"He is no man… he must be a demon!" a voice shrieked from behind the line of bloodied soldiers, hoarse with terror. "No man moves like that!"
The floor of the Sept was slick with the aftermath—bodies broken but not defiled, left intact where Gideon could help it. His sword shockingly dripped not with gore but with the radiance of divine light, unmarred by the carnage it had caused.
The High Septon's command rang out again, soaked in rage and desperation. "Advance! Kill this demon! If you perish, you dine with the gods tonight—but cower, and your souls will be damned to eternal torment!"
His words, forged in the fires of doctrine and fear, cracked through the silence like a lash. And for many, the years of indoctrination—of sermons drilled into their bones, of obedience taught through fear—won out. Faces pale, hands trembling, they stepped forward again.
A ring of blades began to close around Gideon, but for the moment, none struck. There was a stillness—a breath before the plunge.
His voice cut through it all.
"Your High Septon holds no power over heaven or hell. He is no shepherd, only a wolf cloaked in gold and lace! But the Lord—my Lord—welcomes even now those who turn their hearts to Him. 'Come to Me! All who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.' He will give You rest! You will be shown mercy, love, grace! Please."
"Silence, demon!" one soldier barked, though his voice wavered. His defiance became the spark—blades began to rise, faces hardened with fear disguised as resolve, and the ring tightened.
Gideon lowered his head. His heart ached. It did not have to be this way.
But it was.
He moved with nearly impossible grace—swiftness honed by sorrow. His blade was light and thunderous, cleaving through armor like silk. He danced between strikes with the stillness of prayer and the fury of judgment. One man's blade shattered against his armor. Another was sent flying, his body landing gently as if the wind itself cradled him.
Three more charged—he dropped to a knee, blade whirling in an arc that carved the air with holy fire. Their swords scattered from their hands before they could scream. A spinning strike, a flash of steel and light, and five were down, groaning, some alive, some not so fortunate.
They came in waves—dozens more, with fear behind their eyes and the name of the Seven on their lips—but Gideon met them not with hate, only with a burdened mercy. His sword found gaps in their armor, his movements effortless, his strikes impossibly controlled.
He spared where he could. Disarmed where he must. But there were too many, and not all could be saved.
The chamber thundered with the clash of steel, the gasp of the crowd, the barked orders from cowards hiding behind divinity.
Still Gideon fought, sorrow in every blow, light in every step.
And then—just as the dust rose high and the air shook with fury—
"Stop this madness in the name of your King!"
Gideon's blade stilled mid-air, radiant steel hovering like a frozen breath of heaven. Around him, the weapons of his would-be executioners clattered to the floor one by one, some by choice, others slipping from lifeless hands.
The Great Sept was unrecognizable.
Once a place of reverence, it now lay defiled—stained in blood. Over fifty men had clashed with Gideon; now they littered the chamber floor. Cracked marble ran with crimson rivulets. Stained-glass windows, once portals for divine light, now cast haunting hues over the fallen. Some groaned, twitching in pools of their own lifeblood. Others lay still, faces twisted in frozen fear or contorted pain. The scent of incense had been drowned beneath the iron tang of spilled blood. The Sept no longer stood as a house of the divine—but a battlefield.
At the entrance, King Robert Baratheon halted mid-step.
His jaw tightened, and his broad shoulders sagged as the carnage unfolded before him. His voice, barely above a whisper, escaped his lips.
"Gods…"
The High Septon wasted no breath. His voice cracked the silence like a whip, eyes blazing. "Your Grace! This demon has tried to poison us with his words—and when we resisted as good men of faith, he attacked us! He brutally murdered your subjects, the subjects of the Seven! We must bring this creature to justice!"
Robert's eyes shifted slowly—first to the High Septon, then to Gideon.
He hadn't come out of fear for Gideon. He had come out of fear for what Gideon might do.
If only Varys had informed him sooner…
What he had hoped to prevent was already lying broken on the floor in pools of blood.
Behind the king stood four of the seven Kingsguard—silent, steeled—and a contingent of gold cloaks who clutched their spears with trembling hands. None dared speak.
Robert exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face.
"Gideon," he said, voice low and heavy. "Could you not show restraint?"
Gideon turned to him. Slowly, he removed his helmet, revealing a face hollow with sorrow. Sweat clung to his brow, his eyes heavy and dark with grief.
"I have shown restraint," he said. "I wished it not to come to this. It was that man"—he gestured to the High Septon, his voice rising—"who called me here. Who demanded I kneel before his gods. Who ordered my capture. Who gave the command to kill me. Who sent these men to die."
His eyes met Robert's, slight anger in his tone.
"And now you ask me why I could not show restraint?"
The High Septon's voice rang out, desperate, seizing the pause. "Your Grace, you must see now—this man is no messenger of peace, he is a killer, a defiler of holy ground! He spilled blood where prayers once rose—"
"Enough!" Robert barked, his tone brooking no reply. "Gideon," he said then, quieter but no less sharp, "you do know my titles… yes?" There was weight behind the words—Defender of the Faith spoken without being said, more seriousness than Robert had shown in months.
Gideon nodded, quiet. "Do what you must, Robert. Just know—I've taken more lives today than I ever wished to. Don't push me to take more."
