LIGHTNOVELWORLD Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The Small Council chamber was nestled within the Red Keep's Tower of the Hand. The room was dominated by a long, polished table of dark oak, surrounded by high-backed chairs designated for the realm's most influential advisors. Tall, narrow windows allow daylight to penetrate. Tapestries depicting historical triumphs adorned the walls, their rich colors muted by time. A large map of Westeros lay spread across the table's center, symbolizing the vast territories under the Iron Throne's dominion.
As the council members settled into their seats, the heavy wooden door swung open with a resounding creak. King Robert Baratheon entered, his formidable frame swaying slightly, the scent of ale preceding him. His once robust physique had…softened over the years, and his eyes, though still sharp, were glazed with inebriation. He wore a simple tunic, the royal sigil embroidered upon it, but it was askew, hinting at a hasty or careless dressing.
"What is so important you had to drag me here, Jon?" Robert's voice boomed, slurred yet commanding, as he dropped heavily into the chair at the head of the table.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, maintained his composed demeanor, though a flicker of concern crossed his features. "Your Grace, we have received troubling news from Dorne."
At this, Robert straightened slightly, the mention of Dorne piquing his interest. "What mischief are those Dornish snakes up to now?"
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, leaned forward, his hands steepled before him. His expression was serene, betraying none of the unease that had settled over the council. "My little birds have brought whispers that cause me... considerable discomfort."
Robert's patience, already thin, wore thinner. "Out with it, Spider. I wasn't dragged from my cups for riddles."
Varys inclined his head gracefully. "There are reports, Your Grace, of a man in Dorne wielding sorcery beyond our experience. He has been spreading a new faith—Christianity, he calls it—throughout Sunspear and its environs. Already, many have converted."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of Varys's words sinking in.
Stannis Baratheon, the King's stern-faced brother and Master of Ships, broke the ensuing silence. "What credence do we give these rumors?"
Varys's gaze shifted to Stannis. "Initially, I might have dismissed them. But the consistency and volume of reports from my sources leave little room for doubt. This man exhibits unparalleled martial prowess and commands sorcery, all while propagating this new religion."
Robert waved a dismissive hand, his earlier interest waning. "Why should I care what gods the Dornish worship? If that's all, I'll return to more pleasurable pursuits."
Jon Arryn interjected, his tone measured but firm. "Your Grace, as Defender of the Faith, it is your duty to uphold the sanctity of the Seven throughout the realm."
Robert scoffed, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. "If that's the case, should I march north and demand Ned forsake his old gods for the Seven? The faith of the Dornish is no concern of mine."
Varys's voice, ever smooth, cut through the tension. "Regrettably, Your Grace, it extends beyond mere smallfolk."
All eyes turned to the Master of Whisperers.
"My sources confirm that in addition to several hundred commoners, Prince Doran and Princess Arianne themselves have renounced the Seven in favor of this new faith."
A heavy silence descended upon the chamber, the weight of the revelation pressing upon each council member.
Jon Arryn's brow furrowed as he leaned forward, hands clasped tightly on the table. "Why would they do that?" he asked, his tone calm but weighted with concern.
Varys's expression did not shift, his composure a mask of serenity amidst the room's growing unease. "My little birds have provided unsettling but consistent details," he began. "This man, a foreigner by all accounts, has demonstrated abilities that defy explanation. Among these is the purported healing of Prince Doran's chronic gout—an ailment known to be incurable through either maester's knowledge or the so-called arts of sorcery."
Grand Maester Pycelle, his age-lined face contorted with disbelief, finally spoke. "Inconceivable! I examined Prince Dorans gout myself, it is incurable!"
Varys's expression remained placid. "Yet, Prince Doran has been observed by many, walking unaided and attending this new faith's ceremonies in Sunspear."
Pycelle sputtered, searching for a rebuttal, but found none. The efiiciency of Varys' 'little birds' were well known, but still, it was hard for a 'learned man' like himself to believe.
