Chapter 12

(Next chapter after this should be in about a week)

Jaime blinked, confusion flashing across his face at Gideon's words. "Healing? What are you talking about?"

Gideon offered a reassuring smile, the warmth in his expression contrasting starkly with the tension in the air. He placed a firm yet gentle hand on Jaime's shoulder, his voice calm and steady as he said, "Trust in the Lord, friend."

Jaime, ever skeptical, was about to retort when he felt an unmistakable warmth radiate from Gideon's hand. It started as a small ember of heat but quickly grew, coursing through his body and centering on his battered face. Gasps rippled through the crowd as those watching saw something remarkable: the bruises and gashes on Jaime's face began to fade, the swelling subsided, and the cuts closed up as if time itself had reversed.

Jaime instinctively brought his hands to his face, his fingers gingerly tracing where the pain had been just moments ago. He wiped the dried blood from his skin, revealing a face unscathed save for a lingering layer of grime. Staring in disbelief, he looked back at Gideon, his shock evident.

"You… why?" Jaime managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Gideon's only response was to look upwards. "The Lord is merciful," he said with quiet conviction, his words carrying more weight than the grandest speech.

The court watched in stunned silence, their awe thick in the air. Even the more cynical among them couldn't deny the profound nature of what they had witnessed. It wasn't the dark sorcery whispered about in back alleys nor the crude magic of hedge witches. This was something… purer, and it left them uneasy and intrigued in equal measure.

Robert's booming laughter shattered the silence, pulling all eyes to the King. He stood, his grin as wide as it was genuine. "Seven hells!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "You're not only a fighter, Ser Gideon, but the rumors of your so-called magic seem to hold some truth!"

As the crowd's murmurs turned to louder conversation, Robert turned to address them, his smile unfaltering. "Well, we can't complain now, can we? He's fought our best and proven himself. The man is free to go!"

Before anyone could protest, Robert raised a hand, silencing the growing buzz. "But," he continued, his grin returning full force, "I've a better idea. Let us have a feast tonight! In the halls of the Red Keep, with Ser Gideon as the guest of honor."

The court broke into a mix of forced applause and astonished chatter, though not everyone was so enthused. Varys, the ever-watchful Spider, stood off to the side, his usual composed expression replaced with a faint hint of unease as his eyes lingered on Jaime's healed face.

The nobles, for their part, were torn. While some found Gideon's act foolish—a waste of power on a defeated enemy—others saw it as a testament to his confidence or something else entirely. Still, the curiosity surrounding the man grew. A feast would give them the perfect chance to better understand this strange knight, one whose powers seemed almost… divine.

—

The crowd began to disperse, their conversations a blend of awe and speculation. However, one figure lingered, his golden hair catching the sunlight as he moved purposefully toward Ser Gideon.

"Wait," Jaime called out, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant.

Gideon paused mid-step, turning to face the Kingslayer. He observed Jaime's face, now unmarked and clean save for the faint lines of dried blood that had yet to be wiped away entirely. There was hesitation in Jaime's stance, a far cry from the cocky knight who had entered the courtyard earlier. After a brief silence, Jaime inclined his head ever so slightly.

"I wanted to say thank you… for your mercy," he said, his words measured but genuine.

Gideon's lips quirked into a slight smile. "You're welcome," he replied, a warm sincerity undercutting his words. "You're a great fighter, Ser Jaime, but remember: arrogance is often the downfall of great men. I wouldn't mind crossing blades with you again—perhaps in more savory conditions next time."

Jaime chuckled softly at the comment, his typical bravado tempered by something approaching humility. "If I were truly a great fighter," he said, his smirk faint but present, "I wouldn't have been handled like that. Still, I'll take the compliment for what it's worth. And I'd relish the opportunity to spar with you again—under far friendlier circumstances, of course."

The two men stood there a moment, a strange understanding passing between them. Jaime's eyes briefly darted to Gideon's sword, now sheathed but no less enigmatic, before returning to the foreign knight's calm expression.

"I must ask you, Ser Gideon," Jaime said, his voice tinged with both curiosity and wariness. "That… display earlier. The healing. How did you do it?"

Before Gideon could respond, Queen Cersei appeared at Jaime's side, her piercing green eyes locking onto the knight. Though her expression was sharp, there was a calculated calmness to it. "Yes, Ser Gideon," she interjected, her tone icy but restrained. "I'm curious too. Your skill in combat was impressive enough, but to heal my brother so effortlessly—how is it you possess such power?"

