Chapter 15

The candlelight flickered against the stone walls of the chamber, casting long shadows across the table where Gideon and Mors sat. The remnants of supper lay forgotten between them, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread still lingering in the air. Outside, the distant howl of the wind against the Red Keep's towers was the only sound accompanying them.

Gideon leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly against the wooden surface. His voice was low but firm. "Something about the Prince is wrong."

Mors raised a brow, shifting in his chair. "What do you mean?"

Gideon hesitated for a moment, collecting his thoughts before speaking. "It's… unnatural. Different from before. I ran into him today—nothing came of it, we exchanged no words—but I expected a confrontation. Instead, the boy looked… afraid of me." He frowned, his fingers tightening into a fist. "At first, I thought he was merely unsettled, but then I noticed it—he flinched when his eyes fell on the cross on my garb. Not a subtle reaction either, Mors. It was as though it burned him."

"Then came the scowl." Gideon shook his head, his tone laced with unease. "I know Joffrey has no love for me. I am an outsider, a man of faith he does not share. But that reaction was not hatred alone—it was deeper than that. Almost… revulsion."

Mors sighed, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin. "What are you trying to say, Gideon? I trust your instincts, I do. But the prince is still young—eleven namedays, no more. And he has resented you since your first interaction. Perhaps he now associates the cross with you personally, and that fear has grown into something stronger." He shrugged. "It isn't unheard of. People fear what they do not understand, and Joffrey is no different, prince or not."

Gideon exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Perhaps you're right." The words left his lips, but doubt still lingered in his heart.

Mors pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor as he stood. "Get some rest, Gideon. There's no sense in losing sleep over this." He placed a firm hand on Gideon's shoulder. "Good night. God bless."

With that, Mors departed, leaving Gideon alone in the dimly lit chamber. The silence pressed in around him, the warmth of companionship now replaced by the cold whisper of doubt in his mind.

He leaned back, staring at the candle's flame as it danced before him. Was he truly overthinking this? Was it simply a child's fear, exaggerated by his own concerns? Mors had made good points, ones he could not dismiss outright. But something within him—a deep, gnawing feeling—told him there was more to this.

Rising from his seat, Gideon made his way back to his quarters, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the corridor. His thoughts were heavy, tangled in uncertainty, but he knew there was only one thing he could do now.

Kneeling beside his bed, he clasped his hands together, bowing his head. "Lord, grant me sight where I see only shadows. If my mind is deceived, let Your light reveal the truth." He paused, steadying his breath. "I give thanks for the blessings of this day, for the strength You have given me, and for the path You have set before me. In Your name, I place my trust."

A quiet calm settled over him as he finished his prayer. And as he lay down, allowing sleep to take him, the unease in his heart did not fade.

—

Gideon awoke, but something was wrong.

He was not in his bed. He was not even in his chamber.

Suspended in an abyss, weightless, he felt neither the warmth of his blanket nor the coolness of bed beneath him. The air around him was heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness, yet his robes did not stir. Panic threatened to seize him, but as he turned his gaze downward, the fear in his chest twisted into something colder—dread.

Below him stretched the Red Keep, but not as it should have been. Its walls seemed twisted, their edges blurred and shifting as though they existed between reality and nightmare. Fires flickered in the highest towers, casting grotesque shadows that moved as if alive. The city beyond was eerily silent—no market cries, no distant ringing of steel, only an oppressive stillness broken by the occasional wisp of distant whispers.

Then, a voice.

Watch.

The command was neither spoken nor heard—it simply was. It slithered into his mind like an ember sinking into dry wood. And with that single word, the world around him shifted.

The Keep rushed up to meet him, and in an instant, he was no longer floating. He stood within the Throne Room, though it, too, was wrong.

The stained-glass windows were shattered, their colored shards suspended in the air, catching the glow of a fire that burned without fuel. The Iron Throne was taller, its jagged swords stretching upward like skeletal fingers grasping for heaven. The air smelled of burning flesh, though no bodies were visible.

And seated upon the throne was Joffrey.