Robert's frustration boiled over. "What would you have me do? Call the banners and march on Dorne?"
Renly Baratheon, the youngest of the Baratheon brothers and Lord of Storm's End leaned forward, a thoughtful expression on his face. "If I may, Your Grace, perhaps the wisest course is inaction."
Robert's brow furrowed. "Speak plainly, Renly."
Renly's lips curved into a slight smile. "The Dornish lords are traditional and many are devout in their adherence to the Faith of the Seven. They will not take kindly to their prince and their future princess abandoning centuries of tradition for an unknown creed. Let dissent fester from within; Dorne may well fracture without any intervention on our part."
Jon Arryn's gaze was piercing. "You would risk plunging the realm into chaos?"
Renly's smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Not the realm, my lord. Just Dorne."
Littlefinger's smirk widened slightly as his voice slipped smoothly into the conversation for the first time, cutting through the tension like a blade concealed in silk. "Prince Doran is a careful and calculating man," he said, his fingers steepled as he leaned forward, his gaze flicking from one face to another around the table. "He would not abandon the Faith of the Seven—nor centuries of tradition—on a whim. Such a decision must serve a purpose. There is more at play here than a simple change of heart over a man claiming divine power. It would be foolish to dismiss this as mere spectacle."
The council fell silent, uneasy under the weight of Littlefinger's words, though no one openly voiced disagreement. After a pause, Baelish continued, his tone light, almost amused, but his eyes sharp. "This man—Gideon, you called him?—has done something not just unprecedented but disruptive. I wonder, my lords, whether his purpose aligns with Prince Doran's penchant for long games."
Stannis frowned, his lips thin with frustration. "Speculation without action achieves nothing," he said bluntly.
Jon Arryn raised a hand for calm, his voice heavy with thought. "Cunning or not, the Prince of Dorne's reasons are not immediately clear. He has never before shown any inclination toward religious zeal, which makes this all the more perplexing."
Renly shifted in his seat, his expression deliberately casual, though his words carried their own edge. "Perhaps it's not zeal at all," he mused. "Perhaps it's merely pragmatism. If this Gideon can perform miracles, as is claimed, Doran may see him as a tool—something to consolidate his influence in the region. After all, miracles do have a way of inspiring devotion."
King Robert snorted, drawing all eyes to him. He had leaned back in his chair, one hand gripping the goblet that seemed to be perpetually in reach. "Enough of these schemes and guesses," he said, his voice rough with irritation. "What does it matter if those sandy bastards bow to a new god? One faith or another, it's all the same nonsense. If anything, let Doran bury himself in it. Saves me the trouble of dealing with his prattling."
Jon Arryn sighed heavily, his patience fraying. "Your Grace," he began, his tone firm but respectful, "you are the Defender of the Faith. You must do something about this."
Robert waved him off with a dismissive hand, the goblet sloshing slightly. "The realm doesn't rest on a bunch of septons and their hymns, Jon. It's swords that hold it together, not prayers. And I've no interest in fighting another war. I'll not waste banners chasing miracles. This Gideon is Dorne's problem, not mine."
Jon's expression darkened, frustration etched into the lines of his face. "Robert," he said sharply, trying to snap the king's attention back to the weight of the issue.
But Robert rose from his chair with a grunt, towering over the seated council members. "Deal with it however you like, Jon. That's why you're the Hand, isn't it? I've better ways to waste my time." He turned and stalked toward the doors, his steps heavy and unsteady from drink.
"Robert!" Jon's voice carried an edge of chastisement, but the king simply waved over his shoulder without looking back. The doors opened, and Robert was gone.
In the silence that followed, Jon sat back with a weary sigh, his hand pressed against his temple as if warding off the brewing headache. Stannis, seated rigidly, allowed a flicker of disdain to cross his face at his brother's lack of leadership. Across from him, Baelish's smirk remained, unchanging, his eyes glittering with concealed amusement.
"Well," Littlefinger drawled at last, his tone lazy but laced with meaning. "It seems the matter rests squarely in your hands, my Lord Hand. How shall we proceed?"