Cersei had expected anger—or at least irritation—toward the foreign knight. He had humiliated Jaime in front of the entire court, and her brother's already tarnished reputation now bore another mark of shame. Yet, rationality tempered her emotions. He could have done much worse, she thought. Jaime could be dead. That reality, however begrudgingly, forced her to acknowledge the restraint shown by the man who stood before her.

Gideon inclined his head respectfully to the Queen before answering. "It is not my power," he said evenly. "I am merely a servant. The Lord works through me, as He does through all of us who are willing to listen. What you saw today was His mercy, not mine."

Cersei's emerald eyes narrowed, her tone sharp, though curiosity underpinned her words. "A servant to what god?" she asked, each word crisp and pointed. "We've seen red priests burn men alive in the name of R'hllor. Was that your god?"

At the mention of R'hllor, Gideon's expression darkened, his usual composure briefly giving way to unmistakable disgust. The name stirred something deeply uncomfortable within him, more so than any other false idol he had encountered. "No," he said firmly, his tone carrying a steely disdain that left no room for ambiguity.

The vehemence in his response surprised Cersei, who studied him carefully. While her face remained inscrutable, inwardly she noted the stark contrast between Gideon and the fanatics she had seen in the past. The foreign knight seemed far more measured, yet there was no mistaking the depth of his conviction. Whatever god he served, it was clear he held true belief—a rarity in the jaded courts of King's Landing.

"You seem to dislike this god," Cersei remarked, her tone less inquisitive and more cutting, as though she were trying to find cracks in Gideon's conviction.

"That," Gideon replied, his voice sharp and unwavering, "is not a god but a demon—a deceiver preying upon the hearts of hopeless men and women. It twists their pain, manipulates their desperation, and forces its rotten agenda upon the world through them. Dislike is too gentle a word. What I feel is abhorrence."

Cersei's lips curved in a faint, humorless smile. "And how is your god any different?" Her voice was cool, her words deliberately provocative. She expected defensiveness, indignation perhaps—a flash of rage or frustration in his eyes. Men of faith often reacted that way when challenged.

Instead, Gideon met her gaze, unflinching. His calm was disarming, his composure solid as granite. He didn't rush to answer, merely stood there, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate. The weight of his steady gaze made Cersei uncomfortable in a way she hadn't anticipated. It wasn't the leering confidence of a court sycophant or the fawning looks she was used to—it was deeper, reflective, almost searching.

For the first time, Cersei had a chance to study him in earnest. His features were strong, his golden hair catching the sunlight streaming into the courtyard in a way that seemed almost unnatural. His foreign air set him apart, but if not for that—and his unshakable humility—he could almost be mistaken for a Lannister.

"My God…" Gideon finally spoke, his voice low yet commanding, each word deliberate. "...asks nothing from me and his believers but truth and faith. He doesn't demand blood spilled on burning pyres or claim dominion through fear. His is a power that heals, that restores, that frees the soul. He does not coerce loyalty; He inspires it through mercy, not cruelty."

Cersei's smile tightened. "Mercy," she repeated, almost to herself, as if the word tasted foreign. "The only mercy I've seen is that of weak men breaking under pressure. Power, true power, comes from strength, not softness."

"There is greater strength in mercy than in fear," Gideon replied, his tone firm yet devoid of condescension. "It's easy to kill, to dominate. But to show restraint, to heal those who might hate you—" He gestured subtly toward Jaime, who had been listening in quiet confusion. "—that is the harder path. And yet it's the one that changes hearts."

Cersei's sharp intellect caught on to the weight of those words before her pride could dismiss them outright. Jaime, alive and standing there was living proof of Gideon's mercy. Cersei knew full well that Gideon's skill in the duel could have ended her brother's life, had he chosen to deliver a death blow. But he hadn't. He had made a choice—a deliberate choice—to offer clemency instead.

For someone who often wielded fear and manipulation as her power tools, the realization gnawed at Cersei. Her argument, which she had been preparing to unleash—about strength lying in domination, about power's uncompromising nature—felt threadbare in the face of Jaime's survival. Gideon's restraint had ensured that Jaime would live another day.

Cersei blinked, unable to counter. Her usual barbs, so easily summoned, now felt flat and insincere. A heavy silence fell over her, her lips pressed into a thin line as she wrestled with thoughts she wasn't ready to entertain. Instead, she folded her arms, allowing the weight of her silence to act as her shield.

