ã€ŠGojo satory being reborn as jon snowã€‹


 Title: Depature terminal

    The airport stretched infinitely in all directions, its runways vanishing into the horizon like fading echoes of lives once lived. The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, flickering in slow rhythms, their glow neither warm nor cold. Time felt suspended here¡ªnot quite moving forward, not quite standing still. This was the terminal between what was and what would be.

    Gojo Satoru sat in one of the empty lounge chairs, his long legs sprawled out before him, arms draped lazily over the backrest. He had spent his last moments here laughing, his usual smug grin bright against the void. Shoko had left first, tossing him a lazy wave. Geto had followed, his farewell more of a knowing glance than words. One by one, they had all gone ahead¡ªboarding flights to places Gojo could not follow.

    Now, he was alone.

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    And yet, loneliness didn¡¯t find him. The air smelled of something distant, like old memories dissolving into mist. He let out a breath, staring at the ticket in his hand¡ªcrisp, white, untarnished. A new destination.

    His gaze flickered toward the arrival terminal. There, walking along the polished floors, was Ryomen Sukuna, his presence unmistakable even in this limbo. Uraume trailed beside him, their expression unreadable. Gojo tilted his head, a chuckle rising in his throat. How poetic. Even the King of Curses had somewhere to go.

    "Yuji did good by you, huh?" he mused to himself, a slow smile playing at his lips.

    Gojo rose to his feet, stretching his arms as he took one last look at the terminal. The echoes of laughter had faded, the conversations now distant whispers. He wasn¡¯t sad. He wasn¡¯t afraid. The weight of old burdens had lifted.

    With a final glance at his ticket, he stepped forward onto the endless runway, toward a sky unclaimed, a future unwritten.

 Tower of joy

    The cries of a dying woman filled the Tower of Joy.

    Lyanna Stark lay pale and trembling upon a bed of bloodstained linens. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her strength waning with each passing moment. In her arms, the child she had fought so hard to bring into the world lay still¡ªsilent, unmoving. A boy, but a lifeless one. His skin was cold, his lips tinged with blue. He had not even drawn his first breath before death claimed him.

    "No¡­ please, no¡­" Lyanna whispered, clutching the baby to her chest. Tears slipped down her face, mixing with the sweat upon her brow. "My boy¡­ my sweet boy¡­"

    Ned Stark stood beside her, grief tightening his throat. His sister was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do. His men stood silent, their heads bowed. But Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, did not look away.

    He stared at the babe with something unreadable in his violet eyes. Then, with quiet resolve, he unsheathed his greatsword, Dawn. The pale blade, forged from the heart of a fallen star, gleamed in the dim light.

    "For the prince," he murmured, his voice solemn.

    Before Ned or anyone else could react, Arthur Dayne turned the blade upon himself. A swift, precise stroke across his own throat. Blood poured forth, crimson against the white stone floor. He fell to his knees before the child, his lifeblood spilling onto the stillborn babe.

    For a moment, nothing happened.

    Then, the child gasped.

    A deep, shuddering inhale as warmth returned to his tiny form. His skin flushed with color, his limbs twitched. The blood of the Sword of the Morning soaked into him, and from within, something stirred.

    Gojo Satoru opened his eyes.

    The world was unfamiliar, the air heavy with grief, but one thing was certain¡ªhe was alive. And he had been dead just moments ago. Instinctively, his body reacted, cursed energy surging within him, sealing wounds that had never been meant to heal. He could feel it¡ªhis power, weaker than before but undeniably present. His soul had not been broken by death; it had simply moved forward.

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    He did not cry, only breathed, his newborn eyes taking in the faces above him.

    Lyanna sobbed with relief, holding him close, though she could not understand what had happened. Ned Stark could only stare in quiet awe. The others whispered prayers, staring at the miracle before them.

    The moment passed, and the weight of destiny returned.

    "Promise me, Ned," Lyanna whispered, her voice faint but urgent. "Promise me you¡¯ll protect him."

    Ned hesitated, but he could not refuse her. He knelt by her side, taking her hand in his. "I promise."

    With that, Lyanna Stark breathed her last.

    Ned Stark gathered the child into his arms. Gojo¡ªnow Jon¡ªSnow had been born in death and reborn in blood. As the sun set upon the Tower of Joy, Ned turned his back on the fallen, carrying the boy toward the storm that awaited them beyond these walls.

    The North was far away, and the journey was long.

    Ned Stark rode in silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as they made their way northward. The babe in his arms¡ªhis son now, for that was the truth the world would know¡ªstirred but did not cry. He was quiet, too quiet for a newborn. It unsettled Ned in ways he could not name. But the boy lived, and that was enough.

    As they traveled, the landscape changed from the red rocks and sun-drenched sands of Dorne to the windswept plains and thick forests of the Riverlands. The world was vast, and in its vastness, Gojo Satoru felt everything.

    He could feel it¡ªthe cursed energy flowing like an unseen river, thick and heavy with the weight of suffering. It clung to the land, to the people. Death was everywhere. Bandits struck down weary travelers on the road. Plague claimed children in nameless villages. Soldiers, remnants of war, lay bleeding in ditches, their curses taking root in the soil.

    Gojo did not yet have the words to speak, but he understood. He understood what this world was. A world built on the bones of the forgotten, where strength dictated who lived and who perished. He had seen it before. He had lived it before.

    A cold sadness settled within him. He had once been the strongest. That title meant nothing here, but the weight of it still sat upon his soul.

    He would not stand for this. Not again.

    The wind howled through the trees, whispering of things to come. In the distance, Winterfell waited, its grey walls rising against the northern sky. It would be his home, for now. A new beginning, perhaps. But as Gojo nestled against the warmth of Ned¡¯s cloak, his newborn fingers curling ever so slightly, his mind was already reaching beyond.

    This world was broken.

    And if he was to live in it, he would change it.

 Cursed tree

    The air was colder in the North, the winds biting through the walls of Winterfell with a ferocity Gojo had never experienced before. As they approached the castle, he couldn''t shake the sense of unease that had settled within him. There was something wrong with this place, something... cursed.

    His eyes narrowed as he walked through the sprawling grounds, the towering walls of Winterfell looming over him. His senses tingled, picking up on the undercurrent of cursed energy that seemed to linger everywhere. The cold wasn¡¯t the only thing that chilled him to the bone.

    It was the white tree.

    From a distance, it looked like any other tree, but as Gojo¡¯s gaze lingered, something about it struck him¡ªan unnatural feeling. Its bark was a pale, ashen gray, and its branches twisted in grotesque shapes. But it was the face that truly disturbed him: a twisted human-like visage carved into the bark, frozen in an eternal grimace. The cursed energy radiated from the tree like a sickening presence, filling the air with malice.

    Gojo clenched his fists, a familiar heat building in his chest. He had always been the strongest, and he would not tolerate such an abomination. He made a silent vow to himself: the moment he was able, he would burn that cursed tree to the ground.

    He continued walking, but his thoughts were interrupted by voices rising from inside the castle. He overheard a heated conversation between Ned Stark and his wife, Catelyn. Their words, though muffled by the thick stone walls, were clear enough.

    ¡°You can¡¯t just claim him as your own, Ned! He¡¯s not your son!¡± Catelyn¡¯s voice was sharp, laced with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

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    Ned¡¯s tone was more measured, though no less strained. ¡°He¡¯s mine now, Catelyn. What we¡¯ve been through... what Lyanna asked of me.¡±

    ¡°But he¡¯s a bastard!¡± Catelyn¡¯s voice cracked with emotion. ¡°A child of unknown blood. And you... you bring him here as if nothing¡¯s wrong.¡±

    Gojo¡¯s stomach tightened. Bastard? He was no bastard. He had been a prince, the strongest of his kind in his past life, loved and respected by many. And now... now he was reduced to being nothing more than a pawn in a world he didn¡¯t understand.

    Confusion gnawed at him, but there was no time to dwell on it. He needed rest.

    That night, Gojo lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling. As he closed his eyes, sleep overtook him, but it was not a peaceful rest.

    He dreamed.

    Jujutsu High. His students. Megumi, Nobara, Yuji. The laughter they had shared. The lessons, the challenges. But there was a weight in the dream, one that carried a heavy burden¡ªregret.

    He remembered the final battle. Sukuna. Kenjaku. The death of Choso, Megumi¡¯s sister... the countless others who had fallen because he hadn''t been strong enough to end it. He had failed them. His heart ached with the memories of their lives, cut short by his inability to protect them, to stop the curses from taking over.

    Choso''s face, twisted in pain before he had taken his final breath. Megumi¡¯s sister, her life extinguished in a moment. And all the others¡ªthe ones whose names he would never know, the ones whose lives had been erased by his failure.

    He had been the strongest. But in the end, it hadn¡¯t been enough.

    Gojo¡¯s brow furrowed, his hands tightening into fists in the dream. He wouldn''t allow it to happen again. This world, this new life, would not be another cycle of failure. He wouldn''t allow innocent lives to be destroyed, not on his watch. He would change things. For them. For the next generation.

    He wouldn¡¯t make the same mistakes.

    He could feel the weight of his past pressing down on him, but it fueled his resolve. The future¡ªthis future¡ªcould be different. He would make sure of it. He would leave behind a world that was better, safer, a world where the curses couldn''t thrive and where those he loved could live without fear.

    And when he had the power, when he could, he would burn that cursed tree to the ground. It would be the first step.

 Cursed execution

    At two years old, Gojo had already become keenly aware that Winterfell was unlike any place he had ever encountered before. It was not just the cold, the harsh winds, or the towering, ancient walls of stone. There was something more¡ªsomething deeper, something missing.

    It didn¡¯t take long for him to confirm it: no one here could use cursed energy.

    He had spent the early months trying to gauge the flow of cursed energy, as he always did. His senses, sharp even in this small body, had detected nothing. The cursed energy, usually so dense and tangible, seemed to simply bleed out into the air, dispersing into nothingness. He couldn''t feel any of the familiar currents that ran through people¡¯s souls, the lines of cursed energy weaving between individuals.

    There were no cursed spirits here either. No curses lurking in the shadows, no malevolent forces wreaking havoc. That was illogical. How could there be so much cursed energy and no curses to feed on it?

    Gojo pondered it for days. The cursed energy had to be going somewhere. It wasn¡¯t just dissipating. He could sense that the weirwood tree¡ªits twisted, human-like face¡ªwas absorbing some of it. But not enough. The tree¡¯s absorption was barely a trickle compared to the amount of cursed energy bleeding into the atmosphere. It wasn¡¯t just dissipating; it was being drawn somewhere. Northward, to some unknown purpose.

    It wasn¡¯t until one particular evening that Gojo¡¯s senses tingled with something¡ªsomeone¡ªunexpected.

    An old woman, hunched and frail, shuffled into the courtyard near the weirwood tree. Gojo had seen her before¡ªshe was always telling stories to the children. ¡°Old Nan,¡± they called her. But there was something wrong about her. Something that set Gojo¡¯s mind on edge.

    He watched her closely, his sharp eyes catching the subtle clues. The knitting needles she carried, for one, hummed with cursed energy. It wasn¡¯t a strong presence, but it was unmistakable. There was a faint aura around her, one that reminded him of the cursed energy he had left behind at Jujutsu High.

    She had a stench about her, too. The faint odor of blood, like the weirwood tree. It clung to her skin and hair, and it made Gojo¡¯s stomach tighten.

    Why was she here? He thought, narrowing his eyes as she leaned down to speak with the children.

    She was clearly using some sort of disguise technique, but Gojo could see through it easily. His cursed energy sensing abilities were far too advanced for her to hide from him. And what was her true purpose? Was she here just to tell stories, or was there something more?

    As Old Nan left, Gojo followed, carefully staying out of sight. He watched her move toward the well in the center of Winterfell. She was moving strangely, as though something was pulling her toward it¡ªtoward the underground tunnel that Gojo could sense beneath the castle.

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    She vanished into the depths of the well, and Gojo¡¯s heart skipped a beat. An underground tunnel. What was she doing here?

    There was too little information to go on, but Gojo knew one thing for certain¡ªhe needed answers. He couldn''t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He needed to investigate further, and he had an idea where to start.

    The weirwood tree.

    That night, after everyone had fallen asleep, Gojo sneaked out into the yard, determined to get closer to the tree. He didn¡¯t know why, but he felt a strange pull towards it, as though the tree was calling to him.

    He focused his cursed energy, gathering it in his small hands. He had always been able to burn things with his cursed techniques, even as a child. He unleashed the power, sending a stream of energy toward the weirwood tree.

    But nothing happened.

    The tree didn¡¯t even smolder. It felt... different. Hard. As if the tree itself was made of metal. It didn¡¯t burn. It didn¡¯t bend. It simply stood there, cold and unyielding.

    Gojo stepped back, his eyes wide in disbelief. This wasn¡¯t normal. Nothing here was normal.

    Something was very wrong.

    Gojo stood at the window, staring out at the courtyard, lost in thought. The wind howled through Winterfell¡¯s stone walls, but it barely registered in his mind. He was brooding, thinking about the things he had seen, the things he had sensed.

    It had been a quiet day, until the execution.

    He had been walking past the weirwood tree when he noticed the gathering of soldiers and his father, Eddard Stark. A convict¡ªlikely a deserter, from what he had overheard¡ªwas being led to the tree. Gojo had watched in silence, his small hands balled into fists. The convict was pleading, speaking in frantic tones about the White Walkers, their cold terror creeping into every word.

    But Ned Stark wasn¡¯t listening. With a cold, practiced motion, he unsheathed his greatsword, "Ice," and with a single swing, decapitated the man.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. He could feel it now, the roots of the weirwood tree stirring, drawing in the blood of the convict. The cursed energy pooled around the tree, feeding on the life force that had just been spilled. Gojo could sense the power coursing through the roots, the tree drinking deeply from the blood like some dark, ancient thing.

    His father cleaned the blood off the sword, his expression unreadable as the body slumped to the ground.

    Damn.