—
In the sunlit courtyard of Sunspear, Gideon handed out yet another Bible to the eager hands of the populace. This time, it was a family—a man with calloused hands, a woman with tired eyes, and their two children, shyly clinging to their mother's skirts.
"Here you go." Gideon smiled warmly, placing the worn leather-bound book into the man's trembling hands.
The man immediately dropped to his knees, clutching the Bible as though it were the greatest treasure in the world. "Thank you so much, my lord. My family and I will not forget this blessing as long as we may live."
"Please, rise," Gideon said quickly, his tone gentle yet firm. "I am not worthy of such worship." He extended his hands to help the man to his feet, pulling him up surprisingly easily. His green eyes met the man's as he added, "I pray that the Lord blesses you and your family with His love, His grace, and the strength to face whatever trials life may bring."
"Yes, thank you, my lord." The family bowed deeply once more before walking away, the Bible held close to the man's chest.
Gideon watched them with quiet joy, his smile reflecting a deep sense of fulfillment. Moments like this were why he had come here: to spread the good word of Christ, to bring hope to the hopeless, and to serve as a humble vessel for the Lord's work.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of measured footsteps approaching. Turning, he saw Prince Doran Martell entering the courtyard, his face unusually grave. Gone was the soft, welcoming smile that often graced his features when greeting Gideon.
"Doran," Gideon called out, his smile fading into something more contemplative. "I fear you bring with you bad news." Over the past week, the two men had grown close, and formalities had long since fallen away in private moments such as these.
Doran's voice was steady but carried a weight of unease. "Yes, it was bound to happen eventually. Some have not seen or heard the good word of Christ and instead choose to question the sincerity of your actions here. It seems the situation has now reached beyond Dorne."
He held out a sealed scroll, bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Baratheon—a stag crowned and rampant. Gideon accepted it, unfurling the parchment with practiced ease. His eyes scanned the words, his expression remaining calm though a tension underlay his stoic demeanor.
---
To Prince Doran of House Martell,
It has come to the attention of the Crown that a foreigner by the name of Gideon has taken residence in your court, spreading dangerous heresies and inspiring unrest among the realm's faithful. Such actions cannot go unanswered.
His presence poses a direct threat to the Faith of the Seven and the unity of the realm. The Crown hereby summons Gideon to King's Landing to answer for these charges. Should this summons be ignored or met with resistance, we will consider it an act of defiance from House Martell against the Iron Throne.
Furthermore, it is the expectation of the Crown that House Martell will renounce this false religion. Should you do so promptly, your past transgressions will be overlooked, and this matter will remain confined to Sunspear. Failure to comply will be met with severe consequences.
Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm
---
As Gideon finished reading, his hands lowered the parchment, and he recited solemnly: "If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first." (John 15:18)
"Gideon, I prayed for hours this morning, seeking guidance on how to navigate this dilemma. Yet, it seems the Lord keeps His plans veiled from my sight."
Gideon looked up, his expression serene but resolute. "You need not worry, Doran. I never intended to settle here permanently. My mission has always been to spread the good word, and I will continue to do so wherever the Lord leads me." He handed the letter back to Doran. "I will answer King Robert's summons and take the good word of Christ to King's Landing. The Lord will protect me, as He always has."
Doran hesitated. "Will you be safe?"
Gideon placed a reassuring hand on the prince's shoulder. "The Lord will keep me safe. You have my word. Please feel free to draft a reply stating that I will depart for King's Landing within a fortnight."
After a long pause, Doran nodded slowly, his trust in Gideon evident but tinged with lingering doubt. "If you say so, Gideon. I will do so."
—
"Mors," Gideon began, his tone steady and firm as he addressed the young Dornish warrior, "your anger is your greatest enemy. You must learn to control it and harness it, or it will consume you. An experienced opponent, armed with just a few sharp words, could make you falter in combat. Do not let your temper be the hand that strikes you down."
