Spreading Christianity in Game of Thrones

(Prince Doran POV)

Doran knelt in his chambers, the candlelight casting soft flickers over the room. "Lord," he murmured, his voice thick with both desperation and hope. "How can I serve you? How can I help Gideon in his divine mission without destroying all that we've built in Dorne?"

He sighed deeply, lowering his forehead to his hands. His mind was no clearer than when he had begun his prayer. Ideas swirled, each dismissed as impractical or dangerous. "You are mysterious, Lord," he whispered. "But I trust that you will not abandon me—or him."

Doran extinguished the candle and lay down to sleep, his mind still restless. Yet soon, slumber claimed him.

—

He awoke, yet it was no ordinary awakening. He found himself on a vast expanse of clouds, their white and gold hues stretching endlessly in every direction. The ground beneath him was soft but firm, yielding just enough to his weight without collapsing. He took a hesitant step, the clouds rolling gently beneath his feet like waves upon the ocean.

Confusion gripped him. "Where am I?" he muttered aloud, his voice sounding small against the vastness. He gazed downward, and the sight before him nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

Below him was Westeros, laid out in exquisite detail. He could see the towering heights of the Eyrie, the bustling ports of Oldtown, the snow-capped mountains of the North. Rivers shimmered like veins of silver, threading their way through the landscape. Every city, every hamlet, every field seemed so tiny, so fragile from this vantage point.

"Is this how the Targaryens viewed Westeros?" he murmured, awe and unease mingling in his voice. "No wonder they were arrogant. Everything looks so… insignificant from up here."

His musings were interrupted abruptly. His body froze. He didn't gasp, didn't flinch—he simply stopped. His eyes glazed over, and for what felt like several minutes, his consciousness was no longer his own.

In that timeless void, visions poured into him like a rushing river. Images, sounds, sensations—none clear, all overwhelming. He saw Gideon, steadfast and commanding, surrounded by his companions. He saw ice spreading from beyond the wall towards Westeros. He saw flames, battles, tears, and prayers. He saw triumph, and he saw heartbreak. He felt something indescribable: an unshakable certainty that his path was before him, one of purpose ordained by something far greater than himself.

When his mind returned to him, Doran found himself face-to-face with a being that defied comprehension. The figure before him was...beyond words. It had the likeness of a man and yet was so much more.

The angel's body seemed composed of living flame, every movement trailing wisps of light. Its face was impossible to focus on, shifting and shimmering with holy intensity. Its wings—six in number—were vast and radiant, covered in innumerable eyes that blinked and shone like jewels. A perpetual hum surrounded it, a sound like a thousand voices singing in unison yet somehow speaking directly to him.

Doran instinctively dropped to his knees, the clouds yielding just enough to cushion him. Terror and awe roiled in his chest, but the being spoke, and all fear melted away like frost under the morning sun.

"Do not be afraid," the angel said, its voice reverberating through the very fabric of existence.

Doran couldn't have been afraid even if he wanted to. The angel's presence was overwhelming but also soothing, as though the divine itself cradled his very soul.

Still kneeling, he bowed his head. "I understand," he whispered. The visions—fragments of the future or divine instructions—had been overwhelming in their clarity. Every question, every doubt, had vanished. He knew what needed to be done.

"Thank you, Father," he said, his voice breaking with gratitude as tears welled in his eyes. A warm smile spread across his face, his heart lightened despite the burden he now bore.

The angel remained silent, its glowing form unyielding and steady, but from the heavens above came a voice that was neither loud nor soft, yet filled the entire expanse.

"Go, my child."

Doran looked upward, his vision drawn to a radiant golden aura in the sky. In its center was a silhouette—a man, but so much more. The figure exuded a presence so majestic, so ineffable, that it made the angel's form seem small in comparison. Light streamed from every corner of this being, cascading in endless waves that illuminated the clouds in shimmering gold.

He couldn't look away, tears spilling freely now, his heart swelling with both reverence and awe.

—

When Doran jolted awake, the sun was streaming through his chamber window, golden and bright. He sat up, his chest heaving with the remnants of the dream's intensity. The feeling of the clouds beneath his feet, the angel's voice, the weight of the vision—they all lingered, vivid and undeniable.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet meeting the cool stone floor. His hands pressed together in a gesture of gratitude.