    Gojo thought bitterly. This family was a murderous, ritualistic one. They sacrificed lives without a second thought, without even questioning what they were doing. It was an ugly truth, but Gojo couldn¡¯t ignore it.

    He didn¡¯t want to kill his new family, not yet. They had taken him in, after all. But he couldn¡¯t escape the gnawing thought at the back of his mind. Anyone who sacrificed humans to cursed objects¡ªwho used lives as if they were nothing more than tools¡ªdeserved to die.

    It was something Gojo could never tolerate.

    He wondered if the original Jujutsu Sorcerers had been like this¡ªpeople who sacrificed others in the name of experiments, of trying to understand the curses they wielded. They must have treated humans like playthings, making them suffer for some greater, twisted purpose.

    And now, it seemed like his family shared that same trait.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes flickered toward the weirwood tree, his thoughts darkening. He had seen enough. The roots of this place were not just part of the land; they were part of something deeper, something sinister. He could feel the darkness creeping in, and he knew that it wasn¡¯t just the weirwood that held the cursed energy¡ªit was the whole damn place.

    And as long as he was here, he would have to keep his eyes open. Because anyone who sacrificed humans to these cursed objects, to these forces... they were the true monsters.

 Cursed pact

    Robb Stark couldn¡¯t help but watch Gojo. It was hard not to. He had never seen anyone quite like him¡ªso cold, so distant. Gojo never smiled, never showed any warmth. His eyes always seemed far away, as though he was seeing something that none of them could.

    Robb tried to understand him, tried to get closer, but Gojo remained an enigma. Even when Robb and Theon worked together, Gojo effortlessly beat them back every time. It was always the same. He fought with just one hand, and they stood no chance. There was an almost casual brutality to it. Gojo¡¯s power was undeniable, and it left Robb with a sense of awe¡ªand unease.

    But it was what happened after the argument with their father that changed everything.

    It had started over the executions¡ªthe ones that Ned Stark insisted were necessary to keep control. Gojo, for the first time since Robb had known him, had spoken out. He had argued that the killings should stop. That there was another way to maintain order without bloodshed. Gojo had been passionate, his voice filled with a fury that Robb had never heard before. But their father disagreed. He believed in the old ways, in the laws of the North. And Gojo¡¯s protests were met with swift punishment.

    Ned Stark grounded him. The words still stung in Robb¡¯s memory.

    What came next was a tension in the air that Robb could practically feel on his skin. Gojo¡¯s anger was palpable, like a storm ready to break. It was the first time Robb had seen the usually composed Gojo lose control, and it left a mark on him.

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    Since then, things had been different. Gojo and their father never spoke anymore. Gojo had retreated into a cold silence, cursing the "old ways" and everything they represented. Robb could see it in the way Gojo moved, in the sharpness of his gaze. It was as though the world had been divided into two halves¡ªone that adhered to the rules, and one that was willing to burn everything to the ground to change them.

    And Gojo, it seemed, was determined to bring about that fire.

    Feed a cursed spirit enough, and it would become god-like. That was a lesson Gojo had learned in his past life. And the cursed energy here? It was potent, stronger than anything he had felt before. The thought of what kind of monstrosities this accursed ritual could birth made his head throb. His thoughts were racing, imagining the horrors that might be unleashed. It was as if the merger of cursed energy with these ancient rituals had created something far more dangerous.

    But there was one thing Gojo knew for certain: Old Nan was the key to it all. She was the only Jujutsu Sorcerer he had encountered since arriving in this world, though she was hiding behind the guise of an old woman who told stories to children. There was something off about her, something that made Gojo suspicious. He had no solid evidence yet, but he could feel it deep in his bones. She was involved in the sacrifice, in the ritual that had brought all this cursed energy into the land.

    Once he dealt with her, Gojo would turn his attention to the monstrosity beyond the Wall. Whatever it was, Gojo would face it head-on. With or without a cursed technique, he would confront the threat. And, with any luck, he would stop whatever twisted experiment had been set in motion before it could consume the world.

 Cursed children

    Old Nan was dead.

    Gojo had ambushed her in the cold corridors of Winterfell after seeing her lurking too close to Bran. She had tried to run, but he was faster. He didn¡¯t expect her to take her own life before he could restrain her. It was too clean, too intentional. The air had grown still as her body fell.

    When the cursed technique wore off, what remained wasn''t human.

    The disguise shattered like glass under pressure. What lay before him was a creature out of myth: large, leaf-like eyes, bark-like skin, and a haunting expression caught between grief and terror. A Child of the Forest. A real one. Not a tale. Not a story.

    Her cursed tool had clattered to the ground¡ªjust a pair of ordinary-looking knitting needles. But Gojo could feel the energy radiating from them, sharp and cunning. Upon inspection, he realized their true purpose: they were a cursed tool used to maintain a powerful illusion, one strong enough to fool everyone into seeing her as a frail old woman.

    A cursed disguise technique. One that let her infiltrate the heart of Winterfell.

    He buried her body outside the castle walls under a cairn of stones. Her eye, even in death, still seemed to glimmer with something between warning and sadness. He felt no joy. No triumph. Only questions.

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    A dragon¡¯s roar echoed in the far distance, but Gojo didn¡¯t even flinch. He had bigger concerns now.

    The knitting needles¡ªthe disguise¡ªthey meant infiltration. It meant the Children were here, actively moving, watching. Perhaps even manipulating events.

    Gojo wondered: Were there more of them wearing masks? Were the Starks surrounded?

    And worst of all, if they were willing to hide in plain sight like this, then what else were they feeding?

    The cursed spirit they were nurturing with blood... it had to be more than just a side experiment. Maybe it wasn¡¯t even under their control anymore.

    Gojo pocketed the needles. He would study them later.

    Soon, he would head north.

    Not for vengeance. Not yet.

    Near the base of the weirwood tree. Gojo pressed his hand against the stone and snow-covered ground, feeling for the strange, metallic texture he remembered.

    It was gone.

    No, not gone¡ªsealed.

    Gojo narrowed his eyes. The tunnel Old Nan had slipped into had been hidden, yes, but it had not been naturally concealed. This was a barrier technique, subtle and ancient, woven into the roots and rock like a buried talisman.

    He tried to slip his cursed energy through, to find a crack, but it pushed back. Whoever had closed it wanted it to stay closed. And they had cursed power to enforce that wish.

    "Tch," Gojo muttered. "Someone¡¯s cleaning up."

    He stood in silence for a moment, then glanced up at the moon.

    Something had changed after Old Nan''s death. The Children of the Forest¡ªor whatever twisted remnants of them existed now¡ªweren¡¯t ready to reveal everything just yet.

 Cursed father

    Gojo left Winterfell without a word. The Stark family was cursed, and the weight of that curse pressed heavily on his chest. There was no need for explanations, no need for farewells. The moment he had realized the depth of the darkness surrounding the North, he had known that his path lay elsewhere.

    Arriving at the Wall, Gojo immediately felt the presence of cursed energy, much like what he had sensed from the weirwood tree. So, there were sacrifices here too. It was the same¡ªhumans sacrificing each other in the name of something greater. Something twisted. Gojo¡¯s heart hardened as the truth sank in: people were garbage towards each other, no matter where he went.

    He considered bringing the Wall down¡ªcrushing it with his power, obliterating everything in his path¡ªbut he lacked the cursed technique for it. For all his strength, there were limitations in this world. But that wouldn¡¯t stop him from finding the source of the cursed energy.

    Climbing the Wall, Gojo paused for a moment at the top. The view was beautiful. The world stretched out beneath him, the lands rolling away in vast green expanses, the air crisp and clear. But it was also cruel. So much beauty, and yet so much pain, suffering, and darkness clung to every corner.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed as he focused on the cursed energy emanating from the Wall. The energy split right at the Wall¡¯s edge, as though something¡ªor someone¡ªwas trying to keep cursed spirits from passing through. The Wall was more than just a barrier between the living and the dead; it was a prison for the cursed.

    He knew what he had to do.

    He descended from the Wall, feeling the pull of the cursed energy, guiding him. He would find this cursed spirit, and he would exorcise it.

    No matter what it took.

    Gojo had encountered some wildlings during in the land beyond the wall and met a woman named Ygritte. Ygritte was cautious about gojo, but some casual conversation, he boldly asked her if she knew where the cursed spirits were. There was no time to lose. Ygritte stared at him as though he were mad.

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    "Go die by yourself if you want," she had said, the words blunt and harsh. But after some shared food, she seemed to soften, her fear evident in the way she spoke.

    "Caster... he knows," Ygritte said quietly. "His keep is... that way." She pointed off into the distance, her voice trembling with something deeper than mere unease.

    Gojo nodded in gratitude, bidding her farewell. As he watched her walk away, he couldn¡¯t help but reflect on the wildlings. They were nothing like the savage barbarians his father had painted them to be. In fact, they seemed more civilized than many people he had encountered in the world of politics and deceit.

    The Wall, in Gojo¡¯s mind, was not a place of defense¡ªit was a monument to bloodshed. The cursed weirwood tree that fed off the sacrifices was at the center of it all, and the Wall itself was built to spill that blood. It was a disgusting system, and Gojo was determined to end it.

    Gojo soon arrived at Caster¡¯s keep. The stench of blood and rot filled the air as he approached, and what he witnessed upon entering made his stomach churn. Caster was violating one of his own daughters, his actions grotesque and unforgivable.

    Gojo clenched his fists. The urge to kill him right there was overwhelming. But he held back, his mind calculating. Old Nan¡¯s suicide meant he could not afford to lose his only lead. He needed to keep his focus.

    As he turned away, he saw Caster leave a baby outside in the snow, an innocent life left to die. Gojo¡¯s fury flared¡ªhe wanted to rip Caster apart for this. But just as his temper reached its breaking point, something else caught his attention.

    A surge of cursed energy. A burst of power that had no place in the world of the living. From a nearby tree, a White Walker emerged, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

    Gojo¡¯s heart skipped a beat. This was no ordinary creature.

    ¡°A shikigami,¡± he muttered to himself. The White Walker had been summoned, its very being a manifestation of cursed energy. Gojo quickly assessed the situation. If he acted too hastily, the shikigami might turn on him.

    He focused, weaving his cursed energy to fool the White Walker, making it believe he was someone¡ªor something¡ªelse. With a flicker of his will, he manipulated the cursed spirit, bending its perception to his advantage.

    The White Walker paused, its eerie glow flickering, before it turned and melted back into the shadows of the tree. Gojo exhaled in relief. He had won this round, but there was more to uncover here, and he knew it wasn¡¯t over yet.

 Cursed ritual

    Gojo watched as the White Walker disappeared into a cave beneath the cursed Weirwood tree, cradling the abandoned child in its cold, inhuman arms. A low growl of frustration escaped his lips.

    ¡°Of course, everyone wants to sacrifice to this stupid tree,¡± Gojo cursed under his breath. The curse of the Weirwood had spread so deeply into the land that even the most innocent lives were prey to it. He couldn¡¯t stand it. He couldn¡¯t let it happen.

    Without another thought, Gojo rushed into the cave, his cursed energy flaring up around him like a storm. The White Walker was preparing to strike the child with a cursed tool, a glass candle, no doubt wanting to stab the child into the tree, its cold eyes gleaming with malice as it raised the weapon.

    Gojo¡¯s hand shot out, and with a single, devastating punch, he slammed into the White Walker, sending it flying back. The creature exploded into mist, its body dissipating into nothingness as Gojo¡¯s cursed energy tore it apart.

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    The child, still alive but terrified, lay on the cold stone floor. Gojo¡¯s heart softened for a brief moment, but the task at hand wasn¡¯t done yet. He scooped the baby up into his arms with gentle care, feeling its small, fragile body tremble against his chest.

    He needed to get the child to safety. He needed to find Ygritte to give her the baby and then hunt down the Jujutsu Sorcerer responsible for the White Walker. That sorcerer was the key to understanding the twisted curse at the heart of this land.

    But as Gojo turned to leave the cave, the child began to cry¡ªloud, pitiful wails that echoed off the stone walls. Gojo had nothing to calm the baby, but he rifled through his pack and found a small bit of bread. He tore off a piece and fed it to the child, though he knew it wasn¡¯t nearly enough to quiet its hunger.

    The baby¡¯s cries continued, but there was nothing Gojo could do. It needed more than just bread¡ªit needed a wet nurse. Ygritte, despite being a fierce woman, could not provide that for the child.

    The only option left was the child¡¯s real mother. And that meant confronting Caster. The man who had thrown the baby into the snow to die.

    Gojo¡¯s resolve hardened. He couldn¡¯t let Caster live after this. It was time to end it. He would find Caster, put an end to the sacrifices, and perhaps, finally, free this land from the curse of the Weirwood tree.

 Cursed family

    Caster stood in his chambers, the flickering light of a distant candle casting long shadows against the walls. The cold had settled in, creeping through the cracks of his stone keep. It was unusual. As a man blessed by the cold gods, he should not have felt this chill. The biting frost that seemed to claw at his bones had no place in his divine sanctuary.

    His thoughts drifted to the sacrifice he had made earlier, his son¡ªthe life that had been offered up to the Weirwood tree, his blood staining the snow. He could feel the divine connection growing stronger within him. In his heart, he believed the cold gods had received his offering, and he felt an unnatural sense of power, like he had become something more, something untouchable.

    ¡°These godless wildlings and crows... they will never survive this winter,¡± Caster muttered under his breath, his voice laced with arrogance. The bitter cold was a symbol of his newfound grace, the power of the cold gods coursing through him. He was above them all.

    But then, something caught his eye.

    Blue eyes¡ªpiercing and cold¡ªglimmered in the dead of night. Caster paused, his heart skipping a beat. Could it be? Had the cold gods truly come to reward him for his devotion?

    Before he could contemplate further, a loud crash echoed through the room, the door flying open with force. Caster¡¯s eyes widened in shock, and he instinctively reached for the weapon at his side. ¡°Who dares?!¡± he screamed, his voice sharp with authority.