"You dare threaten His Grace—" one of the Kingsguard barked, stepping forward.
"Silence," Robert snapped, not looking away from Gideon.
A heavy hush fell over the Sept.
Gideon turned from them. His steps echoed softly as he approached one of the fallen. The man was older, thick-boned and grizzled, his mail stained red, his face frozen in a mask of disbelief. There was no hatred in the dead man's features—only confusion, as though he'd died not knowing why.
Gideon knelt beside him. Gently, reverently, he reached down and slid his fingers over the man's eyes, closing them.
"Lord God," he murmured, barely above a breath, "receive this man with mercy. Judge him not for the orders he followed, but for the heart You alone can see. Forgive him, for we are all sinners."
He stayed there for a beat longer, then rose and looked over the others—bodies sprawled across sacred stone, their lives snuffed out by the madness of power and pride.
"I prayed for their hearts before I raised my blade," he said, voice heavy. "And I pray now, even after all this, that their souls find the light they were denied in life."
Then he turned back to Robert, face shadowed by sorrow, voice steady.
"What will it be, Your Grace?"
Robert didn't answer at first.
His gaze swept the Sept—over the wounded and the dead, over shattered marble and the blood-soaked banners of the Seven. His hand flexed unconsciously at his side, knuckles pale, as if gripping the ghost of his warhammer.
"All these damned duties," he muttered.
Then he looked at Gideon.
"To draw steel in the Great Sept of Baelor," Robert said, voice low and hoarse, "is treason. To spill blood on these holy stones is blasphemy." He shook his head, wearied to his bones. "Gideon, I've no choice. If I do nothing, the people will demand justice—or my crown. Any other man… any other man, I'd have his head on a spike before the hour was out."
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until only a few paces stood between them.
"By my word as king," he said, now cold, formal, distant, "you are to leave Westeros. Before the sun sets. You'll sail east—to Essos. To whatever gods, wars, or truths await you there."
The High Septon sucked in a breath to protest, his voice already beginning to rise, but Robert didn't even turn his head.
"Speak again," he said, low and sharp, "and you'll follow him."
Silence returned.
Robert faced Gideon again, his tone grave. "This is mercy. Don't mistake it for anything else. If you ever set foot on these shores again…" He didn't finish—but the threat was clear in his eyes.
A long pause hung in the air. Then Robert stepped aside, leaving the path to the Sept's great doors open behind him.
"Go," he said. "While I still call it mercy."
Gideon met his gaze one last time, then lowered his eyes. The sword in his hand flickered with golden light and vanished in a hush of warmth.
"My companions?" he asked quietly.
Robert exhaled. "They may go with you… if they choose."
Gideon turned his head and looked behind him—at the bodies of the men he had fought, at the bloodied survivors now groaning or clutching at their wounds. His gaze lingered for a moment, solemn, before he looked back to Robert.
"Robert," he called evenly. "I have a request for you."
A ripple passed through the men behind the king. One of the kingsguard stiffened, the same man who had spoke earlier, hand flying to the pommel of his sword at the casual use of the king's name.
"You dare—"
But Robert raised a hand without looking, and his glare found the man like an arrow to the throat. "By the gods, Blount," he snapped, "if you speak again, I'll have you gelded and riding to the Wall by moonrise."
A pause. Then Robert sighed, his voice softening.
"Gideon Engel… you may be the boldest fool I've ever met. One of the things I liked about you." He nodded. "Speak."
Gideon turned to fully face him. "These men," he said, motioning to the fallen behind him, "can you treat the wounded with the best care your city can offer? And those who've died… would you allow them a burial? So they may rest peacefully."
The words settled over the Sept like dust, soft and unexpected.
A few in the crowd gasped. Even the High Septon stared, stunned. Many had expected Gideon to beg for clemency, or for gold, certainly not this.
Robert stared at him for a long moment. Then, to the shock of many, he chuckled—deep and genuine.
"You truly surprise me every godsdamned day, Gideon." He turned, addressing a nearby captain of the gold cloaks. "Fetch every healer, every maester from here to the Red Keep. I want the wounded tended to before the hour's out." Then, looking at the man who Gideon had kneeled before earlier, his voice dropped. "And bury them well. All of them."
Gideon stepped forward. He stopped before Robert, the two men standing eye to eye. Then Gideon raised one gauntleted hand and placed it gently on the king's shoulder.
Immediately, steel rang out behind Robert as half a dozen blades were drawn—but the king didn't flinch. He held up a hand again.
"I came to bring peace… though it seems that I have brought a sword. May the Lord weigh my heart—and yours—with mercy. I've seen evil wear robes and good men swing swords. Today, you saw the line… and chose not to cross it. For that, I thank you.
If I may be so bold as to offer counsel: rule with justice, not pride, and you may yet stand before God without shame. Kings answer to thrones for a time—but to Heaven, forever."
Robert's eyes flickered, unreadable.
"I pray that we meet again," Gideon added.
And with that, he stepped past him.
The doors of the Great Sept loomed open, and as he passed beneath them, the gathered crowd outside—thousands strong—began to part without a word. They moved like water around him, backs pressed to stone, whispers caught in their throats.