Spreading Christianity in Game of Thrones

The throne room had descended into a cacophony of whispers and muttered disbelief. Gideon Engel stood with his head held high, his gaze unwavering as the lords and ladies surrounding him muttered accusations of blasphemy and treachery. Queen Cersei's disdainful sneer was as sharp as any blade.

"Which god do you speak of?" she asked, her voice icy and tinged with derision.

Gideon turned toward her, his expression serene but firm. "The one and only true God," he replied, his voice steady and measured, "the Creator of all, the Light that guides the righteous and offers redemption to the lost."

The murmurs grew louder, some furious, others incredulous. Even a few of Gideon's companions shifted uncomfortably at the swelling disapproval that echoed off the stone walls of the hall. Yet Gideon remained unphased, his composure as unyielding as the Iron Throne itself.

"Silence!"

Robert's booming voice cut through the noise like a thunderclap. The room obeyed instantly, falling into a tense hush, every eye turning toward the King. Robert leaned forward, his wine cup discarded as his sharp, assessing gaze fixed on Gideon.

"Your name is Gideon Engel, yes?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"I must say," Robert drawled, "I've never heard of a House Engel. Do you hail from Essos, then?"

"No, Your Grace."

Robert raised a bushy eyebrow, waiting for Gideon to elaborate. When he didn't, Robert's expression twisted into irritation.

"So, you are from Westeros, then?"

"No, Your Grace."

The King leaned back, his frown deepening, the tension between the two men stretching thin. Then, quite unexpectedly, Robert laughed. It started low, a rumble in his chest, before erupting into a full-throated roar. The court exchanged confused glances, unsure what to make of the sudden change in tone.

"You've got balls, I'll give you that," Robert said, wiping a tear from his eye. He gestured at Varys, who stepped closer. "My little bird here says you've been spreading your religion in Dorne. Is that true?"

"It is not my religion," Gideon replied. "It is the truth revealed by the Lord."

Robert's good humor was starting to sour. He waved a hand impatiently. "I've no use for your riddles. Yes or no?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Gideon said.

"Well, I could care less what you or those Dornish sand-lovers worship," Robert said with a dismissive shrug, "but it's my 'duty'" – the word practically dripped with boredom – "to defend the faith. So, here's the deal: stop spreading your God-talk, leave the people of Dorne alone, and we'll call it a day. I'll go back to doing more important things."

Cersei's frown deepened as she caught his meaning, her lips curling in disgust. Around the court, several voices murmured in agreement that the King's offer was far too lenient.

"This I cannot do," Gideon said firmly, his voice ringing through the room with conviction. "It is a mission given to me by the Lord, and it is one I will continue to fulfill."

A stunned silence fell over the court. In their eyes, he had not only been offered clemency but generosity, and yet he had spurned it outright. Cersei's expression twisted with anger.

"You understand what you are doing, Ser Gideon?" Robert said, his voice suddenly quieter, almost dangerous.

"I fully understand, Your Grace."

Cersei's patience snapped. "Your insolence will no longer be tolerated," she hissed. "Guards, detain this man and send him to the dungeons!"

The Kingsguard and several armed men stepped forward, their mail and plate clinking as they advanced. Gideon closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He extended an arm to his side.

A golden glow began to emanate from his hand, soft at first but growing brighter, more brilliant, as the court watched in awe. The light coalesced into the unmistakable form of a sword, its hilt adorned with intricate filigree, its blade glimmering like captured sunlight. Even Valyrian steel couldn't compare to the grandeur of the weapon Gideon now wielded.

The advancing guards faltered, their steps slowing as they stared, wide-eyed, at the spectacle before them.

"I would not recommend this course of action, Your Grace," Gideon said, his voice calm but with a steel edge that made his words linger in the heavy air. "My companions and I will not hesitate to defend ourselves."

At once, Gideon's twelve companions drew daggers from their cloaks, their faces resolute despite the overwhelming odds.

"You dare bring weaponry into the throne room?" Jon Arryn's voice rang out, his tone laced with disbelief and anger.

Gideon cast him a brief, unreadable glance before turning back to Robert. The King was no longer lounging but sitting upright, his hand resting tensely on the arm of the Iron Throne.

"King Robert," Gideon said, abandoning the formal Your Grace, "I do not wish to harm anyone in this room. But if you raise arms against me with harmful intent, I will respond in kind."

For a moment, the room remained frozen, the tension so thick it felt as though the walls themselves held their breath. Then, incredibly, Robert laughed again, though this time it carried a dangerous undertone.