    He expected a wildling, a deserter, a rebel of some sort, but what he saw instead made him pause. A young man stood in the doorway¡ªa boy, really. His appearance was almost too perfect, his features refined and sharp. Handsome, even. Caster¡¯s lips curled into a smile as he saw the youth¡¯s pretty face. Such a lovely specimen...

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    Caster was prepared to play with the boy, perhaps bend him to his will, but then his gaze fell on the child¡ªthe same abandoned son he had cast aside earlier. His annoyance flared up immediately, his patience wearing thin.

    ¡°What is this?¡± he sneered, looking from the boy to the child in his arms. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    The boy, unfazed by Caster''s anger, stepped forward. His eyes¡ªthose damn blue eyes¡ªstared right into Caster¡¯s soul. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t even be reborn as a cursed spirit,¡± the boy said coolly, his voice steady.

    And in the next instant, Gojo¡¯s fist shot forward, punching straight through Caster¡¯s spine with the force of a thunderstrike.

    Caster¡¯s body went limp as his screams echoed through the room, the pain beyond anything he had ever felt before. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, his hands clutching at the gaping hole in his back. Blood poured from his mouth, but his mind, twisted and broken, clung to one last hope.

    ¡°The cold gods... they will protect me,¡± he wheezed, even as his body began to fail him. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was the boy¡¯s eyes¡ªthose piercing, god-like eyes.

    Gojo¡¯s gaze was unyielding, the world around him cold and indifferent. As Caster¡¯s life faded, a single thought echoed in the dying man¡¯s mind: Had the cold gods found him wanting?

    With that, Caster¡¯s life came to a brutal end, his body crumpling to the floor, his blood staining the stone beneath him.

    Gojo, standing above him, remained silent as the weight of the moment settled. His task was done, but there was no satisfaction in it. There would be no joy in killing someone like Caster. There was only the grim necessity of it. The world was full of these kinds of people, and Gojo knew the fight was far from over.

    But with Caster¡¯s death, the path ahead was clearer.

    Gojo turned away, the child still in his arms, and walked out of the keep without another glance at the fallen man. There was still more to do. The cursed energy of this land would be purged, and those who trafficked in such evil would meet their end.

 Cursed bastards

    Gojo stood in the cold wind, his thoughts weighed down by the questions that gnawed at him. The child had been returned to his mother, and the warmth of her grateful embrace did nothing to thaw the chill in his heart. The mothers had begged him to stay, to share their warmth, their gratitude, but Gojo had declined without hesitation. There was no room for such comforts in his mind now. He was a man driven by a singular purpose, and warmth was something he could not afford to indulge in.

    As he walked away from the mother and child, a lingering thought haunted him¡ªsomething that had been quietly brewing in the back of his mind ever since his journey began.

    The bastard children...

    Snow, Sands, Waters, Rivers, Hill, Pyke, Flowers. The names of bastards were always tied to nature, places of the world. It was a chilling realization that slowly unfurled in Gojo¡¯s mind. Were these children¡ªthese abandoned souls¡ªbeing used for something darker?

    "Snow," he muttered to himself, the weight of the name heavy on his tongue. A bastard¡¯s name is Snow... Snow. Just like the child he had rescued. Just like many others, left out in the cold, exposed to the elements, waiting to be claimed by fate.

    But now Gojo wondered if this was no accident. Was it part of something far more sinister?

    The Children of the Forest¡ªtheir ancient rituals, their bloodthirsty pact with the cursed weirwood trees. He had already seen the horrors they could create. The monsters they birthed. And now, Gojo couldn''t help but ask: Were bastards just left in nature so the Children of the Forest could sacrifice them?

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    It was an ugly thought, but the more he mulled over it, the more likely it seemed. He remembered the wells he had heard of¡ªthe deep pits that the nobles had used for centuries, where the bastards were discarded like refuse, left to rot in the darkness. He thought of Old Nan, who had disappeared into one of those wells. Her secretive nature. What had she been up to? The answer felt so obvious now, and yet, so grotesque.

    "Was the right of First Night just a method to produce as many royal bastards as possible?" Gojo thought darkly. A system to make sacrifices.

    The brutality of it all made his blood run cold. This system, this world¡ªit was all designed to feed the cursed spirits and the cursed trees. The human suffering was a means to an end for something far more ancient and far more dangerous.

    It was a system he could no longer ignore, no longer be a part of.

    Gojo had already seen too much. The world needed to be cleansed, purged of the rot that had taken root here. These Children of the Forest, these White Walkers¡ªthey were all symptoms of something far worse, something deeper, and Gojo would not rest until they were wiped from existence.

    His thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected touch.

    One of Caster''s wives had approached him, her fingers brushing against his skin in a way that made his stomach turn. Gojo stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he realized what was happening. She was trying to seduce him, her hands moving too familiarly, too carelessly.

    For a brief moment, Gojo felt anger stir within him. He had no interest in the women of Caster''s keep. He had no interest in anything that was not part of his mission. But as quickly as the anger rose, it was extinguished. He pulled away from her without a word, his face impassive as he turned away, leaving the keep behind him.

    The touch still lingered in his mind, but it was insignificant. The true weight of his task¡ªhis purpose¡ªwas too great to be distracted by such petty things. Gojo''s eyes darkened as he made his way away from Caster¡¯s keep, back into the frozen landscape. There was work to be done.

    The Children of the Forest, the White Walkers, the accursed system that fed off human suffering¡ªthey were all linked. And Gojo would be the one to end it.

 Cursed wedding

    Gojo stood before the latest dead end, staring up at the twisted, ancient form of the weirwood tree. Its bark was gnarled and warped, and its pale eyes stared back at him, cold and unblinking, as if watching his every move.

    Another one, he thought bitterly. Another dead end.

    But there was something about this one. Something different. Something that made his gut churn with unease. He could feel the cursed energy pulsing through the tree, alive and thrumming with power. Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed. It felt familiar, the same as the cursed energy he had sensed from the White Walkers. Was this the source of it all? Was this the beginning of everything¡ªthe very creator of the cursed spirits that plagued this land?

    He couldn¡¯t ignore it. He couldn¡¯t leave it alone.

    Taking a deep breath, Gojo stepped forward and unsheathed his axe. He had no time to waste. He needed answers, and if this tree held them, he would force it to give them up.

    With a swift, powerful swing, Gojo¡¯s axe struck the tree. The blow rang out with a resounding crack, but instead of splitting the bark, the wood seemed to absorb the force, the cursed energy pushing back against him. Gojo gritted his teeth. This wasn¡¯t going to be easy.

    He struck again, and then again, each blow driving deeper into the weirwood¡¯s bark, but still it resisted, as though the tree itself had been enchanted to remain whole. The cursed energy around it grew stronger with each swing, pulsing like a heartbeat. It was as if the tree was alive, feeding off the pain and effort Gojo was putting into it.

    Then, to his horror, Gojo¡¯s axe became slick with blood.

    Blood?

    The blood seemed to seep from the very heart of the tree, pooling in strange patterns on the ground beneath it. Gojo stepped back, his senses on high alert. This wasn¡¯t just a tree¡ªit was something far worse. And then, as the blood continued to stain the ground, he saw it.

    An eye.

    It peeked out from the hollow of the tree, wide and unblinking, staring straight at him. Gojo froze. What in the hell was this?

    The cursed energy intensified, nearly overwhelming him, and for a moment, Gojo thought he might be dragged into the tree itself, absorbed into its darkness. But he held his ground, his grip tightening on the axe. The sight of that eye sent a shiver down his spine, but it also brought a new clarity to his thoughts.

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    The Jujutsu Sorcerer.

    This couldn¡¯t be a coincidence. This cursed tree was a prison, a vessel. Someone¡ªno, something¡ªwas hiding inside. The man, the sorcerer, whoever it was¡ªwas trapped within the weirwood¡¯s depths.

    Gojo¡¯s mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of what he¡¯d seen before. The White Walkers. The cursed spirits. The rituals. The sacrifices. Was this why they were doing it? To create the White Walkers?

    Gojo¡¯s heart sank. Was this just another victim of a cursed ritual, trapped within the tree? A human being used as a vessel for the creation of these monsters?

    The thought made Gojo¡¯s blood run cold, but he couldn¡¯t stop now. He needed to save whoever this was, to free them from this nightmare.

    With one last effort, Gojo raised his axe again, slamming it into the tree with all his might. The cursed energy flared wildly, and the eye in the tree seemed to widen, almost as if it were pleading.

    But when the blow landed, Gojo felt something shift.

    The tree shuddered, and a horrific sound echoed from within. The body within the tree twitched, and Gojo realized, with dawning horror, that the man and the tree were one now. The cursed energy was so tightly bound to him that he had become a part of the tree itself.

    Gojo gritted his teeth and approached. The man¡¯s body was barely recognizable, his skin fused with the bark, his form twisted and unrecognizable. He tried to move, to break the cursed bond, but it was no use. The man was a part of the tree now¡ªtoo far gone.

    Then Gojo noticed something¡ªa lit glass candle, embedded into the trunk and stabbed through the prisoner, its flame flickering weakly as if it too had become a part of the twisted ritual.

    He stared at the grotesque scene before him. The man was trapped in a cycle of suffering, his mind comatose, his body bound to the tree.

    Gojo had seen many things in his life, but this... this was something beyond even his understanding.

    Without hesitation, Gojo drew his blade and struck. His sword cut cleanly through the man¡¯s skull, splitting his brain in two. But even as the man¡¯s body slumped, Gojo realized that he was still alive. The cursed energy within the tree surged, trying to keep the man alive despite the fatal wound.

    Holy shit, Gojo thought. Even Kenjaku can''t survive that.

    The thought left him stunned. He had never encountered a situation like this¡ªwhere death was not the end. Where the curse itself could defy the laws of life and death.

    Gojo had tried extinguish the glass candle too, but the flame seem ethereal as if it didn''t belong to this world.

    He couldn''t kill the man, not like this. There was nothing more he could do. He couldn¡¯t risk staying here any longer, especially with the tree¡¯s cursed energy growing more intense.

    Gojo stepped back, shaking his head, his expression hardening. He left the man there, as the tree began to regrow around him, encasing the tortured soul once again.

    As the tree¡¯s roots slowly consumed the man¡¯s body, Gojo couldn''t shake the thought that lingered in his mind.

    This world is was even more cursed than the last.

 Cursed soldiers

    Gojo was brooding again.

    What else was there to do? He had searched high and low, and still, there were no answers. No cursed spirits to exorcise, no masterminds to face. The weirwood trees continued to resist his every attempt at destruction. What was he even supposed to do at this point?

    He couldn¡¯t remain in the lands beyond the Wall forever. Not with the White Walker shikigami spawning in the trees. Gojo knew how quickly his strength could fade¡ªhe had learned that lesson all too well during his battle with Toji Fushiguro. If he stayed here too long, he would grow weak. And weakness wasn¡¯t something Gojo was willing to accept.

    He needed new leads. A new idea. Anything.

    His mind wandered again, but this time, there was a shift. A subtle change in the air. A faint presence of cursed energy. It was distant, but unmistakable. Gojo¡¯s senses sharpened.

    A crow.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed. Black bird manipulation. It was something familiar to him. Mei Mei had used a similar technique in the past, and it was a power that never failed to pique his interest. The cursed energy surrounding the crow was distinct¡ªlike a signature. It had to be controlled by someone.

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    Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, Gojo reached into his pouch and pulled out a stone infused with cursed energy. He threw it with precision, aiming for the crow¡¯s heart. The stone hit its mark, and the crow fell to the ground, lifeless.

    A small smile curled on Gojo¡¯s lips.

    Now he had a lead.

    He could track down the crow¡¯s master. And once he did, he would make them talk. No more guessing. No more waiting. Gojo would tear the answers from whoever was behind all of this madness. It would be a simple task¡ªjust find the one controlling the crow and extract the information he needed. He had no time to waste.

    But then, a cold sensation washed over him.

    Ten of them.

    Gojo¡¯s smile faded as he felt the presence of the White Walker shikigami rising from the cursed energy. Ten of them, summoned at once. They were small fry, Gojo thought dismissively. Nothing he couldn¡¯t handle.

    But there was something else. Something deeper in the air. The summoning felt different. Like a ritual was taking place.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes flicked to the horizon. It didn¡¯t matter who or what was summoning them¡ªhe was done waiting. He would deal with these shikigami, find the source of this cursed energy, and put an end to it.

    With a casual flick of his wrist, Gojo summoned his cursed energy, ready to face the White Walker shikigami. His smile returned, cold and confident. He would tear through them and find the answers. No more hesitation.

    The cursed ritual would end here.

 Cursed blizzard

    The white walker shikigami were weak. Their ice blades were deadly, yes¡ªbut one good hit with cursed energy disrupted the cursed flow within them, and they shattered like mist. Rika, Yuta¡¯s shikigami, could probably handle an army of these things without breaking a sweat, Gojo thought with a smirk.

    But this blizzard was different. It wasn¡¯t just cold¡ªit was sentient. Gojo trudged forward, cursed energy shielding him, but the wind howled like a dying spirit. He needed to rest. He spotted a narrow cave opening and made his way toward it, hoping to rebuild his strength until tomorrow.

    Then he heard it¡ªsinging. Soft and eerie, like a lullaby from a forgotten age. Memories surged back to him in a rush¡ªJujutsu High, Yaga, Shoko, Suguru, Megumi, Yuta, Yuji. And then¡ª

    "You know nothing, jon snow"

    Pain.

    A cold blade pierced his back, stabbing directly into his heart.

    "Again?!" Gojo hissed through clenched teeth. Just like Toji Fushiguro. That same burning agony.

    "Shit," Gojo growled, and pumped cursed energy directly into his heart, forcing it to pump. His limbs trembled. He reached back and slammed a vicious backhand into his assailant, sending them sprawling into the snow.

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    He spun, eyes widening.

    The attacker was a puppet¡ªno, a corpse, marionetted by cursed energy. Its eyes were dead, but its posture and movement were alive. A cursed corpse.

