now, his dark eyes filled with certainty. "Many of the lords of Dorne are opportunists, always seeking a way to strengthen their positions. They will not all embrace the faith out of devotion, but they will embrace it as a means to further distance themselves from the Iron Throne. This will grant them hope of something they have always craved–independence. And in time, I have faith that God will guide them to the truth."
Arianne's expression darkened, her arms folding tightly across her chest. "And what of Gideon?" she demanded. "You know how this will be seen, Father. The Lords of Westeros will blame him. Outside the North, they will claim he turned us against the Seven, that he has poisoned our minds with foreign beliefs. They will call for justice, and many Lords of Dorne will also call for justice. Maybe even his head." Her voice wavered at the last words, her usual confidence slipping.
Doran sighed, his expression softening for a moment. "So this is the true reason for your hesitation? Arriane I-"
"I do not wish to see him harmed," she interrupted, frustration lacing her voice. "He is a good man, Father. He has been nothing but kind to us, and yet you risk making him a target. If we do this while he is still in King's Landing, he will bear the brunt of their wrath."
Doran was silent for a long moment, considering her words. He was not a man who made decisions in haste, nor one who allowed sentiment to cloud his judgment. And yet, he was not without mercy.
"You ask for time," he said at last.
"For him," Arianne replied. "And for Dorne. Let the lords of Westeros see firsthand Gideon's miracles before you give them something to fear. You will have your change, Father, but let him be safely away from the storm when it comes."
Doran studied her, his face unreadable. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. "Very well. I will wait until Gideon departs from King's Landing before we make our declaration."