"You've got sorcery on your side," Robert said, his laughter dying as quickly as it had come. "I dismissed the tales as rumors, but it seems there's truth to them. Still, Ser Gideon, even with your glowing sword and your steely-eyed friends, you're surrounded by every blade in this city."

"What do you want from me, King Robert?" Gideon asked, his tone as steady as ever. "To deny what I know to be true? To abandon those who seek the light of the Lord? After doing so, would you then march North and force those 'Northern Barbarians' to convert to your Seven? Would you ask Eddard Stark, your closest friend, to bow before the Faith of the Seven?"

Robert's expression turned grim, his jaw tightening.

The room was cloaked in stunned silence, the faint crackle of torches the only sound interrupting the heavy tension. Light from the flames glinted off the edges of the Iron Throne, its jagged steel reflecting the atmosphere's sharp hostility. Every pair of eyes in the court was fixed on the man who dared stand unbowed before the King, his glowing sword a bold affront to the crown.

Gideon's gaze did not falter as he locked eyes with Robert Baratheon. "You may call yourself king," he began, his voice calm and firm, "but even a king does not command the soul. I've heard tales of you as a warrior, the founder of a dynasty, the famed bane of dragons. And yet,"—his tone grew sharper, cutting into the air like the edge of his luminous blade—"here I see a man weighed down by indulgence, ambition dulled by wine and women. Is this truly the sum of Robert Baratheon's greatness?"

The insult hung in the air like a noose, tightening the tension further. The court remained frozen, too shocked to murmur. Only the flickering torches bore witness to the unthinkable scene: an unknown knight, a foreigner no less, speaking such words in the very heart of the Red Keep. The Kingsguard stiffened, their hands grasping the hilt of their swords even tighter, but they awaited their king's command.

Robert's knuckles tightened on the hilt of his warhammer, his infamous temper beginning to smolder visibly. "Few men would dare enter my hall, surrounded by my knights, and insult me to my face," he said, his voice low but thick with the promise of fury. "You've got stones, Engel. But stones won't save you if you go too far."

Gideon gave no sign of fear, his expression calm as a monk's. "I've never been a man to hold my tongue, Your Grace. You may call it audacity; I call it honesty."

"My love, this parlor trickster's insolence cannot go unpunished!" Queen Cersei's voice broke through the stillness like shards of glass. She stood, her emerald eyes blazing as her voice dripped with contempt. "This zealot stands in your throne room spewing blasphemy. He should be sent to the dungeons at once, lest your clemency be mistaken for weakness."

Robert snapped his head toward her, irritation flaring in his expression. "Quiet, woman." His words landed like a blow, silencing Cersei but doing little to dim her cold fury. Robert turned back to Gideon, his blue eyes hard and calculating. "This mission of yours," he said, his tone measured but no less dangerous, "these people you've converted—what's to stop them from turning against me? What's to stop them from hailing you as some holy king? If I let you go, what's to keep you from raising a rebellion in the name of your god?"

Gideon straightened, unflinching beneath Robert's scrutiny. "I am no king, Robert Baratheon, and I have no desire for your throne. My mission is not one of conquest but of enlightenment. I seek to heal the wounded, teach the ignorant, and guide the lost. If my actions seem like rebellion, then perhaps it is not I who stirs unrest but the tyrannies of fear and doubt already festering within your kingdom."

"Tyranny, is it?" Jon Arryn's voice cut through the room like the icy wind of the Vale. His expression was steady, his tone cold as the Eyrie's stones. "You stand here, a foreigner, declaring the faith of this realm inferior, its traditions backward, and yet you have the audacity to claim we are the tyrants? You wield that...thing"—he gestured at the sword—" and tell us you pose no threat? Forgive me, Ser Gideon, but your claims to humility ring hollow."

Gideon turned to face the Hand, inclining his head slightly but not bowing. "Forgive me, my lord, for I do not know your name. I shall refer to you as such until I do." His voice remained composed, carrying no trace of malice. "I cannot control how you perceive my words, only that they are spoken with conviction. If your faith and traditions are strong, as you claim, then what I preach should not threaten them."

Jon's face remained impassive, but the clench of his jaw betrayed the simmering anger just beneath the surface.

"You speak too much," Cersei interrupted, her tone dripping venom. "Guards, put an end to this farce before the entire court starts believing this nonsense."

The Kingsguard hesitated. Their gazes darted between the queen, the king, and the formidable figure of Gideon with his glowing sword. None seemed eager to test the mettle of a man who radiated an air of divine conviction.