    It stared at Gojo in shock¡ªsurprised that its assassination had failed.

    Gojo saw the opportunity and charged. The corpse drew a thin, wicked sword and slashed. Gojo caught it with a hand wrapped in cursed energy, sparks flying as steel scraped against his barrier. With his other hand, he slammed a punch into the puppet¡¯s chest¡ªbut it dodged and hurled a glass vial.

    Green light.

    "Wildfire?!" Gojo twisted his body mid-air, barely evading the explosion. The cave mouth crumbled behind him. The blizzard thickened. Cursed energy signatures surrounded him¡ªmore cursed puppets? No, those were the cursed children of the forest. Were they casting the storm?

    Gojo narrowed his eyes. "All or nothing."

    He activated his Simple Domain. Body low on the ground. His breathing slowed. The wind howled.

    A blade slipped through the veil of snow, entering his domain.

    Gojo moved instantly.

    The blade sliced clean through his left hand. But his right¡ªthe cursed-energy charged right¡ªsmashed into the corpse¡¯s chest.

    Black Flash.

    Time distorted. Space compressed. The cursed corpse was blasted into the snow with a deafening crack, its limbs twitching before going limp.

    Gojo stood, bloodied and one hand short, but glowing with power. His cursed technique stirred¡ªawakening again after too long.

    Then the singing stopped.

    The blizzard cleared.

    And he saw it.

    A dragon.

    Towering. Radiant with cursed energy. Its wings stretched across the sky like a curtain of doom.

    Gojo blinked. "Shit."

    Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

    The dragon roared¡ªand cursed fire bathed the land.

    Gojo screamed, standing his ground as the inferno swallowed him.

 Cursed greenseer

    Jon Snow¡ªno, Jon Targaryen¡ªwas too curious, too independent, and above all else, too disappointing. Brynden Rivers brooded beneath the roots of the great weirwood tree in the far north, his bones old but his mind sharpened by centuries of visions. This Jon was not the savior he''d hoped for.

    Out of the countless paths and possibilities Brynden had seen through the eyes of the weirwood network, this version of Jon Snow had veered furthest from the one they had nurtured in prophecy. He had not become the Prince That Was Promised. Instead, he had betrayed everything¡ªkilling a Child of the Forest and attempting to burn down a weirwood tree.

    "No true prince would harm the godswood," the Children had whispered with ancient sorrow. "No prince who spills the blood of the first children can carry the song of ice and fire."

    Brynden felt shame¡ªand anger. He had dedicated decades, no, centuries of careful manipulation and ancestral engineering to Jon¡¯s birth. Rhaegar¡¯s dreams. Lyanna¡¯s sacrifice. All a waste.

    But perhaps not completely.

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    "If not a prince," Brynden murmured, staring into the bark of the tree, "then at least, he can be firewood."

    He sank into the vision again, pulling through the tangle of red roots and cursed whispers of time, seeking out alternate threads. He saw Robb Stark, noble and burdened. He saw Daenerys Targaryen, alone and burning with divine madness. Could they be united? Could a new song be sung? One of fire and frost, hope and rage?

    Perhaps.

    But first, Jon Snow had to die.

    With grim resolve, Brynden¡¯s will coiled around the ancient power embedded in the weirwoods. His body shuddered, transforming. Bone shifted, skin cracked, and old sinew bound anew with cursed vitality. He warged into the corpse he''d long puppeteered¡ªColdhands.

    Clad in black and crowned by raven¡¯s wings, Coldhands took shape. Brynden tightened his grip on the cursed blade Dark Sister, now warped and singing with energy harvested from the roots of dead gods.

    He would not ride alone.

    From the snow emerged his small warband¡ªChildren of the Forest twisted by their long war into vengeful spirits, and above them soared the great beast Sheepstealer, the dragon bonded long ago by Nettle. Which gojo had killed in winterfell.

    The hunt was set. The traitor prince would be the first ember. From his ashes, a new prophecy would rise.

    Brynden Rivers took to the storm with sword and fury.

    The song of ice and fire would be rewritten¡ªwithout Jon Snow. A blizzard awaits.

 Cursed fingers

    Gojo dreamt of the Tower of Joy.

    He saw the stone tower bathed in the crimson hues of dusk, the sound of Lyanna Stark¡¯s labored breaths echoing in his ears. He saw her face¡ªpale, beautiful, and tired. She was his mother. And he saw himself¡ªJon Snow, or whoever he once was¡ªborn still, lifeless, cold.

    Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had been there too. Gojo remembered the blade, Dawn, slicing across the knight¡¯s own throat. The blood poured forth, bathing the infant''s body. That blood had brought him back.

    Was that not a blood sacrifice?

    Gojo stirred in his sleep, brow furrowed. Was he just another product of ritual and death, born from sin and sorrow?

    This world was cruel and cursed. Yet, somehow, Gojo had always seemed to benefit from it the most. In Jujutsu society, he''d been the strongest¡ªuntouchable, revered. But he had not broken the curse of that broken world. That role had fallen to others: to Yuji, to Megumi, to Nobara. The new generation.

    Gojo understood now.

    He had been the torch. But the light would only spread if passed on.

    Brynden Rivers watched from the shadow of his cave, hidden among the blizzard and the bones of gods long buried.

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    He had seen the impossible: Gojo had survived a stab to the heart, a feat that defied every known law of flesh and spirit. Even the Children of the Forest looked upon the scene in stunned silence.

    But then came dragonfire. The black flames of Sheepstealer engulfed the boy, and Brynden Rivers¡ªonce the noble Bloodraven, now the Three-Eyed Crow¡ªsighed.

    "Good enough," he muttered.

    He summoned the twelve remaining Children. ¡°Gather the corpse. Bring it back. It will make fine kindling.¡±

    Coldhands lay destroyed, his skull shattered by Gojo¡¯s final punch. What remained of Gojo was a charred, smoking husk. His flesh bubbled and hissed, the stench of death thick in the air.

    One of the Children, a smaller one known only as Black Knife, crept forward and placed a tiny, bark-covered hand on Gojo¡¯s scorched forehead.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes snapped open.

    They were red.

    With a feral roar, he lunged, jaws snapping down on Black Knife¡¯s hand, ripping fingers clean off. The Child screamed in pain as Gojo rose, skin crackling, muscles twitching¡ªalive.

    And furious.

    He tore through the Children of the Forest like dry leaves in a storm. Limbs fell. Blood sprayed. Magic twisted and sputtered under his wrath.

    Brynden Rivers panicked. ¡°Summon the dragon! Burn him again!¡±

    Sheepstealer came screaming from the clouds, its mouth blazing with fire. Brynden cursed. Twelve Children dead. What a waste.

    "No more surprises," he whispered. "Burn him into ash."

    He reached out, tried to warg into Jon Snow¡ªinto Gojo.

    But what he saw wasn¡¯t Westeros. It was a different world.

    Towering cities. Neon lights. A battlefield of devastation. Sukuna¡ªan ancient evil¡ªand Gojo, locked in apocalyptic combat. The cursed energy twisted reality.

    Brynden¡¯s mind recoiled. He couldn¡¯t comprehend it. Couldn¡¯t withstand it. And then¡ª

    Disconnection.

    He was thrown from the vision, heart pounding. He looked up and saw Gojo pointing a gun-finger at Coldhands¡¯ remains.

    ¡°Red,¡± Gojo whispered.

    A blast of searing cursed energy lit the blizzard.

    And all went white.

 Cursed technique

    Gojo watched the dragon shrink into the sky, its massive wings beating furiously as it vanished into the clouds. Blood speckled the snow where its eye had been. His cursed technique, Red, hadn¡¯t killed it¡ªbut it had wounded it. Scared it. That was enough.

    ¡°That was too close,¡± Gojo muttered, the words lost to the wind. His body still reeked of charred flesh. Every breath hurt.

    He should have died.

    Again.

    He had landed a Black Flash¡ªpulled from instinct and desperation¡ªbut even that hadn¡¯t guaranteed survival. Not until Conversion awoke.

    His new cursed technique.

    Gojo looked down at his hands, trembling and bloodied. Conversion. A power that allowed him to transform mass into cursed energy. A strange, delicate balance of destruction and rebirth. When he bit into the Child of the Forest¡¯s fingers, he wasn¡¯t just feeding¡ªhe was converting. Turning that alien flesh into a foreign cursed energy, feeding it into his own circuits.

    Two incompatible energies, grinding against each other inside his soul.

    And from that collision¡ªhealing. A forced mimicry of reversed cursed energy. An unstable, beautiful reaction. Pain turned into power.

    It wasn¡¯t sustainable. It wasn¡¯t perfect. But it worked.

    Only Gojo could have done this.

    He¡¯d mastered Hollow Purple, the synthesis of Red and Blue. He¡¯d taught himself to destroy and heal his brain in combat. He had fought Sukuna. Survived Mahoraga. Died once, and returned.

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    So this miracle?

    This was earned.

    With the last of his cursed energy, Gojo raised his hand¡ªand fired.

    Thirteen streaks of crimson light blazed across the frozen battlefield, cutting through fog and snow like meteors. Each beam honed in, each blast precise.

    When the blizzard cleared, twelve Children of the Forest lay in twisted heaps, their bodies torn apart. The thirteenth target¡ªColdhands¡¯ possessed corpse¡ªcrumbled into ash.

    Gojo dropped his arm, gasping.

    Red - the simple repulsion of converted cursed technique was easy now. Compared to resurrection? Child¡¯s play.

    The silence that followed was loud. Gojo could hear only his breathing, the rasp of burned lungs struggling to keep pace. The dragon had nearly incinerated him. His skin still peeled and flaked with every movement. He couldn¡¯t stay here.

    He wasn¡¯t ready to face another dragon.

    Not yet.

    As he turned to leave, something caught his eye¡ªamidst the ashes of Coldhands, half-buried in the snow.

    A blade.

    Gojo knelt and picked it up. Dark Sister.

    The weapon shimmered with an aura far older than the Wall. Its cursed energy felt... bound. Condensed. Like pain given shape.

    Gojo frowned.

    Valyrian steel. A cursed tool. No¡ªthe cursed tool of this world. Forged through alchemy and sacrifice. Blood melted into iron. Souls hammered into edges.

    Another legacy of human cruelty.

    Gojo felt that old weight creeping back in¡ªlike a noose around his neck.

    Was this all people were? Empires of suffering? Fathers like Craster abandoning their sons. Brothers killing each other over thrones. Mothers like Alicent poisoning the world just to see their children crowned.

    The pattern never changed.

    It was Jujutsu Society all over again.

    And like before¡ªGojo benefited from it. He was reborn through a blood sacrifice. He had killed to survive. He had taken power in a world that thrived on pain.

    A part of him wondered if he was just another cog in a cursed machine.

    But then¡ª

    He remembered.

    Yuji. Megumi. Nobara.

    They had been his students. His hope. And in the end, they were the ones who broke the cycle.

    Not Gojo.

    But now?

    Now he understood.

    He couldn¡¯t do it alone.

    Even the strongest need someone to carry the fire when they fall.

    Gojo clenched his fist around Dark Sister.

    He would change this world. Or die trying.

    But not before finding someone worthy to pass the torch.

    He missed his students.

    More than anything.

 Cursed anchor

    The snow crunched beneath Gojo¡¯s feet as he walked, Dark Sister sheathed across his back like a shadow from a bloodied past. The blizzard had died down, revealing a cold, silent world of white plains and black trees. It was beautiful¡ªstill and untouched. But Gojo knew better.

    This land was deadly. Beyond the Wall, everything felt cursed.

    He approached the weirwood tree again. Its face still twisted in agony, the slits of red sap beneath its eyes like old tears. This was the one. The tree that had imprisoned a soul.

    He could still sense it. Faint and flickering¡ªan echo, perhaps. Or a scream too distant to hear.

    The prisoner was still inside.

    Gojo narrowed his eyes, remembering the glass candle impaled through the prisoner¡¯s chest. It had glowed faintly, pulsing with a cursed energy so foul it reminded him of old Jujutsu relics¡ªtwisted objects that bound the soul and devoured the will.

    This glass candle wasn¡¯t just a cursed tool. It was an anchor.

    Its light wasn¡¯t fire, but a binding flame. It locked the soul in place, trapping it inside the weirwood¡¯s underground root system¡ªan unseen prison that stretched for miles, connecting tree to tree, root to root. If the candle remained lit, the prisoner¡¯s soul would never pass on. Just endless wandering through that hellish network.

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    Gojo clenched his jaw. ¡°No more.¡±

    He stepped up to the bound prisoner. The body didn¡¯t move. Not even a flinch.

    The flame flickered from the embedded candle, casting eerie shadows across the bark.

    Gojo raised a fist and slammed it into the candle. The flame stuttered, sputtered¡ªbut didn¡¯t go out.

    He gritted his teeth, yanked the cursed candle free, and¡ªagainst all his instincts¡ªshoved it into his mouth and swallowed.

    Pain seared down his throat. His stomach turned.

    ¡°Disgusting,¡± he hissed, face contorted.

    It wasn¡¯t just physical. Something inside his soul twisted¡ªrecoiling at the foreign cursed energy now inside him. A heavy weight, like sorrow and suffering made solid. He understood now¡ªwhy Geto had spiraled. Why swallowing cursed objects could corrode even the strongest.

    With a deep breath, Gojo activated his cursed energy.

    The energy clashed within him¡ªhis own versus the glass candle¡¯s. The light flickered inside him, dimming, weakening¡ªuntil, at last, it went out.

    Gojo gagged and spat the candle back out. The glass was cracked. The light was gone.

    He turned to the prisoner, eyes sharp.

    The man¡¯s body remained limp. Unmoving. Hollow. Whatever had been left of his mind had broken long ago.

    ¡°A mercy,¡± Gojo muttered.

    He raised his hand, cursed energy gathering.

    ¡°Red.¡±

    The blast struck the weirwood and the corpse together, shattering bark, bones, and sorrow alike. The tree exploded in a burst of cursed force, splinters flying like shrapnel across the snow.