The boy was draped in golden robes that shimmered unnaturally, as though woven from threads of living flame. His eyes, once pale Lannister green, now glowed like molten gold, with slivers for pupils like a snakes, and they fixed upon Gideon with something that was not human.

"You see now," the boy said, though it was not his voice alone. It was layered, distorted, as though a second voice—deeper, older—spoke beneath his own. "You have felt it, haven't you? The change. The shifting of the world."

Gideon stepped forward, though the floor beneath him seemed to ripple like liquid. He ignored it, his focus locked onto the thing sitting upon the throne. "You are not Joffrey."

The boy smiled, and for a fleeting moment, Gideon swore the shadows of the room deepened, the flames flickering in acknowledgment. "I am as much Joffrey as he ever was. And yet, I am more."

A laugh echoed through the chamber—not from Joffrey, but from the walls, the very air itself. The firelight swirled, and in its embers, Gideon saw shapes forming—scenes.

A battlefield, where men clad in gold and steel clashed with warriors in crimson robes. Soldiers burned alive, their screams merging into a terrible choir as fire devoured them.

A great temple, its spires crowned with flame, where robed priests chanted in tongues unknown to Gideon, their hands outstretched to a black sun that pulsed in the heavens.

And beyond it all—ice. A wall of shadow creeping from the North, a cold that swallowed light, silence that smothered life. A great storm, bringing with it figures with eyes as pale as death, moving as if guided by a will older than time itself.

"The world is at war, though its people do not yet know it." Joffrey's voice brought Gideon's attention back to the throne. The boy's grin had widened, and his fingers drummed against the armrest. "Light and darkness, fire and ice. You understand now, don't you?"

Gideon's stomach turned. "I understand only that you are a servant of the enemy."

Joffrey's expression darkened. "Enemy?" The voice beneath his own grew louder, reverberating through the room. "Is that what you call me? You pray to your god, your one god, but does He answer? Has He ever spoken to you, as I do now?"

Gideon held his ground. "He has, and God does not need to whisper in the ears of men. His truth is written in the world, in the hearts of the faithful."

The flames roared.

Joffrey—or the thing that wore his skin—rose from the throne. With each step forward, the air grew hotter, pressing down on Gideon's chest like a hand of iron. "And yet your faithful will burn. Your so called kings will kneel. The world will be cleansed in fire, as it was always meant to be."

Gideon exhaled, and for the first time, he uttered a name.

"Jesus Christ."

Joffrey flinched.

It was subtle, a twitch in the boy's jaw, a tightening of his fingers on the throne's armrests. But Gideon saw it. And he pressed forward.

"Our Lord and Savior—"

"Enough."

"—He who conquered death, who suffered for us—"

"I said enough!"

Joffrey's golden eyes burned, but there was something behind them now, something like pain. Pain and fear.

Gideon took another step, his voice firm. "You act as if you are mighty, but you tremble at His name. You flinch like a child before a righteous hand. Why? What does the name of Christ do to you?"

Joffrey's face twisted into something between rage and mockery, but his voice faltered for the first time. "Why would I fear that carpenter?"

The words dripped with disdain, but Gideon saw the truth in them. He had struck something deep.

Joffrey sneered, but his breathing had grown uneven. "He does not care for you, Gideon. He does not speak to you. He would let you die, alone, in the cold. Why do you waste your breath on Him?"

Gideon stood unwavering. "Because He has already given everything for me. And He will not be mocked."

The shadows twisted violently, and the voice that spoke through Joffrey's lips was no longer his own.

"THEN BURN."

The flames surged, consuming the throne room in a torrent of unbearable heat. The walls crumbled, the very air igniting. Gideon cried out as fire swallowed him whole—

And then he was awake.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat. The room around him was still dark, the only light the faint embers of the hearth. His fingers dug into his sheets, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum.

It had been a dream.

No. Not a dream. A vision.

Joffrey was not merely a cruel prince. He was something far worse. Something ancient had taken root in him, and its purpose was clear—war, fire, destruction. And yet, the vision had shown him more. A war was coming, one far colder and darker than any seen before it.

