(Want to say something really quick. Life has been hectic, but it finally seems to have settled down a little bit. Probably won't post as often as I was before, but I should get a chapter out every week.)
(Enjoy)
The air smelled of old incense and wet stone.
It had rained in the night. Not a heavy storm, just a steady, quiet fall that left the streets shining like glass and the alleyways slick with run-off. The sky was still overcast, the light thin and silver, not quite enough to chase the cold from the bones of the city.
Gideon walked the narrow lane that wound below the Street of Silk, the hem of his cloak catching droplets as he passed. He moved quietly, head bowed—not out of shame, but in thought. There were fewer folk about at this hour. Even in King's Landing, the day took time to wake. A few bakers were sweeping stoops. A boy with a wooden leg limped by, whistling tunelessly. Somewhere behind him, the faint sound of bells echoed from the direction of the Great Sept.
He turned the corner into a broader square, where two sisters in plain robes were helping an elderly man to his feet after a fall. Gideon approached instinctively, kneeling at the old man's side, but one of the sisters recognized him and whispered his name like a prayer.
"I'm fine, Ser," the old man croaked, holding his ribs. "Just slipped."
"Let me see," Gideon said gently, already placing a hand over the man's chest. His voice lowered into a murmur, words carried more in spirit than in sound. The man winced, then sighed with visible relief.
A few of the morning merchants had taken notice. Heads turned. One woman gasped softly and crossed herself with a trembling hand.
Gideon stood and nodded once to the sisters, then turned to leave.
But he didn't get far.
A sound behind him. Not boots, not armor—but deliberate. Synchronized. Like a dozen men trying not to sound like a dozen men.
He turned before they could speak.
The sound of approaching feet grew louder—deliberate, mismatched, armored in pieces but not in unity. No king's guard. No knightly order. The men that approached bore the symbols of the Faith.
Seven of them stepped into the square, each clad in roughspun robes half-covered by bits of old chainmail and cracked leather. They bore cudgels, not swords, and more than one had the look of a man who had once begged for coin and now begged for power. The one in front held aloft a heavy golden seven-pointed star, its chain draped around his neck like a noose made for pride.
They didn't look at Gideon first. They looked at the people.
"Shame on you," one barked, voice thick with contempt. "Lapping up the false words of a blasphemer like dogs at a butcher's scraps."
The crowd drew back slightly, a ripple of discomfort running through them.
"You—woman," another snapped, pointing at the one who had gasped earlier. "Do you think you'll be saved by this man's tricks? That his foreign prayers will feed your children? What he offers is damnation, not mercy."
"That's enough," Gideon said, not loudly, but with a firmness that turned heads. He stepped forward, his gaze level and unflinching. "If you've come to speak with me, speak. But do not shame those who are only seeking hope."
The leader stepped forward. His chin was sharp, his lips thin and bloodless. "You are Gideon Engel, the false knight. By the order of the Most Devout and the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, you are summoned to the Great Sept to answer for your crimes of heresy, false prophecy, and spiritual treason."
"Treason?" Gideon asked, tilting his head. "Have I raised an army? Burned a sept? Plotted against a king?"
"You've turned the hearts of the people away from the Seven," the man snapped. "You speak of another god—some singular power—and worse, you display magic. Foreign sorcery disguised as grace."
A murmur rolled through the watching crowd.
"I was under the impression," Gideon said mildly, "that the Faith Militant was disbanded over a century ago."
"We serve the will of the gods," the man hissed. "That will needs no official name."
Another of the men stepped forward now, younger, bolder. He hefted the golden star hanging from his neck and held it out toward Gideon like a warding charm. "Your magic is nothing before the truth of the Seven. No flame of yours can stand before their light."
Gideon looked down at the star, then up at the man's eyes. Calm. Almost… patient.
"It is not my magic," he said softly.
The moment was still—until the man took a final step forward, holding the star as if he meant to press it against Gideon's chest.
In a flash of light, Gideon's sword shimmered into being in his hand. A single, smooth swing—controlled, precise.
The golden star clattered to the ground in two perfect halves.
Gasps erupted from the onlookers. One woman screamed. The crowd swelled back like a wave recoiling.
The man stared down at the pieces in shock. Pure gold. Cut cleanly. As if it were wax.