    Gojo stepped forward, checking the remains. No regeneration. No cursed recoil. Nothing.

    Just silence.

    He crushed the glass candle beneath his heel.

    Far away, beyond even Gojo¡¯s senses, something responded.

    Somewhere along the ancient Wall, deep within its cursed foundations¡­

    A crack formed.

    Jagged. Silent. Ominous.

 Cursed game

    Within the cavernous hollows of the ancient weirwood tree, Brynden Rivers¡ªBloodraven¡ªopened his one remaining eye. White roots coiled around his body like veins through flesh, holding him in place beneath the earth. He did not blink. He could not. But his eye twitched.

    Something had vanished.

    A soul¡ªlong bound, long watched¡ªhad disappeared from the weirwood network.

    The flame was out.

    Rage boiled beneath his still skin. That boy again.

    No¡­ not a boy. Not truly.

    Jon Snow.

    A name he once whispered with hope. A name now curdled with dread.

    He had watched Jon¡¯s life from the moment he drew breath beneath the Tower of Joy. Seen the hand of prophecy coiling around his birth like smoke. The child of fire and blood, born beneath a bleeding star.

    Once, Bloodraven wondered if Jon was the prince that was promised.

    But no prince of light would destroy a weirwood tree.

    No prince of man would slay a Child of the Forest.

    No prince would sever a soul from the root.

    Perhaps he had been wrong all along. Perhaps Jon Snow was no child of prophecy¡ªbut a champion of the Great Other. A demon clothed in the skin of a boy, carved from ice and hatred. A spawn of the cold gods, sent to unravel everything Bloodraven had safeguarded for a hundred lifetimes.

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    Stabbed in the heart¡­ and lived.

    Burned by dragonfire¡­ and rose.

    These were not the acts of the promised hero.

    Bloodraven reached deeper into the roots, gazing through the past as easily as others looked through windows. He watched Jon grow, quiet and withdrawn among the Stark children. No close bonds. No affection shared. He was a shadow in their home. Another sign, Bloodraven thought, that he was not truly of them.

    Even now, there were no hostages. No strings to pull. No kin he could use as leverage.

    And he himself could not strike. His body was long since claimed by the roots, his flesh eaten away until he was more tree than man. Coldhands¡ªhis final blade¡ªwas gone too, disintegrated by Jon¡¯s cursed technique. And the corpse he had used as a vessel?

    Daemon Blackfyre.

    A fitting puppet. A bitter irony. And now ash.

    Bloodraven turned his gaze to the Children of the Forest surrounding him, huddled and whispering like mice in the dark. Their eyes¡ªonce gleaming with trust¡ªnow watched him with dread.

    Fearful of Jon. And of me.

    He ignored them. They were no longer useful.

    Containers of green magic, that was all they were. And magic alone would not win the war to come. Not against him.

    No, it was time to turn to older methods. Cruder ones.

    Politics.

    War.

    The Game of Thrones.

    Bloodraven shifted his attention toward the Wall. Toward the shattered Night¡¯s Watch¡ªfractured, faithless, and dying. They were weak. But weakness could be reforged.

    With wildlings.

    Even barbarians could serve a purpose.

    If the Watch could unite with the free folk, if their hatred could be twisted into resolve, they might become a blade sharp enough to cut Jon Snow down.

    Not with cursed energy.

    Not with prophecy.

    But with steel and numbers. With war.

    Bloodraven closed his eye, letting the visions fade. The roots whispered of cracks in the Wall, of old spells faltering. Time was running short.

    Jon Snow had to die.

 Cursed gods

    Each day began the same.

    Wake up. Destroy a white walker shikigami. Find its weirwood anchor. Swallow a cursed glass candle. Burn it. End the ritual.

    Repeat.

    It was a rhythm of violence and sickness. A cycle of salvation and corrosion.

    Gojo stood atop a frozen ridge, Dark Sister sheathed at his hip, his body trembling faintly¡ªnot from the cold, but from what he''d just done. Again.

    The taste of cursed energy lingered in his mouth like acid. He dropped to his knees and vomited into the snow.

    The glass candle he¡¯d just swallowed and unlit now lay cracked beneath his boot. Another enslaved soul freed. Another weirwood tree dying behind him, its roots twitching in the permafrost as the stolen energy dissipated.

    Gojo wiped his mouth, then sat in silence. His chest rose and fell with quiet exhaustion.

    ¡°I should have seen it,¡± he thought.

    He didn¡¯t mean this.

    He meant Geto.

    Each time he swallowed a cursed object, each time that foreign energy clawed at his soul, he understood a little more. Understood how the sickness could grow inside someone. How it could whisper to them. Twist them.

    ¡°If I¡¯d noticed sooner¡­ If I¡¯d said the right thing¡­¡±

    Maybe Geto would still be by his side. Maybe they could''ve saved that world¡ªtogether.

    Gojo closed his eyes and exhaled. The weight of regret was heavier than any cursed energy.

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    But there was no time to wallow. Not here. Not in this frozen hell.

    Still, he helped where he could.

    Craster¡¯s remaining wives¡ªthose who had not fled or died¡ªwere given shelter among the more accepting free folk tribes. Gojo had brought supplies, warmth, protection. He kept a distance, especially from one particularly grabby woman who didn¡¯t understand boundaries. But he made sure the children were fed. That the baby he had saved was alive. Smiling. Healthy.

    Hope, however small, had to be nurtured.

    One morning, while scouting beyond the hills, he ran into her again.

    Ygritte.

    Bow slung over her back, red hair tangled in the wind, her eyes wary and sharp.

    ¡°You again,¡± she said, narrowing her eyes.

    Gojo smiled faintly. ¡°Missed me?¡±

    ¡°Not particularly,¡± she said. ¡°But you smell less like death this time.¡±

    They walked together through the forest paths. Snow crunched beneath their boots. Gojo spoke slowly, explaining what he¡¯d found. The trees that birthed monsters. The candles that bound souls. The rituals the old gods had kept secret in their roots.

    Ygritte laughed at first. Shook her head. ¡°Trees don¡¯t give birth to ice demons. That¡¯s mad.¡±

    Gojo didn¡¯t argue. He simply stopped by the next weirwood tree, peeled away the bark with a slow, precise slice of cursed energy, and exposed what hid beneath.

    A man. Mummified. Mouth open in a silent scream. Glass shards embedded in his heart.

    Ygritte stepped back, her bow falling from her hand.

    She stared. Long and hard.

    The old gods¡­ had lied.

    ¡°I thought they were with us,¡± she whispered. ¡°All those prayers. The bones. The blood. I thought¡­ they were listening.¡±

    Gojo didn¡¯t answer. He simply wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in gently.

    ¡°They were listening,¡± he said softly. ¡°But they weren¡¯t good.¡±

    She trembled. Then leaned into him.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to believe it.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°I thought we were free.¡±

    ¡°You still are.¡±

    Ygritte looked up at him, eyes glassy. ¡°You gonna fix all this, you know? You keep killin¡¯ demons and burnin¡¯ gods¡­ Maybe you are the last hero. The one from the tales.¡±

    Gojo chuckled. ¡°Never liked being called a hero. Just doing what has to be done.¡±

    She gave him a crooked smile.

    ¡°Still. You fight like you¡¯re from the stories.¡±

    Gojo pulled back and gave her a gentle nod. ¡°Be careful, Ygritte. These woods aren¡¯t safe anymore.¡±

    ¡°They never were,¡± she said, then turned. ¡°But maybe they¡¯ll be better after you.¡±

    Gojo watched her disappear into the trees, the red of her hair flashing like a flame in the snow.

    He turned back to the weirwood, hand hovering over the cursed candle still glowing inside.

    Time to set another soul free.

    Time to keep moving.

 Cursed army

    It should have been simple.

    Another weirwood. Another prisoner.

    But something was wrong.

    Gojo stood in the snow-drenched grove, one hand resting on the cold bark of the tree, the other twitching with restrained irritation.

    The man inside the tree was still alive¡ªhis chest moving in shallow, endless breaths, his eyes wide open in madness. But there was no glass candle in his heart. No ethereal flicker. No cursed anchor to destroy.

    Yet the tree still spawned white walker shikigami.

    Gojo clenched his teeth. ¡°What the hell¡­¡±

    He tore apart the ground around the tree with cursed strikes, digging beneath the roots. Nothing. No buried candles. No cursed seals. Just ice, stone, and silence.

    Gojo straightened, white breath misting before his face.

    Was there a range to the candle¡¯s effect? he wondered. Could it be further away? Or maybe the ritual has evolved... become decentralized.

    The thought annoyed him. The whole world was built on cursed logic now, and even that logic was cheating him.

    Behind him, another shikigami lunged from the trees¡ªits body a brittle sculpture of ice and rot. Gojo didn¡¯t even look. His hand snapped backward and obliterated it mid-air with a pulse of raw cursed energy.

    He sighed as the pieces clattered to the snow.

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    ¡°This one¡¯ll have to wait,¡± he muttered.

    But as he moved deeper into the north, the pattern worsened.

    More weirwood trees.

    More prisoners.

    Fewer glass candles.

    And more shikigami. Always more.

    Gojo¡¯s mood darkened.

    ¡°This is bullshit.¡±

    He couldn¡¯t free the trapped souls without the candles. Couldn''t destroy the root of the magic. The whole system was unraveling, slipping beyond his understanding¡ªand that meant more innocents would suffer in limbo.

    He kicked at the snow in frustration.

    Then something shifted.

    A rumble in the cursed energy. A ripple in the frozen air.

    Gojo turned sharply, his Eyes narrowing.

    Something was coming.

    At first, it was a low growl. Then the tremor of heavy steps. Then a shape.

    A bear¡ªmassive, rabid, frothing with cursed energy, eyes glowing with a dim green fire¡ªcharged at him from the treeline.

    Gojo raised his arm lazily and punched forward.

    The bear exploded into ice shards and steaming blood, scattering into the wind.

    But the cursed energy didn''t stop.

    It was multiplying.

    Gojo looked to the horizon and saw it: an army of animals, dozens of them¡ªwolves, crows, elk, even foxes¡ªinfused with writhing, manipulated cursed energy. Something¡ªor someone¡ªwas controlling them.

    Was it the flock of crows that had been tailing him?

    Or the cursed puppet master he¡¯d only half-sensed days ago?

    Whatever it was, it wasn¡¯t subtle anymore.

    Then came the shouting.

    From the south: horns, war cries, and the thunder of feet across snow.

    A ragged army of wildlings surged toward him¡ªshouting curses, waving spears, slinging stones.

    At their head, a man in mismatched armor, crowned in scavenged fur: Mance Rayder.

    From the opposite side: a disciplined wave of black-clad soldiers. Blades out. Crossbows primed.

    The Night¡¯s Watch.

    At their front rode the Lord Commander, sword drawn, face hardened.

    Gojo stood between them.

    He heard the words echo across the valley:

    ¡°THERE HE IS!¡±

    ¡°THE WHITE WALKER!¡±

    ¡°THE NIGHT¡¯S KING!¡±

    ¡°BURN THE DEMON!¡±

    ¡°AVENGE THE TREES!¡±

    Gojo blinked. His expression flat. Unimpressed.

    ¡°Night¡¯s King? Really?¡± he muttered.

    He cracked his knuckles, one by one.

    ¡°Looks like someone¡¯s getting a little desperate.¡±

    They thought he was a monster.

    They thought he was the enemy.

    Gojo looked at them¡ªthousands of bodies, wild with fury, screaming for blood.

    And all he saw as needless violence.

 Cursed cannibal

    The battlefield stretched like a bloodstained tapestry beneath the twilight skies, snow painted red by the carnage. Gojo stood in its heart, the wind raking through his white hair. The armies of the Night¡¯s Watch and the Free Folk had come united, a rare coalition bound by fear and rage¡ªbut not by truth. They saw Gojo as a monster. A White Walker. The Night''s King.

    They didn¡¯t understand. Couldn¡¯t understand.

    He didn¡¯t blame them.

    The wildlings came first¡ªhundreds of them, wrapped in furs, their war cries echoing through the frostbitten woods. Mance Rayder led from the rear, cautious but determined. The Night¡¯s Watch descended shortly after, with their banners of black and grim faces ready to put down the man they thought heralded the end of days. They were wrong, and Gojo had to make them see it.

    But he didn¡¯t have time for words. Not anymore.

    With a slow exhale, Gojo raised his hand and clenched his fist.

    Cursed energy erupted around him, a ripple of raw, malignant force that blasted snow and dirt in every direction. The front line shattered as a wave of invisible force¡ªRed¡ªslammed into men and women alike, sending bodies flying like ragdolls. Screams pierced the night.

    Gojo didn¡¯t relish it. He didn¡¯t revel in it.

    He moved through them like a specter, precise and fluid. His fist shattered shields. His strikes broke bones. Arrows snapped against the curse energy that wreathed him like armor. He dodged spears with effortless grace, countered blades with pinpoint violence.

    But already, he could feel the energy waning. His current reserves were low¡ªhe had expended too much exorcising the weirwood-born shikigami across the far North. That last tree had taken more from him than he¡¯d expected.

    He reached into his cloak and pulled out the last preserved finger of the Child of the Forest. Cold and brittle, it pulsed faintly with ancient, foreign cursed energy.

    Gojo grimaced and swallowed it whole.

    The taste was foul¡ªsour, earthy, with something that seared his soul. He stumbled, coughing, body convulsing as two opposing cursed energies collided in his gut. The clash was immediate. His own cursed energy screamed in protest, but the violence of the interaction mimicked reversed cursed energy¡ªjust enough to replenish him.

    Power surged through him, raw and unstable. He steadied himself just as a massive shadow loomed.

    A giant¡ªtwenty feet tall¡ªrushed him, wielding a log like a club. Gojo vaulted into the air and landed a spinning kick to the giant¡¯s jaw, cursed energy exploding outward. The giant¡¯s head snapped back. It staggered, then toppled with a crash that sent a tremor through the battlefield.