"Thank you, Lord," he whispered, his heart steady with a newfound resolve.

There was work to be done. Gideon had come to Westeros with purpose, and Doran would not abandon him. He would serve as he had been commanded.

—

(Gideon POV)

As their small ship approached the harbor, the unmistakable skyline of King's Landing came into view. The sprawling capital of the Seven Kingdoms stretched before them—a chaotic cluster of buildings crowded along winding, haphazard streets, capped by the imposing Red Keep perched upon Aegon's High Hill. Its rust-red towers gleamed in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the patchwork city below. Smoke billowed from hundreds of chimneys, and the docks bustled with activity, sailors unloading cargo and street vendors peddling their wares. It would have been a breathtaking sight if not for one immediate issue.

The smell.

"God above…" Gideon muttered, turning his head away and clutching his nose. He had smelled worse—rotting corpses, perhaps—but never a stench that seemed so alive and determined to invade his senses. It was as if the entire port was conspiring to suffocate him.

"No warning could prepare me for this abomination," Gideon continued, his voice muffled. He glanced at his companions, who all wore similar expressions of disgust.

Perros, standing beside him, chuckled and gestured broadly. "I told you, didn't I? Unfortunately, no amount of warning can truly prepare someone for their first whiff of King's Landing. You get used to it… eventually."

"I miss Dorne already," Mors grumbled, pulling his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth.

"Does this smell permeate the entire city?" Gideon asked, trying not to breathe too deeply.

"Apparently, it gets better near the Red Keep," Perros replied. "But I wouldn't know. I've never ventured past the port. Supposedly, some areas further in are worse than this."

"Worse?" Darnell, another of Gideon's companions, exclaimed. "How could it possibly be worse?" He pinched his nose tightly, glaring at the bustling crowd as though accusing them of contributing to the olfactory assault.

Gideon briefly closed his eyes, uttering a quick prayer. "Lord, if it be Your will, grant me the strength—or the mercy—to endure this vile scent." He opened his eyes and sighed, his prayer had been ignored. "It seems You have a sense of humor, Father."

Perros, grinning, pointed to the towering keep. "There's the Red Keep. Shouldn't take you more than half an hour to reach if you're quick about it."

Gideon nodded in acknowledgment. As he prepared to disembark, Perros looked at him with concern. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay in the harbor? How would you return otherwise?"

"Perros," Gideon replied with a smile, "you need not stay. Besides, I do not plan on returning to Dorne anytime soon."

Darius, one of Gideon's younger companions, turned to him in surprise. "Wait—what? We're not going back to Dorne?"

Gideon's companions exchanged confused glances. They had thought this was a brief journey—a mission in King's Landing before returning to the sun-kissed sands of their homeland.

"You are all welcome to return to Dorne," Gideon said gently. "But my mission is not confined to one place. It extends to all the world."

The group fell silent.

Finally, the tallest of them, Arthur, stepped forward. His strong, weathered features carried both resolve and humility. "You healed my mother from certain death, Gideon," he said earnestly. "I doubt the Lord would look kindly on me if I were to abandon you so soon after swearing to follow Him. If you will have me, I would gladly continue to walk with you on your mission."

Another man stepped forward, clutching a small leather-bound notebook to his chest. His name was Barrus, the most literate of the group and one who had taken to recording Gideon's teachings. "I owe you and the Lord a great debt," Barrus said. "I have witnessed wonders and the fulfillment of faith. I cannot turn away now. I will see this mission through."

One by one, the rest of Gideon's companions echoed similar pledges, their resolve unwavering. 

Gideon's heart swelled with gratitude as he looked at them. "I thank you, my friends. Truly."

Before stepping away, Gideon turned to Perros, whose brow furrowed in contemplation. "Perros," Gideon said softly, "I will continue to pray for you and your family."

Without waiting for a response, Gideon clasped his hands and uttered a short prayer, his head bowed. Those gathered watched respectfully. But as the final words left his lips, a sudden golden light burst forth between his hands. When it faded, he was holding a leather-bound book, its edges gilded in radiant gold.

Perros gasped, his eyes wide as saucers. "Gods…" he whispered. It was the second time he had witnessed one of Gideon's miracles, yet it left him no less shaken than the first. Doran's writings of Gideon's works had seemed exaggerated, but seeing this left no room for doubt.