Gideon let the sword dissolve again into light. "Some protection," he said softly, not unkindly, but with a note of pity.
The young man roared and lunged—foolishly, blindly.
Gideon sidestepped with ease and turned, gripping the man's arm and redirecting him forward. The man fell hard, tumbling into the dust with a groan. Gideon didn't strike him further.
But the others hesitated now. The fear in their eyes wasn't just fear of power—it was fear of what they didn't understand.
Gideon looked at them, then turned slowly to the crowd behind them, their faces pale, some trembling, some silent.
He understood his mission.
"I will go," he said, voice rising to meet the square, "not because of your threats, or your half-formed charges, but because these people deserve to see this resolved in the light."
One of the older zealots moved forward, pulling a length of chain from his belt. "You will be bound."
Gideon turned his eyes on him—firm, but not angry. "No. I will not be bound like a thief by a handful of robed men who pretend to stand above law and king alike."
The man flinched, but Gideon kept speaking. "I will not fight you, and I will not run. But I will not be led through the streets in chains to satisfy your fear."
He glanced once more to the people watching, then back to the zealots.
"I walk to the Sept as a free man. Not for you. But for them."
Without waiting, he stepped forward between the men, head high, cloak trailing behind him.
The hand came down suddenly, seizing Gideon's shoulder in a rough grip. One of the zealots—older, broad in the shoulders but red in the face—had clearly grown tired of Gideon's calm defiance.
But as Gideon turned to face him, something shifted.
He said nothing. Just looked at the man—steadily, silently. And whatever he saw in Gideon's eyes stopped him cold.
The man's breath hitched. His fingers twitched, then slowly, almost involuntarily, unclasped from Gideon's shoulder. He stepped back half a pace, visibly shaken, though he tried to mask it with a scowl.
Gideon raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk touching his mouth.
"After you, then," he said dryly. "Wouldn't want to walk too far ahead of my escort."
A few in the crowd chuckled under their breath, and the zealot's cheeks darkened. But he said nothing, only turned sharply and led the way toward the Great Sept.
Gideon followed, his steps even. Behind them, the crowd began to move too—slowly at first, then more boldly, spilling from alleys and doorways to see what was unfolding.
The city was watching now.
—
The steps of the Great Sept of Baelor loomed like a mountain of carved marble above the swelling crowd. From the high domes to the statues of the Seven lining its facade, everything gleamed in the thin light of a sky still bruised from the night. The bells were ringing—low, drawn out tones that rumbled through the city like the voice of a judge clearing his throat.
Gideon climbed the steps in silence.
The robed men surrounded him still, though none touched him now. After what had happened in the square—after the golden star had been split like soft bread, after the man who had charged was sent sprawling without so much as a bruise on Gideon's robes—they'd grown cautious. Respectful, even. Or at least wary.
But he felt their eyes on him. And more than that, he felt the eyes of the people.
Thousands now lined the square, perched on steps, packed into the open plaza, crowding the alleys and balconies overlooking the Sept. It was not often that one saw a man brought into the Great Sept by force. And rarer still for that man to walk himself, unchained, calm, as though he were the one doing the summoning.
Inside the Sept, the light grew strange—filtered through towering stained-glass windows that painted the stone in shifting hues of red, green, and blue. The floor echoed under Gideon's boots as he stepped into the central chamber.
At the far end of the hall, upon a raised dais, sat the High Septon. Flanked by seven other high-ranking members of the Faith, he wore his ceremonial robes, layered and heavy, stitched with the symbols of the Seven. His crown gleamed in the colored light, but his eyes were sharp and heavy with judgment.
As Gideon approached the foot of the dais, two men in half-ceremonial armor stepped forward, lengths of chain in their hands.
"You will present yourself in humility before the gods," one of them said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "You will kneel and be bound."
Gideon's gaze never left the dais. He spoke without raising his voice.
"No."
The word echoed through the Sept like a crack of thunder.
Murmurs broke out instantly. Even some of the septons shifted uncomfortably. The two men holding the chains hesitated, but one of them stepped forward anyway, reaching again—
Gideon turned to him.
No words. Just a look.
And that was enough.
The man froze mid-step. His hand trembled slightly, the chain slipping through his fingers. He stepped back, eyes downcast.