    From the woods, he felt them.

    Wargs.

    Not just beasts, but people bonded to the minds of animals. Men with animal eyes. Greenseers twisted by ancient magics. They came at him in desperation, not to kill but to bind, to hold him for Bloodraven¡¯s schemes.

    One of them¡ªa woman with crow-black eyes and snow-white hair¡ªlunged at him, her hands wrapped in sickly green light. She snarled something in the Old Tongue and slashed at him with a cursed blade.

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    Gojo caught her wrist, twisted, and broke her arm.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he whispered.

    He drove his hand through her chest and tore free her fingers.

    He didn¡¯t wait. He swallowed them whole.

    The cursed energy hit him harder this time. The warg¡¯s bond to animals, her spiritual resonance, mixed violently with his own human cursed energy. He fell to one knee, blood leaking from his nose, his skin cracking with the clash. But the conversion took hold. His strength returned¡ªmore volatile than before, but full.

    They would call him a cannibal. They already did.

    Let them.

    He stood again. His aura burned blue and violet, swirling with rage and sorrow. More came at him¡ªFree Folk, some weeping with rage. Brothers of the Watch, gritting their teeth through fear.

    He didn¡¯t hold back now.

    Thirteen streaks of red light screamed from his fingers, each seeking a target, each an eruption of force. Tents exploded. Men were thrown into the air. Swords shattered. Bones snapped. The snow became mud, and the mud became red.

    A bear, controlled by a distant greenseer, charged. Gojo¡¯s hand carved through it with precision. The cursed energy burned away the beast¡¯s borrowed life.

    He could feel them watching. Bloodraven¡¯s spies. The crows. The roots.

    The trees.

    He would burn them all.

    The carnage slowed. Fear was taking root. The armies began to retreat. Some cried out for mercy. Others threw down their weapons and fled.

    Gojo let them run.

    He stood alone amid the corpses, panting, his skin smoldering with cursed backlash. His stomach turned. The taste of blood and cursed flesh still lingered on his tongue.

    He hated this.

    He didn¡¯t want to kill. He didn¡¯t want to consume others.

    But the world was too broken for gentleness now.

    He turned his gaze skyward. The aurora shimmered across the night. So beautiful, and yet beneath it, so much death.

    Somewhere, far away, another weirwood tree pulsed with stolen life. Another soul trapped. Another prison to destroy.

    He would not stop.

    Not until the last candle was unlit.

    Not until the last root was burned.

    Not until no more children were bound to trees, their minds shattered by centuries of servitude.

    He was Gojo Satoru. The strongest.

    "He¡¯s a cannibal!" someone screamed.

    Gojo bit into the hand. It tasted like rotted pine and burnt copper. His stomach churned. His soul screamed. But the cursed energy flooded his core. It clashed with his own, foreign and wild. The conversion began. His veins lit with unnatural power.

    He stood again, blood pouring from his mouth, eyes blazing.

    The earth cracked.

    Red erupted from his palm, thirteen spheres that zipped through the army like comets. Shield walls exploded. The snow turned red. Swords melted. Screams tore the sky.

    The survivors fled.

    He let them go.

    Breathing heavily, he staggered through the carnage. The air stank of burning flesh and blood. His vision swam. Children cried in the distance. Men moaned in agony. He walked among them, eyes low.

    He stopped by a young man with a crushed chest, gasping like a fish on land. Gojo knelt beside him.

    "I¡¯m sorry," he whispered.

    The man spat blood. "You¡¯re a demon."

    "Maybe."

    He stood again. His eyes found a group of wildlings huddled near a broken cart. A mother shielding her child. He turned away. They would live.

    Gojo reached the weirwood tree.

    Its face was twisted in pain. The red sap wept like blood. Inside the bark, the faint outline of a man pulsed with cursed life. No glass candle. Just raw suffering.

    He placed a hand on the tree. Closed his eyes.

    He remembered Geto. The pain in his friend''s voice. The despair. Swallowing cursed objects had driven him to madness. And now Gojo walked the same road. Piece by piece, he was losing himself too.

    "I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t see your pain," he whispered to the memory.

    Then he stepped back and unleashed Red. The blast incinerated the trunk, the bound soul, and the surrounding snow. Smoke and splinters filled the air.

    When the light faded, only ashes remained.

    A sound cracked across the distance¡ªthe Wall groaning. Another fracture.

    Gojo turned and faced the battlefield. The dead lay in heaps. The snow was painted with violence. He had let the survivors flee, but it didn¡¯t change what had happened. Hundreds dead. An army shattered.

    He wasn¡¯t proud of it.

    He was tired.

    He knew Bloodraven had orchestrated this. Had turned men against him. Manipulated their fear. Their religion. Their pain. But Gojo couldn¡¯t stop now.

    He had a mission.

 Cursed dreams

    Mance Rayder had run away.

    He had fled, not like a king, but like a father who had just watched his children burn. Not from cowardice¡ªhe had faced worse, colder things before¡ªbut from the undeniable truth that nothing he could¡¯ve done, nothing any of them could¡¯ve done, would¡¯ve changed what happened on that killing field.

    Even fifty thousand spears wouldn¡¯t have saved them.

    The monster¡ªno, the man, if Ygritte was to be believed¡ªhad torn through five thousand Free Folk like waves against stone. Cursed red light had spilled across the snow, turning bodies to ash, collapsing the sky into a single bloody line. The smell was what Mance would remember longest. Not just blood or fire¡ªbut the stink of death that refused to be natural. Twisted. Cold. Wrong.

    And the cannibalism.

    By the Old Gods and the New, the cannibalism.

    He had watched that thing bite into the fingers of a screaming warg, felt the cursed pressure spike like thunder before another explosion lit up the snowfield. Men boiled from the inside. Skin burst. Eyes melted in skulls. It wasn¡¯t war¡ªit was punishment. And the sword the beast carried tore through shields and bone like silk, the metal screaming each time it met resistance. A song of carnage.

    Mance had led his people to that fate.

    For a dream.

    He remembered the first time he had seen The Gift from atop the Wall, through a slit in the stone tower of Castle Black. Rolling green fields stretching endlessly, rivers that didn¡¯t freeze in winter, forests thick with game. A land that didn¡¯t try to kill you. That¡¯s what haunted him at night. The thought that his people could live, not just survive. That the children could grow strong and the mothers could stop burying their sons. That he could put down the sword and pick up the plow.

    It had come to him in dreams, so vivid they felt more like memories. He had seen his son running through tall grass. His woman laughing in the sun. He had heard birds.

    And when Jeor Mormont came, it felt like those dreams stepping into the waking world.

    The Lord Commander had brought no chains. No swords. Only an offer. Peace between the Night¡¯s Watch and the Free Folk, in the face of a greater evil¡ªone that defied flame and steel both. A leader of the white walkers, he had said, or something worse. Something old. Twisted by death and time and some curse older than the Wall itself.

    ¡°He walks like a man,¡± Jeor had said, ¡°but cannot be killed like one.¡±

    Mormont had looked tired. Not the tired of age, but the weight of too many funerals, too many lies. He said that creature couldn¡¯t be burned. That it had survived a stab through the heart. That it was alone now, with no army. Vulnerable.

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    Hope had stirred in Mance¡¯s chest.

    And then came the gesture. Jeor had opened the gate¡ªjust a crack¡ªand let some of Mance¡¯s people through. Just a few, but enough to prove he was serious. They had food, shelter, safety.

    Just like Mance''s dreams.

    It had felt right.

    Even now, in the ruin, he remembered that feeling like a warm fire on his skin. He had imagined it so clearly¡ªthe alliance, the unity of crows and Free Folk. Together, they would defeat the monster. And afterward, peace. No more white walkers. No more starving. No more red snow.

    So when Ygritte came to him, eyes wet with fear, begging him to reconsider, Mance had held his ground.

    ¡°He¡¯s not your enemy,¡± she had said. ¡°He¡¯s saved me more than once.¡±

    But Mance had already made his choice.

    ¡°If he dies,¡± he said, ¡°then he dies. For the Free Folk.¡±

    He hadn¡¯t known he was marching them to a slaughter.

    Now, Jeor Mormont was dead. The Lord Commander of the Night¡¯s Watch had been the first to charge when Gojo turned toward them. Maybe he thought valor could buy a miracle. Maybe he thought that if he died first, others might live.

    But he died all the same. Screaming. Vanished in a wave of red light.

    The alliance shattered in a heartbeat. The black brothers fled, what few remained. The Free Folk screamed and broke into chaos, trampled under their own. Mothers throwing children over their shoulders. Fathers torn apart trying to shield their clans. Even the Thenns ran.

    And Mance Rayder¡ªKing-Beyond-the-Wall¡ªran too.

    He had thought there would be some grand final duel. Maybe he¡¯d look the beast in the eye. Maybe he¡¯d die with a sword in his hand. Instead, he crawled through the mud and snow, dragging a wounded man behind him, until even the screams were gone.

    He didn¡¯t know where Ygritte was. He feared the worst.

    Now, the survivors¡ªwhat few of them remained¡ªwere scattered, hiding, broken. And the Gate was closed. The Watch would never trust them again. The truce was dust. The dream was dead.

    The Free Folk were on the wrong side of the Wall.

    Again.

    Mance sat in a circle of stones, staring at the fire as if it might answer him. Around him, silent faces. No songs. No stories. Just the stink of blood and guilt.

    A girl sat with her knees to her chest. She had lost her entire family in the charge. She hadn¡¯t spoken since.

    A boy was praying to the Old Gods, though no one answered.

    The wind howled above them.

    ¡°What now?¡± someone whispered. ¡°Where do we go?¡±

    Mance didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t know. The Lands of Always Winter were behind them. The Wall before them. The nightmare somewhere in between.

    He didn¡¯t even know if Gojo still followed them. Maybe he had left. Maybe he was deeper in the woods. Maybe he was crying somewhere, too.

    Because in those final seconds, when Mance had turned back¡ªjust once, just for a heartbeat¡ªhe had seen something strange.

    Gojo standing over the fallen. A thousand corpses around him. His body soaked in blood and firelight. And he was not smiling. He looked¡­ sad.

    It was a look Mance recognized. He¡¯d seen it on the faces of kings before the fall.

    Not madness.

    Grief.

    And that, more than the slaughter, more than the cursed lights or the cannibalism, terrified Mance the most.

    Because if that thing could feel grief¡­

    Then maybe he wasn¡¯t a monster at all.

    Maybe he was doing something none of them could understand. Something bigger than armies and alliances.

    But even so¡ªno one could follow him now.

    No one who had seen what Mance had seen.

    The Free Folk were trapped. And they were leaderless. And the wrong side of the Wall had never felt colder.

 Cursed wall

    Gojo no longer had the Six Eyes.

    He felt the absence like a dull ache in the middle of his forehead¡ªa missing limb of perception. Before, he could have seen it all. The veins of cursed energy under the snow. The paths people took before they died. The way the weirwood trees breathed. Now, everything felt muted. Blurred.

    He missed the clarity. He missed the truth.

    ¡°Would¡¯ve been real damn useful now,¡± Gojo muttered bitterly.

    He sat in the snow, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, as if meditating. But his cursed energy was frayed, running thin from everything. From the fight. From the killing. From the knowing.

    A thousand corpses laid behind him¡ªFree Folk and Crows alike. Their screams still echoed in the snowdrifts, like ghost wind. He had tried to spare them. Tried to reason. Warn them.

    They hadn¡¯t listened.

    The puppeteer had pulled the strings before Gojo had even noticed.

    A chill ran through him¡ªnot from the cold, but from the memory of it. That thing... that mind... had buried its claws deep in their minds, and the weirwoods helped it. Eyes in the trees. Blood in the roots.

    Gojo exhaled and looked up to the grey sky.

    No answers.

    He¡¯d searched for more glass candles¡ªnone. Shattered, spent, or hidden so well that even he couldn¡¯t find them anymore. And yet, the cursed shikigami¡ªthe White Walkers¡ªwere still appearing. Still being pulled through the world like paper soldiers, summoned by someone.

    The slaves bonded to the weirwoods still fed the summoning.

    The roots... they were everywhere. Buried under rock, under snow, under castles and godswoods. They weren''t just trees. They were a network. A prison.

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    And the souls inside couldn¡¯t scream anymore.

    He had tried burning them. Cutting them. Shattering the ground around them. But the roots were always deeper. Always older. Like they had been waiting since the beginning.

    And whoever was controlling the crows¡ªthose cursed black-winged things that watched him even now¡ªwas still out there. Still hiding. Still watching.

    The same one controlling the puppets, probably. The cursed spirits in flesh.

    Who? What?

    Gojo had no answers.

    Even the dragon¡ªthe one that attacked him before, flying like a corpse stitched back together¡ªhad vanished without a trace. Its cursed presence had just... faded.

    ¡°All dead ends,¡± Gojo muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

    He stood and dusted off the snow from his cloak.

    There was nothing left here for now. He needed to return to Winterfell. Rest. Regroup. Rethink the shape of the world. If he couldn''t find the enemy, maybe he could draw it out.

    But something tugged at him as he passed the base of the Wall.

    A pulse.

    He stopped mid-step.

    Cursed energy.

    Leaking¡ªbarely¡ªfrom the Wall itself. A crack.

    Gojo tilted his head and squinted, pressing his hand to the frozen stone. Even without the Six Eyes, he could feel it. Thin strands of cursed energy trickling like blood through fractured bone.

    Curiosity bit at him. He crouched and traced the crack with his fingers, until he found an opening¡ªsmall, but wide enough to peer through.

    He leaned in.

    And saw it.

    An eye.

    Red-veined. Staring.

    Human, and yet... not. It twitched. Alive. Just barely.

    Bark wrapped around it like flesh fossilized into wood. The pupil dilated and locked onto Gojo as if it recognized him.

    It was inside the Wall.

    Gojo pulled back slowly, breath fogging in the air.