Light and darkness, fire and ice.

Gideon sat in silence. The air in his chambers felt heavy, as if the very walls of the Red Keep pressed against him, suffocating him beneath the weight of his revelation. His breath was steady now, but his thoughts raged like a storm-tossed sea.

The Devil.

That was what lurked behind Joffrey's eyes, Gideon was sure of it. Not merely some ancient fire god, not just another idol among the many false deities that men worshipped. No, it was far worse. It was the Adversary himself, cloaking his dominion in flame, masquerading as a savior while leading men into damnation.

How long had he worked in secret, turning hearts to him, setting the world on this path of fire and war? How many souls had already been lost to his deception?

Gideon clenched his jaw, the weight of it all pressing into his very bones.

The Devil had claimed Joffrey, and through him, he sought to claim Westeros. The kingdom teetered on the edge of a precipice, and no one even knew it. Not the lords, scheming in their towers. Not the knights, swearing their oaths to kings and causes they barely understood. Not the priests, blind in their rituals to gods who could not save them.

They do not know what they serve, Gideon thought bitterly. They think they call upon a god of light, but they kneel before the Deceiver himself.

The fire was a lie. A blinding lie.

But beyond the fire, there was another force at play. A different darkness, silent and creeping. The North.

Gideon closed his eyes, and the vision returned to him in flashes—the cold stretching outward, an endless abyss of ice and death, the whisper of something vast and unknowable stirring beyond the Wall. He had heard the tales of the White Walkers and was content to dismiss them as folklore, but now? Now he could feel them.

Fire and ice, he thought. Two evils, warring for dominion over this world.

But what chilled him most was that neither seemed concerned with men themselves. They were caught in the middle, no more than kindling for the fire, no more than corpses for the cold.

And the people did not see it.

Perhaps that was the Devil's greatest trick—not just to claim dominion over the living, but to convince them that they had no need to fight.

Gideon rose to his feet, slowly, deliberately. His limbs ached, his body still reeling from the weight of the vision, but he ignored it. He stood before the small window in his chamber and looked out over the Red Keep. The city beyond stretched endlessly, bathed in the silver glow of the moon. It looked peaceful from up here.

But that was another lie.

There was no peace in King's Landing.

He had seen it every day in the streets—the starving beggars, the greed of the merchants, the cruelty of the guards. Darkness already lived in this city.

And now the Devil himself was to be the next king, wearing the face of a boy.

His thoughts turned back to Joffrey's reaction—the flinch, the brief but unmistakable pain at the name of Christ. The way he had spat the words that carpenter, voice laced with scorn and unease.

There was something in that, something that made Gideon's blood quicken. The fire had raged, the throne room had burned, but in that moment, he had struck something true. He had seen fear in the eyes of the thing that spoke through Joffrey.

Even in its arrogance, it feared.

The enemy feared the name of Christ.

A shudder ran through him, but not of fear—of conviction.

This was proof. More than ever, it was proof.

Even in a world that did not remember His name, even in a place where the Gospels had never been written, Jesus Christ still reigned. The enemy might burn, might blind men with its false light, but it could not erase the truth. The mere memory of Christ's name was enough to make it recoil.

And that meant it could be fought.

Gideon exhaled, straightening his posture. His body was still weary, still drenched in cold sweat, but his mind was clear.

He had been brought here for a reason. And now, at last, he understood what it was.

This was not just about Joffrey. Not just about Westeros.

This was about souls.

The Devil sought dominion and control, while the darkness in the North sought death, and the men of Westeros, blind and divided, would fall to either one if they did not turn away from their idols and false gods.

But he could not force them to see. He could not storm into the throne room and denounce Joffrey, could not shout warnings in the streets and expect men to listen. No, this war would not be fought with swords alone.

It would be fought in the hearts of men.

Gideon's gaze flickered to the cross resting on his bedside drawer, the same symbol that had made Joffrey recoil. He traced his fingers over it, silent for a long moment.

It was not enough to know the truth.

He had to live it.

If the enemy feared Christ's name, then Gideon would make sure the world heard it again.