"Leave it be, Cersei," Robert growled.

"Robert!" Cersei hissed. "You can't let this insult go unanswered. It's a show of weakness to—"

"It's my bloody throne!" Robert snapped, rising to his feet. His sudden movement silenced her and sent a ripple of apprehension through the court. "And I'll decide who kneels, who doesn't, and who gets thrown in chains!"

Cersei sneered, her beautiful features contorted in anger. But for all her venom, she said nothing. Her green eyes burned with frustration, but she knew better than to defy Robert when his temper flared so violently, especially in front of so many. Sinking back into her seat, she fumed in silence, fingers curling into the fabric of her gown.

Robert's blazing gaze returned to Gideon, his fists clenched, the famed Baratheon fury painted clearly on his face. "I'll ask you once more—why should I trust a man who carries that glowing blade and preaches of some foreign god's mercy? Why should I let you walk out of here alive?"

Gideon did not flinch. His voice was steady and unyielding. "Robert Baratheon, my companions and I seek no war. If you wish to test my resolve, do so. If you wish to test my sword, do so."

The court murmured, but the sound was cut short as Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard stepped forward. His pale features were tight with disdain, and his hand rested firmly on the pommel of his sword.

"Blasphemer," Ser Mandon hissed, drawing his blade with a soft, deadly ring. Without a word of warning, he lunged at Gideon, the gleaming edge slicing through the torchlight.

Gideon moved in a flash, sidestepping with impossible precision while parrying the strike. His luminous sword burned brighter as he swung downward, cleaving Ser Mandon's blade cleanly down the center. The fragments of steel clattered to the stone floor, the sound as sharp as the collective gasp from the court.

Before Ser Mandon could recover, Gideon slammed his gauntleted fist into the knight's helmet. The force crumpled the steel inward with a dull thud, sending Ser Mandon sprawling to the floor, unconscious. The Kingsguard and the gathered gold cloaks froze, stunned by the swiftness of Gideon's actions.

Gideon's companions, sensing the threat, moved with him, forming a protective circle. He stood at their forefront, the glowing sword in his hand steady as stone, his piercing gaze locked onto Robert Baratheon.

"The man is fine," Gideon said, his voice calm but resonant. "I have not harmed him beyond a concussion. Now, let me ask you this, Robert Baratheon—will I need to harm more in this room today, or will you see truth and reason?"

The chamber fell silent. Robert's chest rose and fell, his eyes burning with intensity as he stared at Gideon. Then, suddenly, his scowl softened, and his mouth twitched into a crooked grin.

"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

Gideon blinked, taken aback by the question. "Four and twenty," he replied cautiously, his sword lowering slightly.

At that, Robert let out a booming laugh, startling the court. "Four and twenty!" he barked, his laughter echoing off the high walls. "Fighting like that? Reminds me of myself when I was in my prime! Gods, I was strong then."

The court exchanged uneasy glances, utterly bewildered by their king's unexpected outburst.

As the laughter faded into a gruff chuckle, Robert Baratheon took a step forward, his expression shifting from mirth to a curious mixture of amusement and grudging respect. He looked Gideon up and down as if appraising the weight of the man standing before him. "I like you, Ser Gideon. A man with courage, strength, and conviction. There aren't many left who'd face me with such fire and walk away breathing. Gods, I hope they bless me enough to let my son become a man as fine as you."

A sharp intake of breath swept the room. Robert's words carried a barbed insult, cutting at the legitimacy of his son's character, and none missed the way Queen Cersei's face darkened further. Her emerald eyes smoldered with outrage, though she said nothing aloud. Gideon did not miss it, either, but he remained impassive, his posture rigid yet calm.

It was Jon Arryn who broke the tense silence. "Your Grace!" His voice was cold and unwavering, though tinged with a note of urgency. "You cannot possibly let this man walk free! He has injured your Kingsguard, insulted you, and challenged your rule. What would the realm think of you should he walk away unharmed?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the court, and many shared the sentiment. Heads nodded, and eyes narrowed as they waited for Robert's response.

"You've seen how the man fights, Jon," Robert growled, growing tired of the debate. "I'll not condemn my entire Kingsguard over a matter already settled."

The tension among the white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard was palpable. Their pride, already bruised by Gideon's display, was further hurt by Roberts' words.

Before Jon Arryn could form a rebuttal, Jaime Lannister stepped forward. The firelight caught in his golden hair, giving him an almost ethereal presence, and his smirk carried the sort of arrogance that only a man with his reputation could bear.