    ¡°No...¡±

    He looked again, deeper.

    Not just an eye.

    Roots. Thick veins of cursed wood spiraling through the ice. Faces frozen in terror, some half-melded into bark, some locked behind sheets of ice, mouths open in endless screams. He couldn¡¯t count them all. Hundreds.

    Thousands.

    Maybe more.

    All nailed in place by jagged glass candles, driven into their hearts like pins.

    The Wall was not made of ice.

    It was a living thing.

    A massive weirwood tree, grown sideways and stretched over centuries. Fed by blood. Fed by souls. Fed by people.

    ¡°Damn,¡± Gojo whispered, stunned.

    He stepped back, gaze trailing the length of the wall as far as he could see.

    ¡°This whole thing... it¡¯s a weirwood. One giant, cursed root system.¡±

    He thought of all the stories¡ªof the Wall protecting the realms of men. Of the sacrifice. Of the Night¡¯s Watch oath.

    It was never just about defense.

    It was containment.

    Or worse¡ªsustenance.

    A cursed battery, lit by the souls of a million dead.

    He looked back at the eye in the crack. It blinked once. Slowly.

    He turned away.

 Cursed ice

    Gojo stood before the Wall again¡ªthis time not as an observer, but as a liberator.

    He extended his hand toward the ancient ice, cursed energy condensing in his palm. A bright red glow pulsed from his fingertips. ¡°Red.¡± The cursed technique howled forward, the air around it warping and crackling.

    The blast struck the Wall like a hammer to glass. It drilled in, boring deep with overwhelming force. The ice screamed. Chunks exploded outward. Snow melted instantly from the sheer heat of it. And then¡ªfinally¡ªGojo saw them again.

    The bodies.

    Entombed in bark-like roots. Eyes wide. Mouths frozen mid-scream. Some fused to the wall itself, others suspended in a grotesque half-life, their fingers twitching slowly as if dreaming.

    This is it, Gojo thought. If I can get to them fast enough...

    He leapt into the tunnel he¡¯d carved, racing toward the closest body, his cursed energy flaring to keep the freezing air at bay. He reached out¡ª

    ¡ªand the world hissed.

    Steam erupted all around him as water burst from the roots like a geyser. The weirwood itself was expelling moisture¡ªrapidly, violently¡ªpouring it into the tunnel he¡¯d made.

    Then came the clink-clink-clink of ice forming.

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    White Walker shikigami appeared in the mist. Slaves in spirit form, bound by glass and wood. They didn¡¯t speak. They didn¡¯t hesitate. Their frozen hands reached out toward the expelled water, cursed energy channeling through them like a sorcerer¡¯s touch.

    In seconds, the water refroze.

    The tunnel closed.

    ¡°Damn it,¡± Gojo spat, falling back as the hole he''d made was sealed completely behind him, the wall regenerating like flesh. ¡°So that¡¯s how it works.¡±

    The weirwood expelled water. The shikigami froze it. And the cycle repeated¡ªendlessly.

    He couldn¡¯t drill fast enough to free them all. Not before the wall healed itself again.

    The Wall wasn¡¯t just alive. It was conscious. Adaptive.

    But the failure wasn¡¯t for nothing.

    In the few seconds the hole remained open, Gojo had seen everything.

    Some of the people buried in the roots were clearly long dead¡ªfaces caved in, skin sunken like paper. But what caught his eye were the others. The ones still moving. Still breathing. Some were alive without glass candles. Others, were still alive with them embedded in their hearts.

    ¡°Why?¡± Gojo murmured.

    He backed away from the Wall, eyes narrowing. ¡°Why preserve some and not others?¡±

    Glass candles were cursed anchors. He¡¯d learned that already. They kept souls tethered to the world. Tools of imprisonment, not death.

    Then he remembered the stories. The builder. The name whispered in reverence by maesters and old crones alike.

    Bran the Builder.

    The ancestor of House Stark. The supposed architect of the Wall.

    And if Gojo knew anything about men who built things this massive, it was that they never left things to chance.

    ¡°He would¡¯ve recorded the locations,¡± Gojo muttered. ¡°Of the glass candles. Of everything.¡±

    There had to be something. A journal. A hidden tomb. A record sealed by oath and blood, passed down through the Stark line.

    That meant one place.

    Winterfell.

    Gojo turned from the Wall, snow crunching under his feet as he walked south.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be back,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°But next time, I¡¯ll know where to strike.¡±

 Cursed crypts

    Gojo slipped through Winterfell''s walls like a shadow in a snowstorm. The guards didn''t notice¡ªnone of them ever could. The cursed energy cloaked him as it always had, like a second skin, and in this cold, dark place, it almost felt like the shadows welcomed him home.

    Not that Winterfell was ever home.

    He didn¡¯t expect answers here. Not from the Starks. Especially not from Ned Stark.

    A family that knows nothing, Gojo thought. And seems proud of it.

    He moved through the castle like a ghost, silent and unseen. Every archive, every scroll room, every library he could find¡ªhe scoured them all. Dusty tomes, forgotten records, songbooks masquerading as histories. And nothing. Not a single word about the sacrifices in the Wall. No mention of the men or women nailed into weirwood roots. Not even an acknowledgment of the blood rituals required to keep the white monsters at bay.

    Just silence. Just lies.

    But tucked in a corner, written like a fairy tale, Gojo found something strange. A tale of the Night¡¯s King. The corpse queen. The Nightfort. Wrapped in myth, obscured in poetry¡ªbut the truths were there, buried beneath the rhymes and riddles. That had been a real place. Real people. Real sacrifices.

    He remembered the eye in the Wall. The whisper of a soul crying out, forever frozen.

    Gojo paused when he passed the solar. Ned Stark was there. Alone. Drinking. The fire flickered against his worn face. His lips moved, barely audible.

    ¡°Lyanna... Jon... I should¡¯ve told you... should¡¯ve¡ª¡±

    His words slurred into sleep, and he slumped in his chair, the goblet spilling over onto his furs.

    Gojo stood in the doorway for a long while, just watching.

    Dead to me, he thought. You buried the truth just like the rest of them. The people who built the Wall won¡¯t tear it down. But I will.

    He turned and left the man to his guilt.

    There was only one place left to search.

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    The crypts.

    The godswood¡¯s roots spread deep under Winterfell, and if the answers existed, they¡¯d be there. He needed to understand how this cursed network operated¡ªhow it fed, how it lived, and how to kill it.

    He passed the old kings of winter, their faces carved into stone, swords laid across their laps in silence. Gojo¡¯s footsteps echoed faintly as he descended deeper, farther than most dared. Here the air grew colder. Heavy with something ancient.

    He found her statue in the dark.

    Lyanna Stark.

    Gojo stared at her face, at the cold stone eyes carved with loving hands. Mother? he wondered. Would she have approved? Would she have tried to stop him, clutching onto tradition like Ned? Or would she have seen the truth¡ªthat the old ways were soaked in blood and lies?

    He sighed, fingers brushing against the cold stone. I''ve never known a mother¡¯s love, he thought. Even in the Gojo clan, all I was... was a weapon. A name. A legacy.

    Gojo moved past her, deeper still.

    The cursed energy grew thick like fog. A blocked section stood before him¡ªsealed with stone and silence. Fear radiated from it, not Gojo¡¯s fear, but the kind that seeps into walls and lives there, keeping others away.

    He placed a finger on the stone and whispered: ¡°Red.¡±

    A pulse of cursed energy shot forward, not enough to destroy, just enough to drill.

    The wall crumbled before him, revealing ancient tombs. First Men. The earliest Starks. The smell of damp earth and old roots filled the air. The weirwood had grown down here too¡ªtwisting through stone, wrapping around coffins like skeletal hands.

    But at least these Starks were dead. Gojo could feel it¡ªno souls trapped here.

    That was the secret, wasn¡¯t it?

    There always had to be a Stark in Winterfell. Or at least... a dead one.

    The system of sacrifice. The blood binding. Something needed to feed the roots.

    Yet one coffin was empty.

    Bran the Builder¡¯s.

    Of course, Gojo thought. If anyone knew where the remaining glass candles were, it would be him. And he¡¯s missing.

    He turned his attention to the roots again. Something glinted inside.

    Glass candles¡ªsmall, lit, embedded in the roots like thorns. They radiated heat, and Gojo noticed the soft hiss of flowing water beneath the floor. The roots weren¡¯t just conduits for souls¡ªthey were an engine. The glass candles heated the water, and the cursed roots pumped it through the castle, keeping Winterfell warm.

    Clever. Ingenious even. The ultimate blend of magic and function.

    If you could abandon all morality. If you could look at human sacrifice and call it necessary.

    Gojo sighed, shoulders heavy. His chest ached in a dull, familiar way.

    Anything is possible if you¡¯re willing to cross every line.

    He stepped forward, extending his hand to one of the lit candles.

    And then¡ª

    A whisper of steel. The air shifted behind him.

    Gojo turned.

    Ned Stark stood at the threshold of the tomb, Valyrian steel in his hands.

    Ice.

    His expression wasn¡¯t confused. It wasn¡¯t afraid.

    It was resolute.

    ¡°What are you doing down here, Jon?¡± Ned asked quietly. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here.¡±

    Gojo looked at the man¡ªthe father who never claimed him, the Lord of Winterfell who believed honor was more important than truth.

    ¡°I could say the same to you,¡± Gojo said, voice low.

 Cursed traditions

    The crypts of Winterfell echoed with an ancient silence, a hush older than any of the tombs lining the walls. The air was thick with cursed energy, swirling gently like unseen mist between the roots of the weirwood trees that coiled through stone and bone.

    Gojo stood motionless before the opened tomb of a long-dead Stark, the glass candles glowing faintly behind him. The heat from them clashed with the chill in the air, as if even the castle couldn¡¯t decide what season it was anymore.

    Ned Stark stood at the threshold, Ice in hand, eyes fixed on the boy¡ªno, the man¡ªhe had raised.

    ¡°Where have you been?¡± Ned¡¯s voice was steady, like a blade laid flat on the table.

    Gojo turned slowly, arms still at his side, his white hair almost glowing in the crypt-light. ¡°Around,¡± he said. His tone was light, disinterested, as if they were discussing a weather report rather than half a year of vanishing without a word.

    Ned¡¯s jaw tensed. ¡°That¡¯s not an answer.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the one I¡¯m giving you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been worried,¡± Ned continued, ignoring the sting in his pride. ¡°You disappeared without word. Left no trail. I¡¯ve sent riders as far as Eastwatch. Sent ravens to the Wall. Some say you¡¯re dead.¡±

    Gojo smirked faintly, but there was no amusement in his eyes. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be the first time.¡±

    ¡°I had a dream,¡± Ned said suddenly, his voice quieter. ¡°You were at the Wall. Killing black brothers. Slaughtering the freefolk. Eating people''s finger. I saw that Winterfell was collapsing.¡±

    Gojo said nothing. He didn¡¯t blink.

    ¡°Well?¡± Ned pressed, stepping forward. ¡°Was it just a dream?¡±

    Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. ¡°Does it matter?¡±

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    ¡°It does to me.¡±

    Gojo looked up at the weirwood roots curling around the ceiling. ¡°Maybe it should¡¯ve mattered before.¡±

    Ned¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°You speak in riddles like some maester gone mad. What are you hiding?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m told you before,¡± Gojo said. ¡°You just don¡¯t want to see it.¡±

    Ned took another step. His voice hardened. ¡°Do you know something?¡±

    Gojo¡¯s eyes finally met his. They gleamed cold and merciless. ¡°You mean something I haven¡¯t already tried to tell you? Something you and your ancestors buried under tradition and blood?¡±

    Ned held the sword tighter. ¡°Tell me, then. Speak plainly.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Gojo said, voice sharper now. ¡°You don¡¯t get to ask for the truth when you¡¯ve spent your whole life running from it.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re speaking nonsense.¡±

    ¡°Am I?¡± Gojo snapped. ¡°Do you even know what¡¯s in your own walls? What¡¯s buried beneath your own castle? What keeps your home warm in winter?¡±

    Ned faltered for a breath. ¡°Whatever you think you¡¯ve discovered¡ª¡±

    ¡°I know what I¡¯ve discovered. I¡¯ve seen the truth in the Wall. I¡¯ve heard the cries of the dead. I¡¯ve walked among them.¡±

    Gojo took a step forward, his voice rising.

    ¡°You built your kingdom on a graveyard and called it order. You sealed people inside trees and called it sacrifice. And when I ask why, the answer is always the same: ¡®The old ways.¡¯ ¡®The North remembers.¡¯ ¡®There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.¡¯¡±

    He spat the words like venom.

    ¡°And what about you?¡± Ned snapped back. ¡°Is this your justice? Disappearing into the snow and returning with blood on your hands? If your goal is to burn the world down, you¡¯ll find no forgiveness here.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need forgiveness,¡± Gojo said. ¡°I¡¯m not your son.¡±

    Silence stretched between them, thick and absolute.

    Ned¡¯s eyes hardened, but there was pain behind them now. ¡°You carry my sister¡¯s blood. That should mean something.¡±

    Gojo¡¯s voice was flat. ¡°It doesn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Then why come back?¡±

    Gojo turned slightly, his gaze falling to the broken roots around the tomb. ¡°Because there¡¯s something beneath all this worth saving. And I can¡¯t do that without tearing down everything the starks built.¡±

    Ned took another step, raising Ice slightly. ¡°If you threaten Winterfell¡ª¡±

    ¡°I am Winterfell¡¯s reckoning, I will end this cruel order¡± Gojo said.

    The two men stood in the crypts, surrounded by the dead, as the unspoken history between them snapped taut.

    ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± Ned said, voice quieter now.

    ¡°No,¡± Gojo said. ¡°I¡¯ve just stopped pretending.¡±

    Then, without warning, Gojo¡¯s hand flicked¡ªand Dark Sister, once hidden beneath his cloak, snapped into his grasp.

    Valyrian steel met Valyrian steel with a scream of fury as Ice clashed with Dark Sister, sparks bursting in the dark.