Gideon exhaled slowly, then turned back to the dais. "I came as you asked. I walked freely, peacefully. I will not be treated like a criminal by those who would see their own power defended more than the truth revealed."
"You stand accused of heresy," the High Septon boomed. His voice was strong, theatrical, made for echoing halls and watching eyes. "You have spread false teachings, denied the Seven, and performed signs and wonders in the name of a god this realm does not know."
"False teachings?" Gideon repeated, quietly. "What have I taught but mercy? What have I preached but love?"
The High Septon sneered. "You speak of such noble things, but you twist them, Gideon Engel. Your words are poison to this realm. The Seven are the only gods worthy of devotion. You would have us abandon them for some false deity, some figment of your imagination. You come here, preaching of love and mercy, when what you offer is nothing but chaos and deceit."
"I offer nothing but the truth," Gideon replied, his voice gaining strength. "The truth is that the Seven are not gods. They are idols—created by men to control other men. Your faith is a lie, a veil pulled over the eyes of the people to keep them in the dark." He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the High Septon. "I do not speak of a god who demands sacrifice and submission. I speak of a God who loves, who forgives, who calls all to come and follow Him, regardless of their past, regardless of their sins."
The crowd murmured, and the High Septon's face darkened. "You dare speak this heresy before the gods? You insult the very foundation of the Faith! The Seven are the gods of this land, and it is they who have shaped the destiny of this kingdom. You would cast aside thousands of years of tradition, centuries of devotion, for your own twisted version of 'truth'?"
"You mistake my words for an attack on your people," Gideon said, his voice rising. "I do not come to destroy, but to heal. You and your faith have built walls around the truth, keeping the people imprisoned by fear. The truth is not something to be hidden away in sacred chambers—it is meant to be shared, freely, with all who will listen."
The High Septon's lips curled in disgust. "And you think you have the right to speak for the truth? You think that your foreign god has the answers? You speak of mercy, but you bring destruction in your wake. You lead these people down a dangerous path, away from the Seven, away from the Light."
Gideon clenched his fists at his sides. "You do not understand, do you? The Light you speak of is not the Light of God. It is the light of men who seek to control, to dominate. They use the name of the gods as a weapon, not a blessing." His eyes swept the room, meeting the eyes of the crowd. "And you, High Septon, you are the one who has led them astray. You stand at the head of an institution that claims to speak for the gods, but it only speaks for itself. You are the ones who have twisted the faith for power, for influence."
The High Septon's face twisted, and his voice cracked as he sputtered, trying to regain control. "You dare accuse me of—"
"How many whores have you lain with?" Gideon cut him off, his voice growing sharper, cutting through the noise like a blade. The air in the room seemed to still at the accusation, the crowd gasping in disbelief. The High Septon's mouth moved, but no words came out at first. His eyes darted to the priests beside him, his arrogance crumbling like a facade.
Gideon didn't stop. "How many bribes have you taken to turn your back on the very people you swore to protect? How many times have you used the faith of these men and women to line your pockets, to secure your own power, to twist their trust into a tool for your own desires?" He stepped forward, his voice thundering in the stillness of the hall. "How many times have you turned away those who came to you for help, only to betray them when it suited you? You are no man of faith, High Septon. The only gods you serve are your arrogance, and your greed. And your arrogance is what has led us all to this moment."
The High Septon's face reddened, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling with rage. "You have no right to—"
"The men of your kingdom," Gideon interrupted, his voice gaining strength, "have been healed. Regardless of what manner, my God has done what yours could not, and cannot." He stepped closer, his gaze unflinching. "If you truly cared for these men, you would rejoice at their healing. I have never seen as much suffering as I have in this city—the home of the High Septon, filled to the brim with poverty, death, crime, and lawlessness. The stench of this city is not one of sin alone. It is the stench of your failure. The stench of the failure of the Seven."
He looked out over the chamber, his eyes sweeping the walls, the faces in the crowd, and then returned to the High Septon. "You claim to speak for the gods, yet your city rots from the inside out, and you stand there, blind to it all. You sit at the head of an institution that feasts while the people starve. You wear fine robes and live in luxury while your flock suffers in the streets." His voice was like a weight, each word sinking into the hearts of those in the room, an accusation they could not ignore.