"This," Gideon began, holding out the book reverently, "is our Holy Bible. The Word of our Lord written down." He smiled warmly at Perros. "You are literate, are you not?"

Perros nodded mutely, still staring at the book.

"Then, I have a request," Gideon continued. "Share this with your crew. Read it to them. They may hear the Word and find the same strength and peace that I—and many others—have found."

Perros chuckled softly, though there was a tremor in his voice. "After giving it to me like this, I don't think I could say no, even if I wanted to."

He reached out and took the book with careful hands. "Thank you, Gideon. Truly." His gaze softened. "Know that you will always have a friend in me."

Gideon reached out and clasped Perros's shoulder, meeting his eyes. "And I in you, Perros. The Lord will watch over you."

The two men shook hands firmly before Gideon turned to face the crew gathered nearby, who had watched the scene unfold with awe. He gave them a nod of farewell, the corners of his lips curving upward.

"Well, my friends," he said with a smile. "It has been a good journey."

—

King Robert Baratheon, as always, sat slouched on the Iron Throne, a goblet of wine in hand and a drunkard's grin plastered on his face. "Well, let's see this magical bastard for ourselves then," he slurred, raising his cup high before downing the rest of its contents in one long gulp.

Queen Cersei Lannister stood beside the throne, resplendent in gold and green, her expression one of undisguised disgust as she regarded her husband. "You've had too much already, My Love," she said coldly.

"I'll drink as I please, woman," he snapped back before leaning forward, his bleary eyes scanning the court expectantly.

The throne room was alive with the buzz of the small council, members of the nobility, and other curious onlookers. Lords and ladies whispered in hushed tones about the visitor who was about to arrive. A sorcerer, they said—a man bold or foolish enough to request an audience with the King.

"This man must be mad to walk into the Red Keep so brazenly," Cersei sneered, her emerald eyes flashing with disdain.

"Or simply confident, Your Grace," Varys, the ever-smiling Spider, replied smoothly. He adjusted his voluminous robes, his eyes darting toward the massive doors at the other end of the hall.

"Shut it, you two," Robert barked. He waved a hand impatiently. "He's here."

The herald's voice rang out, silencing the room: "Announcing Ser Gideon Engel!"

The grand doors groaned open, revealing a figure bathed in the light streaming through the high windows. Gideon stood tall at the head of a line of twelve companions, each armed. For a moment, the court was struck silent as they took in his appearance.

Gideon's armor shimmered with an almost otherworldly glow, silver polished to a mirrored finish, etched with golden symbols that seemed to catch and hold the light. His golden hair framed a face as striking as any courtly bard's tale, and his brilliant green eyes glittered as if lit from within.

The man strode into the throne room with his companions at his back, their steps confident and unhurried. Their heads were high, their demeanor exuding calm assurance that bordered on arrogance. Whispers erupted among the nobles.

"I expected something… different," Varys murmured to Baelish, his lips curving in an enigmatic smile.

"Yes, quite surprising," Baelish replied, already lost in his private calculations. His mind, as always, worked several moves ahead.

When Gideon and his twelve reached the base of the Iron Throne, they bowed deeply, though notably, none of them knelt. The gesture caused a ripple through the room, an almost tangible wave of disbelief and outrage.

Mutters of "Dornish snakes," and "uncivilized barbarians" rippled through the crowd.

Gideon's companions stood firm despite the mounting tension. As the King's gaze bore down on them, they recalled Gideon's words: "With your vow, you kneel only to God." It filled them with quiet pride, even as the hostility in the room grew thick as smoke.

Queen Cersei's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and venomous. "It is customary to kneel," she said, each word dripping with scorn.

Gideon turned to her, his expression calm, and smiled—an act that caused her breath to hitch momentarily. She studied him closely then, his features so familiar that it gave her pause. His face resembled her brother Jaime's—the same golden hair, strong jawline, and commanding presence. But Gideon was different. More handsome, she thought with a pang of surprise. His emerald-green eyes shone brighter, and his frame was much larger, towering over most in the court. 

"Apologies, Your Grace," Gideon said, his voice steady and strong, resonating through the hall. "But my companions and I kneel solely before God."

---

(A/N: It is a little shorter than usual, but that's because the next chapter is more than 5000 words.)