Sensing her retreat, Jaime broke the quiet instead. His voice came cautiously, still colored with traces of disbelief and the unfamiliar warmth of his unexpected deliverance. "And yet," Jaime began, the corners of his mouth curving in a faint, self-deprecating smile, "many who tread that path find themselves used or betrayed. Kings who extend mercy often lose their crowns—or their lives."

Gideon regarded him with a thoughtful smile, his eyes softened. "Do you not think," Gideon began, "that the Mad King you served could've used a bit of mercy himself?" His words were tinged with humor, a pointed observation that somehow lacked malice. "I've only heard the stories," Gideon added, his gaze unwavering, "but while I do not condone your actions in ending his life, I am certain you saved many others in the process. For that alone, your burden is not entirely your own."

Jaime's head snapped up, startled by the unexpected comment. His expression hardened out of habit—years of bracing for sneering condemnation when others spoke of the Mad King or the infamous moniker that shadowed him: Kingslayer. He'd been conditioned to hear only disdain in every word. Yet Gideon's tone carried something else entirely. Understanding. Even respect, however grudging.

Jaime took a breath, studying Gideon carefully. "You...you don't judge me for it?" His voice came out hesitant, as though expecting to be mocked for even asking.

Gideon shook his head slowly, though his expression remained serious. "I don't hold the right to judge you, Ser Jaime. Not for that. Judgment is the Lord's, not mine." His words hung in the air for a moment before he added, "Besides, what point is there in hating the past when it cannot be undone? What matters is what you choose to do now."

For a moment, Jaime didn't respond. His mind wrestled with the sheer oddity of the knight before him—a man who wielded both blade and faith with such remarkable conviction, yet who seemed utterly uninterested in tearing him down. Instead of holding Jaime's title against him, Gideon had gone so far as to suggest there was nobility in his actions.

Jaime finally spoke, his tone tentative yet almost hopeful. "You're a rare sort of knight, Gideon."

Gideon chuckled softly at that, his earlier seriousness giving way to a brief moment of levity. "I'm just a man, Jaime. A man trying to walk a straight road in a crooked world. The same as anyone else."

The simplicity of the statement struck Jaime. He nodded, but his gaze lingered on Gideon with an unspoken thought.

Meanwhile, Cersei, watching the exchange in contemplative silence, tried to push down the uncomfortable twist of emotions rising in her chest. For all her outward composure, the sincerity of Gideon's words and actions left a scar on her usual sense of certainty—a feeling she hated and was determined to bury.

Her voice, when it finally returned, was icier than usual, serving as her armor. "If you believe mercy is such a virtue, Ser Gideon, then you'll learn the hard way that it holds little value in this world. The noble suffer while the ruthless rise."

Gideon turned back to her, his expression calm but resolute. "The measure of virtue is not in how the world rewards it, my lady, but in the conviction to hold onto it even when the world rejects it." His words hung heavily in the air. "It's never easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is."

Without waiting for another barb, he inclined his head respectfully to both siblings and stepped away, leaving Jaime and Cersei with thoughts more complex than either was prepared to admit.

—

The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with the warmth of celebration. Firelight flickered across the gilded walls and ornate banners, casting an almost surreal glow on the assembled lords, knights, and ladies. Music spilled into the air, accompanied by laughter and clinking goblets as the feast roared into the evening. Gideon had been offered a seat at the high table, surrounded by the King, Queen, and other nobles of importance. While he had remained there initially to exchange courtesies, the sterile pomp of it all soon wore thin.

It wasn't long before he made his way to one of the lower tables, nestled near the fringes of the grand hall. His presence at the common table earned disapproving glances from certain nobles, who whispered behind jeweled goblets about his "lack of decorum." Gideon noticed their sneers but did nothing to placate them. Their opinions mattered little compared to the familiar faces that greeted him as he sat down—a handful of trusted companions who had traveled countless miles at his side.

As Gideon lowered himself onto the worn wooden bench, one of his companions, Marcus grinned at him.

"Well, look who's decided to return to us mere mortals."

"Don't flatter yourself," Gideon teased. "You know I couldn't leave you alone. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd already stolen half of the silverware in this room."

Marcus mockingly clutched at his chest. "Silverware, Gideon? You wound me. If I wanted a souvenir, I'd have taken the crown jewels."