"Your Grace," Jaime said smoothly, his voice cutting through the tense air. "This foreigner has not only insulted the Iron Throne but has tarnished the honor and reputation of the Kingsguard with his… performance." He gestured toward the unconscious knight Gideon had dispatched, his tone light but pointed. "With your leave, I'll take the measure of this man myself."

The challenge hung in the air, thick with consequence and expectation. Robert narrowed his eyes, his face a mask of irritation and intrigue.

"Are you sure, Kingslayer?" Robert asked gruffly.

Jaime's smirk widened, his confidence unwavering. "Your Grace, my honor demands it. A man who dares challenge the dignity of the Iron Throne and the sanctity of the Kingsguard cannot leave untested. If you trust your Kingsguard, let me prove that trust is not misplaced."

Gideon remained unmoved. He had neither sneered nor smirked throughout the exchange. His calm demeanor belied the tension rippling through the room. Slowly, he inclined his head, the faint glow of his blade catching the firelight in brilliant flashes. The silence deepened as the court's attention shifted entirely to him.

"I accept," he said simply. His voice was steady and quiet but carried an undeniable weight, a quiet power that seemed to root him more firmly to the moment than anyone else in the room.

Robert leaned back in his throne, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. "It's final, then," he declared, his voice booming with authority. "Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, challenges Ser Gideon to single combat. Let the outcome decide if this man will walk out of this city while breathing."

—

The court now stood in the vast courtyard of the Red Keep, surrounded by towering stone walls and illuminated by torches as the sun dipped low on the horizon. Nobles, soldiers, and servants alike crowded around the makeshift arena. In the corner, Gideon knelt, his head bowed, clutching a small cross necklace. His companions, standing a respectful distance away, observed quietly as their leader finished his prayer.

Across the courtyard, Jaime Lannister lounged against a crate, a sardonic smirk on his lips. His armor gleamed even in the fading light, and his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. Queen Cersei stood near him, her emerald eyes fixed on Gideon with an uneasy gaze. Despite herself, a knot of worry formed in her stomach. She'd seen Gideon dispatch Ser Mandon with almost laughable ease, and while Mandon wasn't nearly her brother's equal, he was no amateur.

"The coward is scared, praying to his nonexistent god for protection," Jaime muttered, loud enough for her to hear. The Kingslayer glanced at his sister, his grin widening. "Worry not, sister. This won't take long."

As he stood, Jaime tugged his helmet into place and strode confidently toward the center of the courtyard. Stopping a dozen paces from the kneeling knight, Jaime called out, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.

"Coward!" he bellowed, mockery dripping from his tone. "You'll have plenty of time to pray when you're bleeding out in the dirt. Stop delaying the inevitable!"

Gideon didn't flinch at the taunt. He finished his prayer with a deliberate, serene slowness, handing the cross to one of his companions, a stern-faced man named Barrus, before donning his helmet. He rose, his glowing blade catching the attention of everyone present as it shimmered with ethereal light. Not sparing a glance for Jaime, Gideon strode forward with measured calm, stopping precisely ten paces away.

This nonchalance only stoked Jaime's anger. Rarely had anyone dared to ignore him, and certainly never in such a brazen manner. His lips twisted in a sneer as he unsheathed his sword, the rasp of steel drawing the focus of all watching.

From his vantage point, Robert Baratheon leaned forward with gleaming eyes. "Ser Jaime Lannister has challenged Ser Gideon Engel to single combat. Let the gods and men witness this fight and honor its outcome." His grin widened, his voice booming across the yard. "Begin!"

Jaime lunged forward instantly, a blur of steel. His opening strike aimed at Gideon's neck, quick and precise. Gideon stepped aside smoothly, not even raising his blade. Jaime pressed again, his second strike a sweeping arc that aimed to unbalance his foe. Again, Gideon sidestepped effortlessly, his glowing sword held in a relaxed grip.

The Kingslayer snarled under his breath, attacking with a flurry of strikes, but every swing was evaded with practiced precision. The sound of Jaime's sword slicing the air without finding its mark soon filled the courtyard. Onlookers leaned forward, stunned by Gideon's almost casual avoidance of the assault.

"Do you only know how to dodge?" Jaime barked, circling Gideon, his face reddened with frustration.

Gideon stopped, his glowing sword angled slightly downward as if he hadn't a care in the world. His calm voice carried across the courtyard. "You are a good fighter," he said evenly.