The courtyard was alive with the echoes of clashing steel and shouted instructions as Sunspear's men-at-arms trained. Since Gideon's shocking display against Oberyn Martell, the guards had increasingly sought his advice, treating him as an unofficial leader in their training sessions. Over time, their initial skepticism faded, and a sense of respect took root. For many, this respect extended beyond mere martial admiration—Gideon's steadfast faith and compassion left a mark, and small murmurs of newfound faith in Christ had begun to circulate among the men.
One of those men was Mors, whose animosity toward Gideon had slowly melted over the past fortnight, though his arrogance persisted. Gritting his teeth at the scolding, Mors remained silent.
Gideon's features softened, the hard edge of his voice giving way to a gentle smile. Stepping forward, he placed a firm yet reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. His green eyes bore into Mors's, not with judgment, but with understanding. "Remember," he said, his voice now laced with warmth, "'Whoever is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city.'" (Proverbs 16:32)
The young warrior shifted uncomfortably under Gideon's steady gaze but gave a reluctant nod.
The scene shifted to another corner of the courtyard, where Oberyn Martell stood, silently watching. Beside him, Ellaria Sand observed with a distinct look of contempt directed squarely at Gideon.
"So this is the man who has bewitched our family?" Ellaria's voice was low, laden with disdain as her sharp eyes narrowed at Gideon.
Oberyn, who had remained unusually quiet, did not respond immediately. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Gideon, his expression pensive, almost searching. In the days since his own defeat, he had watched the foreigner intently. At first, suspicion and anger had dominated his thoughts, believing Gideon to be a charlatan intent on leading his family and people astray.
But the more he observed, the more his anger dissolved. Gideon's patience with the men, his compassion, and his unfailing principles—not to mention the humility with which he carried himself—challenged Oberyn's initial beliefs.
"In truth, my love, I do not know," Oberyn finally murmured, his voice subdued yet thoughtful.
"You do not know?" Ellaria's voice was sharp, incredulous. "But he threatened you with death, humiliated you in front of hundreds! He judged you without knowing you—without knowing us!"
"I was wrong to insult his faith," Oberyn admitted, cutting through Ellaria's anger with a calm that only unsettled her further.
"What are you saying?" she pressed, her tone almost pleading now. "Oberyn, what are you—"
"Ellaria." Oberyn turned to her, his intense gaze locking with hers, filled not with fire, but with contemplation. "I have watched him over the last week, and I've seen enough to understand what I failed to see before. Whatever this man believes—whatever he preaches—he believes it with every fiber of his being. There is no malice in him, and there was none when he faced me that day."
Ellaria stared at him, stunned, her lips parting to speak, but Oberyn continued before she could find the words.
"Who am I to judge a man for what he holds sacred? I have traveled to lands far and wide and preached tolerance when it suited me, yet mocked and disrespected his faith without a second thought. And still, after insulting everything he held dear, Gideon did not hold it against me. He didn't revel in his victory over me—didn't demand penance or groveling." Oberyn said, the weight in his voice growing, "a man of conviction. Very rarely do you encounter someone so steadfast, so... resolute in their morals."
Ellaria's expression hardened, though a flicker of doubt crossed her features. "And we're just to ignore the way he treated you? Humiliated you? I hear the whispers, Oberyn—the talk has not stopped. People recount how you lost your temper and were so quickly dealt with. They do not speak of the battle—they speak of your defeat, the way they once spoke of your prowess. Is that so easy to forget?"
Oberyn's jaw tightened, and for a moment, a flash of the old Dornish fury passed across his face, but it faded just as quickly. "The people always speak, Ellaria. They will celebrate, mourn, curse, or praise—it matters little. Let them talk. My worth does not lie in the opinions of others, and neither should my pride."
Ellaria opened her mouth to respond, but Oberyn didn't give her the chance. Without another word, he turned away from the courtyard, his steps measured yet deliberate. He paused just long enough to glance at Gideon one last time before his gaze returned to the path ahead.