Beside him, Titus, a stocky soldier with a face weathered by years on the battlefield, chuckled as he drank deep from his mug. "Please, Marcus, leave something for the rest of us. You can't steal all the valuables. It's greedy."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "And what would you take, Titus? A cask of wine? Judging by that belly of yours, I'd say you've already helped yourself."

The table burst into laughter, and even Gideon couldn't suppress a grin. Across from him sat another familiar face, Barrus–a lanky, quick-tongued scholar. Barrus was already on his third helping of food, his appetite as remarkable as his memory.

"Barrus," Marcus said slyly, "are you eating for two? Perhaps three? Or are you just expanding that library of yours somewhere...less intellectual?"

Barrus sniffed, brushing crumbs off his robes. "I'd rather grow my 'library' than starve myself like you. Marcus, you'd disappear entirely if you turned sideways."

The table roared with laughter again. Gideon leaned back, feeling the camaraderie that had carried him and these companions through endless trials. For all the gold and splendor around them, it was this—shared jests and easy friendship—that mattered most.

Before Gideon could participate in the jests, the lively mood at the table was shattered by the arrival of a new presence—Prince Joffrey Baratheon.

"Well, well," came the sharp voice of Prince Joffrey Baratheon as he approached the table, flanked by a few sycophantic lords, and one of the Kingsguard. "Is this where the true knights sit? Or have you misplaced your honor among the scraps?"

The table grew quiet, the easy laughter evaporating as the group turned toward the source of the interruption. Gideon's face remained neutral as he looked at the boy prince. Joffrey was not yet a man grown, but his perpetual sneer carried the arrogance of one who believed himself above everyone else.

"My Prince," Gideon said, inclining his head in a polite greeting that came just shy of the expected bow. His friends watched the exchange cautiously, with Mors' hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

Joffrey's smirk widened as he took in the scene. "I must say," he drawled, "it's a rare sight to see a knight so comfortable among the lowborn. My mother told me about your talk of mercy. Tell me, Ser Gideon, is this what you mean by mercy? Eating with beggars instead of your betters?"

Gideon's expression didn't change, "I find myself where I am most at ease," Gideon replied evenly. "Among those who have fought beside me and earned my trust. Forgive me, My Prince, if I prefer their company over hollow formalities."

The pointed response didn't sit well with Joffrey. His cheeks flushed red, his pride stung in a way that demanded retaliation. "You presume much, knight," he spat, his tone icy now. "You dare speak to your future king as though we're equals?"

Gideon inclined his head, his voice carefully measured but unmistakably laced with sarcasm. "I beg your pardon, My Prince," he said, his tone as smooth as silk, "someone as lowborn and unimportant as myself could never presume to speak as your equal. My limited education in the customs of Westeros must be at fault. Perhaps… perhaps Your Grace would benefit from consulting with someone wiser and more experienced in such matters—Ser Moore, for instance. I hear he's as skilled with etiquette as he is with… swords."

Ser Moore grits his teeth, his hand hovering over the sword at his waist. He had not forgotten how he had been humiliated earlier that day in front of the court.

For a moment, the young prince seemed to accept the response at face value, the smug look of superiority spreading across his features. "Hmph," Joffrey said with a haughty tilt of his chin. "At least you recognize your place, knight. It's only proper that you admit your—"

Then he heard it—a poorly stifled chuckle. It came first from Titus, whose attempt to hide his laughter as a cough only made it more obvious. Darnell wasn't far behind, his grin splitting his face as he stared at Gideon with delight. Barrus quietly shook his head, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. The mirth rippled across the table, barely contained, until Gideon's faint smile ignited it fully.

Joffrey's words faltered. He looked back at Gideon, finally noting the knight's smirk and the amusement radiating from those around him. The realization struck him like a physical blow: he had been mocked, and the entire table knew it.

"Silence!" Joffrey barked, his voice breaking slightly under the strain of his outrage. His face turned a deep shade of red, his hands trembling as he pointed a trembling finger at Gideon. "How dare you mock me! Do you think yourself clever, knight? Laughing in the face of your future king?"

Gideon remained seated, calm, and composed as Joffrey's outburst echoed through the hall. "My Prince," he replied, his voice measured and tinged with an unshakable calm, "it was never my intention to mock. I only speak plainly, as a man unversed in the intricacies of courtly speech. If my words were taken otherwise, I must apologize."