Jaime blinked in surprise at the unexpected compliment but quickly recovered, his cocky smirk returning. "I know," he replied arrogantly, before lunging once more.

This time, Gideon didn't merely evade. With a masterful flick of his wrist, he caught Jaime's blade and twisted. The sword flew from Jaime's grip, clattering to the ground several feet away. Gasps echoed among the crowd as the Kingslayer stood momentarily stunned, weaponless. Gideon, his glowing blade now disappearing in a burst of light, delivered the final blow to Jaime's pride with a simple statement.

"But not as good as you think you are."

Jaime's eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed with humiliation as he processed the insult. Snarling, he tore off his helmet and hurled it to the side, his hair disheveled and his face contorted in fury. Gideon calmly removed his own helmet, placing it at his feet before stepping closer. Jaime swung a wild fist, but Gideon dodged with ease, countering with a quick jab to Jaime's jaw.

The sound of metal on bone rang out as Jaime staggered back, his face showing the beginnings of a bruise. He swung again, another wild blow, and once again Gideon avoided it, delivering a sharp punch to the ribs in retaliation, denting the man's armor. The Kingslayer gritted his teeth, his strikes growing more desperate as the fight continued.

Soon, Jaime's face was bloodied, his steps unsteady. Gideon didn't gloat or taunt; he simply continued deflecting strikes and landing precision counters, his movements precise and unrelenting. Jaime's pride kept him upright, but the exhaustion and damage were taking their toll.

"Good match," Gideon said finally, his voice steady but not mocking. As Jaime launched one final, clumsy swing, Gideon sidestepped and rammed his shoulder into Jaime, sending him stumbling. The Kingslayer fell to the ground, and before he could rise, Gideon placed his boot firmly on Jaime's chest plate, pinning him in place.

The scene was almost poetic. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer—widely regarded as one of the greatest swordsmen in the realm—lay defeated. And not just defeated, but decisively so. The utter one-sidedness of the duel left the assembled court in a state of stunned disbelief. This was no contest of inches but a masterful dismantling.

Jaime, breath heavy and shallow, locked eyes with Gideon. Despite his predicament, he refused to show fear or despair. Pride dictated that he would meet his fate with his head held high. He already knew how this would end.

Gideon, standing tall and unwavering, returned the gaze, his expression composed. There was no gloating in his eyes, only calm respect for a worthy opponent. After a beat of silence, Gideon spoke with even tones that carried throughout the courtyard.

"Do you yield?"

The question stunned not only Jaime but everyone present. Offering clemency after single combat was almost unheard of in the violent world of the court. Victory, particularly one as sound as this, rarely left room for anything other than death or humiliation. 

To some, the offer seemed like strategy—a careful gesture to appease the court and prevent alienating the King, who had, after all, consented to the challenge. But those who looked closer at Gideon, truly looked, would find a different answer. His actions were not born of calculation but of mercy—a mercy rooted in his foreign faith. The man before them spared life where many would have taken it, driven by the belief that even a Kingslayer was not beyond the redemption of Christ.

Jaime hesitated, his brow furrowed. The question lingered, almost foreign to his ears. Then, after a tense pause, he gave a simple nod. His pride resisted, but pragmatism triumphed.

Gideon removed his boot from Jaime's chest with slow deliberation and extended a hand. The motion was as natural and unhurried as everything else he had done. Jaime stared at it briefly, half-expecting it to be a trap, but instinct took over. He grasped Gideon's offered hand and was hauled to his feet in a smooth, almost casual motion.

Jaime wobbled, the strength in his legs drained from exertion, pain, and fatigue. To his chagrin, Gideon supported him, steadying him before he could stumble. The sight caused more than a few in the crowd to chuckle, the absurdity of the situation breaking through their tension. Not minutes ago, Jaime had sworn death upon this foreign knight, and now that same knight held him upright like a patient nurse within a sick ward.

Gideon's face softened, offering not derision but a rare, genuine smile. "You should work on your hand-to-hand combat," he said lightly. "Many knights neglect that aspect of training. But there will come times when you lose your weapon. And when that happens, those skills might just save your life."

Jaime blinked at the unexpected advice, still unsteady and unsure of how to respond. Gideon's gaze flicked to Jaime's battered face, lingering for a moment on the blood trickling from a gash above his brow. His tone shifted, gentler now.

"Would you like to be healed?" he asked, sincerity underpinning his words.

—

(A/N: Ended up at more like 4500 after editing, hope you guys enjoy it. After the next chapter, there will be a week's break due to my brother's wedding as I earlier mentioned.)