The High Septon's face turned pale, and he took a step forward, his voice trembling with fury. "Enough of this blasphemy!" he bellowed. "Take him! Kill him now!"
The order hung in the air like a thunderclap, the words shocking the guards into action. They drew their swords with a unified clang, surrounding Gideon in an instant. Their faces were hard, determined, but there was a flicker of uncertainty behind their eyes. Here stood a man who had spoken against their very foundation, yet the weight of his defiance, his boldness, made them hesitate.
Gideon stood tall, unflinching, his expression resolute. He felt the cold steel of the swords encircle him, but he did not flinch. There was no fear in his heart—only the certainty that the truth he carried was greater than any threat they could impose.
His heart burned with frustration, anger, and a deep sorrow that it had come to this, that the truth could not be heard without blood being spilled. But there was no hesitation. No retreat. He would not back down.
He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the High Septon, his voice rising above the tension. "These men, these poor souls, may die today. Their blood is on your hands! Your ignorance killed them! Denied them the chance to see the truth for what it is!"
As the words left his mouth, his hand moved—calmly, deliberately—as if guided by an unseen force. In the blink of an eye, his sword appeared, a bright flash of light that materialized in his hand, the blade shimmering like a reflection of the heavens. The steel was long, gleaming, and engraved with delicate, ethereal patterns that seemed to pulse with an inner light.
The air itself seemed to hum as the sword materialized, the room filled with the weight of divine power that emanated from him. Gideon gripped the hilt firmly, but his hand was steady, resolute, no sign of fear or aggression in his posture.
But the transformation did not stop there.
A soft ripple of energy swirled around him. His cloak rippled, twisting into the gleaming metal of his armor, light as air but strong as the mountains. The armor flowed over his body like liquid silver, its design intricate, elegant, and undeniably powerful. Each piece seemed to shimmer with divine light, as if the very essence of God's grace had taken form to shield him.
The armor was a brilliant combination of gold and silver, etched with symbols that reflected the divine light. A cross-like pattern across the chest, intricate engravings running down the arms, and a flowing cape of white that seemed to carry the weight of the heavens themselves. The helm that materialized last was crowned with a subtle, yet unmistakable halo of light, its faceplate crafted to resemble an angel's visage, calm and unwavering.
The entire room seemed to take a collective breath as the transformation completed, the guards now staring at him in stunned silence. His sword gleamed with the light of God, and his armor shimmered with divine protection, yet his stance remained unyielding—he was not a man of wrath but of purpose.
The High Septon, taken aback, stumbled back slightly, his fury faltering before the sheer presence of the figure before him. He had expected Gideon to cower, to fall before his command, but instead, he stood like a living embodiment of the divine. A vision of strength, not of this world.
"Attack him now!" the High Septon bellowed, his voice breaking through the tension. The guards, swords still drawn, hesitated, their eyes flicking from one another, uncertain.
Gideon stood firm, his sword gleaming in his hand, his armor shimmering like a divine shield. He met their gaze with a steady, calm look, his voice carrying through the silence. "You do not need to listen to him," he said, his tone resolute but filled with compassion. "I will protect you. The truth I carry will shield you, if only you will let it."
The High Septon's eyes narrowed, and with venom, he threatened, "If you spare this blasphemer, I will have your families punished. I will have them cast out into the streets, their names sullied, their livelihoods destroyed. Do you dare defy me for him?"
The guards shifted uneasily, their resolve weakening under the threat of their loved ones' safety. One by one, they slowly advanced on Gideon, their eyes full of conflict but driven by fear.
"Must it really…" Gideon's gaze turned skyward, his expression softening, sorrow and weariness settling on his features. "Forgive me my Lord."
Gideon's features steeled, his jaw tightening as the inevitability of the conflict loomed closer. He looked at the advancing guards, his eyes resting on one in particular. So young. So new to life. His face was fresh with youth, eyes wide with uncertainty, caught between duty and fear. The weight of the moment hung heavily between them.
A tear slid down Gideon's cheek, but it was blocked by the cold steel of his helmet, a silent barrier between his emotions and the world around him. He let the tear fall, unbothered, though it felt like the weight of the world had descended upon his shoulders.
"Forgive them, Father," he whispered, his voice low but steady, echoing the words of Christ. "They know not what they do."