The infuriating steadiness of Gideon's tone only seemed to ignite Joffrey's anger further. "You lie!" the prince screeched. "You think you can shame me in front of my court? Before my nobles?"

"Not at all," Gideon said, raising his goblet as if offering a toast, "though I am relieved to see Your Grace cares deeply about honor. Perhaps it is a trait you inherited from your noble father. Lord Robert sets an inspiring example."

Joffrey's jaw clenched so tightly it seemed he might snap his teeth. The unspoken jab hit harder than any sword, though the prince couldn't quite articulate how. He was about to retort when he noticed the silence at the nearby tables. The commotion had drawn attention, and a few of the knights and lords seated nearby had caught on to Gideon's veiled barbs.

"You insolent cur!" Joffrey roared, slamming his fist down onto the table. Goblets rattled, and the hall grew quieter as more heads turned to the commotion. "I'll have your tongue for this!"

"My Prince," came a new voice—sharp, steady, and cutting through the tension like a blade. Ser Barristan Selmy stepped forward, his white cloak billowing slightly as he approached. "Perhaps the feast is not the place for such matters. The King himself requested this evening be one of celebration."

For a moment, Joffrey looked ready to dismiss Barristan entirely. But then his gaze flickered toward his father, King Robert, seated at the high table. The King's expression wasn't one of anger but of something far worse for Joffrey: disappointment. Robert's face bore a frown and a slight shake of his head, his clear disapproval cutting through Joffrey's pride like a blade.

And as Ser Barristan's calm, implacable gaze met his own, Joffrey's indignation ebbed slightly. The combination of his father's reproach and the legendary knight's firm presence left him no choice but to relent. He huffed in frustration, his hands balled into fists at his sides before he turned sharply on his heel.

"This isn't over," Joffrey spat, glaring one last time at Gideon, his voice dripping with venom. With that, he stormed off toward the high table. His entourage scrambled to follow, their obedience as immediate as that of whipped dogs, leaving the area around Gideon's table in a tense and uneasy silence.

Mors was the first to shatter the tense silence with a grin and a raised mug. "That went well," he said dryly, his amusement drawing a few chuckles from those nearby.

"Serves the bastard right," Arthur interjected, his tone sharp with anger. His lips curled in disdain as he glared toward where Joffrey had departed.

"Calm, Arthur," Gideon replied. 

It was Barrus who spoke next, his voice low and laced with caution. "Gideon, you've angered the Prince," he said, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "Surely he won't just let it slide."

Before Gideon could respond, Barristan Selmy, still standing near the table, joined in. His voice was quiet but firm, commanding the attention of everyone present. "I agree with your friend, Ser Gideon. The Prince is not known for his forgiveness. He will remember this—best tread carefully."

Gideon turned to the old knight, inclining his head in gratitude. "Ser Barristan, thank you for your intervention. Were it not for your words, that might have ended poorly."

Barristan's brows lifted faintly, and the faintest shadow of a smile crept across his weathered face. "If anyone should be thanking me, it's the Prince," he said, his tone dry. "For I suspect there's no man in this hall, myself included, who could have stopped you if your temper got the better of you."

Gideon waved off the praise with a modest gesture. "Your reputation precedes you, Ser Barristan. If anything, it is I who should hope to avoid crossing swords with you."

Barristan's eyes narrowed with interest as he leaned slightly closer. "I couldn't help but notice your skill earlier, Ser Gideon. Though I've little love for the man, I cannot deny that Ser Jaime Lannister is one of the finest swordsmen I've seen—and you bested him, quite easily might I add. I'd wager there's a story behind such skill."

Gideon shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I had good teachers."

Barristan pressed lightly, his curiosity not so easily satisfied. "From your homeland, then? Men of note?"

The wistful gleam in Gideon's eyes was answer enough. He nodded, the memory of grueling days flashing briefly in his gaze. "They pushed me to hell and back," he said, his tone warm despite the harshness of the words. "Made me the man I am today."

Barristan chuckled, a rare sound that seemed almost foreign on his stoic visage. "I'd say their efforts paid off."

Gideon inclined his head again, a gesture of thanks unspoken.

"Well," Barristan said after a moment, straightening his back, "I'll leave you to your company. But I would enjoy testing that skill of yours sometime. Perhaps a friendly spar?"

Gideon's smile grew broader. "It would be an honor, Ser Barristan. Name the time and place, and I'll be there."

With a respectful nod, Barristan excused himself, his white cloak billowing as he strode back toward the high table.

---