    The crypts of Winterfell, quiet for generations, roared with the sound of swords.

    And the dead listened.

 Cursed duel

    The clang of steel still echoed faintly through the crypts, but it was already over.

    On the very first clash, Ned Stark knew he had no hope of winning.

    The moment Ice met Dark Sister, he felt the weight of age settle in his arms, the truth pressing down like winter¡¯s first heavy snow. Jon¡ªno, Gojo¡ªmoved like water over stone, graceful and relentless. Every step he took was perfectly measured, every blow expertly timed. There was no doubt in Ned¡¯s mind: this was no mere boy.

    At just fourteen, Jon had become something else entirely.

    He had surpassed Winterfell¡¯s best swordsmen years ago. Now, he was beyond all of them combined. Ned had always known the boy was special. But knowing it in the quiet corners of a father¡¯s heart was different from facing it with a blade drawn.

    Gojo moved swiftly, his expression unreadable. One moment he was parrying, the next he was inside Ned¡¯s guard. Ice swung in a desperate arc, and Gojo caught it¡ªnot with his sword, but with his bare hands.

    Ned gasped. ¡°Jon¡ª¡±

    Blood bloomed across Gojo¡¯s palm, hissing against the cold steel of Ice. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if time stopped. Then¡ª

    The blood shimmered.

    Cursed energy surged from Gojo¡¯s hand, swirling red and white, wild and pure. His power crackled through the crypt like thunder beneath stone. The cursed energy devoured the pain, and converted the blood into raw force. Gojo¡¯s grip tightened¡ªand Ice, ancestral blade of House Stark, began to melt.

    Steam rose around them, turning the air heavy and thick. The sword sizzled in his grip as its dark metal twisted and bent.

    Ned could only stare.

    Gojo looked him in the eye. ¡°You were never going to win.¡±

    Ned¡¯s jaw clenched. ¡°Then do what you came here to do.¡±

    He dropped what remained of Ice. The broken edge hit the stone with a clatter, one final echo of the old world.

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    Gojo lifted Dark Sister, the blade humming with cursed energy. His face was impassive, not cruel, not angry¡ªjust resolved.

    Ned stood still, shoulders squared. There was no fear in his eyes. Only sorrow. ¡°I won¡¯t kneel,¡± he said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to.¡±

    Gojo held the blade high for a moment longer.

    Then, slowly, he lowered it.

    With one smooth motion, he sheathed it.

    ¡°I won¡¯t be a kinslayer,¡± he said quietly.

    Ned¡¯s face didn¡¯t change.

    He didn¡¯t nod. He didn¡¯t speak. He simply turned and walked away, heavy steps echoing back through the corridor of the dead. There was no more to say.

    Gojo turned away from Ned Stark and returned back to his mission.

    <hr>

    Gojo walked back toward the glowing candles.

    The glass candles embedded within the roots of the weirwood tree burned like sinister lanterns, casting twisted shadows along the crypt walls. The cursed energy radiating off them was overwhelming¡ªancient, hungry, alive.

    Gojo could hear the tree groaning above, the castle breathing through its roots. But now, he would silence it.

    One by one.

    He stepped to the first candle. Its flame shimmered as he approached, almost trembling. It wasn¡¯t enough to just touch it. These cursed tools were not mere torches¡ªthey were engines, still feeding on souls trapped within their glass and root prisons.

    He had to end it.

    And so he opened his mouth.

    He ate it.

    The glass scraped against his teeth. The cursed flame burned his throat. It clawed at his insides, trying to set him alight from within. But Gojo didn¡¯t flinch. His stomach clenched, cursed energy bursting to life inside him.

    He converted the flame.

    Just like before¡ªhe used the cursed technique in his gut, transforming the curse into raw energy, choking it down until it dissipated into nothing.

    He gagged. His knees nearly buckled.

    The process felt like swallowing fire and rot, like consuming the sins of the world.

    And yet¡ªthere was relief too.

    For every glass candle devoured, a whisper of pain was extinguished. A scream that had echoed for a thousand years was finally silenced.

    He was ending it.

    Truly ending it.

    Not just for himself. For all of them.

    For the hundreds of thousands sacrificed to keep Winterfell warm. To keep the Wall standing. To keep the lie going.

    He moved to the next candle.

    Then the next.

    With each one extinguished, the roots of the weirwood tree shrieked, pulling back, dying. The life drained from the wood, from the walls, from the very bones of the castle.

    The groans turned to cracks.

    The cracks turned to roars.

    Winterfell began to collapse.

    Stone cracked and splintered. Wood snapped like brittle twigs. The warmth in the air disappeared, replaced by an arctic wind that howled through the halls like a final curse. The walls trembled. The towers above shook.

    But Ned Stark was gone now. He had start to evacuate everyone already.

    Gojo stayed behind, consuming one sin after another.

    He would bear it all.

    He was the last fire burning in the dark.

    And when he finished, the last of the candles vanished into ash in his mouth.

    He stood alone in the crumbling crypt, weirwood roots curling and dying around him, the tree¡¯s scream echoing into nothing.

    Winterfell was falling.

    And Gojo did not look back.

 Cursed winterfell

    The snow had stopped falling. All that remained now was the smoke.

    Gojo stood at the edge of the ruins, boots pressing into frost-covered stone, and watched the people wade through the collapsed skeleton of what once was Winterfell. Their cries were soft, muffled by the wind, like the echo of a memory being buried under ash and grief. The weeping of old women, the shouts of confused children, the hollow silence of men with no more words left in them.

    Some of them were praying.

    Praying to the old gods. Begging for answers. Asking why.

    Why would the gods let their home fall?

    Why would they let the sacred tree die?

    Gojo exhaled through his nose. A short, bitter thing.

    ¡°Fools,¡± he muttered.

    How could they not see it?

    How could they live all these years in a cursed place¡ªsurrounded by it¡ªand still cling to the idea that their gods were watching over them with kindness?

    The weirwood roots had drunk the blood of their fathers. The walls had been held up by bones. Winterfell hadn¡¯t been a sanctuary. It had been a prison. A tomb built on top of another tomb, bound together by blood pacts and unspoken sacrifices.

    Let it fall.

    Let the stone break and the tree rot and the fire go out.

    Gojo¡¯s hands were still sore from melting Ice, from bleeding conversion into the glass candles. His stomach twisted with the residue of the cursed energy he had consumed. But his heart was lighter. There was no victory in what he had done. Only a strange, cold relief.

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    Now they were free.

    Now the old cycle was broken.

    There would be no more Starks in Winterfell.

    He turned to leave¡ªbut paused when he saw him.

    Ned Stark, walking alone through the shattered gates, holding a simple woven funeral basket in his arms. There was no pageantry to it. No golden casket or embroidered shroud. Just a quiet, humble cradle of bark and cloth, heavy with the weight of bones.

    Gojo didn¡¯t need to ask who was inside.

    His mother.

    Lyanna Stark.

    Ned hadn¡¯t spoken to him again after their clash. He hadn¡¯t needed to. But Gojo had wondered what he would do with her remains. Whether he would lock them away in the ruined crypt, or keep her somewhere to preserve the old traditions.

    But no.

    He was taking her away.

    To a place of sunshine. Of green fields and running water. Maybe the Vale. Or Riverrun. Somewhere far from this cursed northern soil.

    ¡°Good,¡± Gojo whispered. ¡°She deserves that much.¡±

    His eyes followed Ned until the man disappeared behind the tents being hastily erected beyond the walls, where the displaced nobility huddled together like flocks without a shepherd. The new Winterfell was already being discussed, plans whispered and promises spoken like oaths before a battle.

    Gojo scanned the camp.

    He saw them, too.

    Arya, dirty-cheeked and red-eyed, crying into her knees. Bran and Rickon sobbing beside her. Sansa, pale and still, like a porcelain doll left out in the snow. Even she didn¡¯t try to maintain her usual composure. The weight of it all was too much.

    Further off, Catelyn and Robb stood by Ned, grim-faced and quiet. Robb had grown taller in the months Gojo was gone¡ªhis shoulders broader, his voice steadier¡ªbut his eyes were still too soft. Still unsure.

    ¡°They¡¯ll be fine now,¡± Gojo said to himself. ¡°No more ghosts whispering in their ears. No more blood in the walls.¡±

    He heard Robb ask something. Catelyn glanced toward Ned, and Ned replied loud enough for the wind to carry.

    ¡°We¡¯ll rebuild,¡± he said. ¡°Stronger. Wiser. The Iron Bank will help. We¡¯ve prepared for long winters. We have the coin. We¡¯ll make something new.¡±

    Gojo snorted. Another Winterfell. Another cage.

    But he didn¡¯t say it out loud.

    That conversation wasn¡¯t his to interrupt. Their dreams of rebuilding didn¡¯t matter to him anymore. They could raise another keep of ice and stone if they wished. But it would never be the same. Not truly.

    The cursed roots were dead.

    The blood had stopped flowing.

    That part of history was over.

    And Gojo?

    He had other concerns.

    He turned away from the ruins, away from the camp and the weeping and the plans for resurrection. His cloak fluttered behind him in the wind as he walked, quiet and certain, the snow crunching underfoot.

    It was time to see the Wall.

    To see if it still stood.

 Cursed gate

    The Wall loomed like a broken colossus, its once unbroken spine now fractured. A single massive section had collapsed¡ªlike a wound the land itself had been waiting to open.

    Gojo stood before it, snow gathering at his feet, white wind cutting across his coat. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the frigid air like smoke.

    "Only one section¡­" he muttered, tilting his head. "Of course. Nothing is ever easy in this world."

    The break had occurred behind the Night¡¯s Fort, the oldest and most cursed of the Wall¡¯s ancient castles. Of all the possible places, it had to be this one. Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed, his senses stretching outward. The cursed energy here was thick¡ªolder than bones, woven into the ice and stone like veins of pain.

    "This is where the Night¡¯s King ruled," he thought aloud, walking forward.

    The Night¡¯s Fort stood like the shadow of a forgotten memory. Its towers were crumbling, its halls sunken, and yet it breathed with something ancient and unnatural. Cursed energy pooled here, not wild and malevolent like in the south, but cold and precise¡ªdisciplined. Controlled. Bound.

    Gojo moved through the ruined halls, his boots echoing on stone slick with frost. Down he went, deeper into the bowels of the fortress, guided by that familiar tug of cursed energy, like a hound following the scent of a ghost.

    Eventually, he found it.

    The Black Gate.

    It stood massive and silent¡ªan arch of black wood embedded into the icy wall, its center filled with a heavy door carved into the shape of a face. Its eyes were closed, lips sealed in stone slumber. Despite its silence, Gojo could feel the raw hum of power within.

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    "A cursed tool," he murmured, stepping closer.

    He reached out, letting his fingers hover just above the surface. The cursed energy was unlike anything else he¡¯d felt in this world. It folded in on itself. It compressed space. He recognized the technique, or at least the intent behind it.

    "It moves people across space. A teleportation gate," he whispered. "One that only opens for those of Stark blood¡­ or something bound to it."

    Gojo''s lips curled into a half-smile. "I never had time to make one of these back home. No one could use limitless without the six eyes anyway"

    He didn¡¯t hesitate.

    With a flick of his wrist and a sharp pulse of cursed energy, Gojo broke the Black Gate. The face split open with a groaning crack, and beyond it, darkness spilled like water. Not metaphorical darkness¡ªtrue dark, the kind untouched by stars or fire.

    He stepped through.

    What lay beyond was not a cave. Not a crypt. Not a secret passage.

    It was a throne room.

    The chamber was massive, carved entirely into black stone and half-frozen over. A throne of ancient weirwood sat upon a dais, tangled with vines that had long since petrified. And slumped upon that throne was a skeleton, robed in crumbling furs, its bones etched with cursed energy like runes.

    Around him¡ªglass candles.

    Thousands of them.

    Some burned with eerie flame. Some were cracked. All of them pulsed with ancient power.

    Gojo walked forward slowly, the cursed energy radiating from the skeleton pricking his skin.

    He looked down at the figure.

    This was no peaceful death. There was agony still lingering in the bones. The resentment clung like a shroud. Gojo could see the cause¡ªa glass candle, lit and pulsing, stabbed straight through the skull.

    "Who were you?" Gojo whispered. "A king? A prisoner?"

    He could feel it. This man had once ruled. He had once burned with vision and power. And now, he was a conduit for pain. For memory. For a curse that spanned generations.

    Gojo reached for the candle.

    As his fingers closed around it and he pulled it free, the cursed energy screamed.

    And then the visions began. The visions of bran the builder.

 Cursed builder

    The visions came in waves¡ªunrelenting, drowning Gojo¡¯s senses in forgotten time.

    He stood not in a cold, crumbling throne room now, but in a younger Westeros¡ªone carved by flame and frost, where the sky was darker and the land still wept from the war between gods and men. Gojo wasn¡¯t himself anymore. He saw through the eyes of a boy with dark hair, mud-streaked skin, and a spear of dragonglass clenched in hand.

    Bran the Builder.

    He watched Bran fight¡ªfuriously, desperately. White Walker shikigami fell under his spear, each one shattering like glass beneath obsidian. The wights swarmed from the forests, hollow-eyed and silent, relentless like cursed spirits summoned by grief itself. Gojo could feel Bran¡¯s desperation, not just for himself¡ªbut for his family.

    He saw Bran¡¯s sister swallowed in snow, his father impaled and made a wight. His mother, taken by a moon-pale walker and turned into something that should not have lived.

    Bran had cried for days in a cave, with only the wind for company. Gojo could feel the hollow ache in his chest, the silent scream.

    The sky had changed.

    The moon grew vast, unnatural, covering the sky like an eye. Night lasted for months. Fires died. Crops withered. Madness took hold in men¡¯s hearts. It was the Long Night in truth¡ªa blanket of eternal cold pulled tight across Westeros.

    Until one day¡­

    The moon retreated.

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    Not into the heavens, but north. Like a beast that had its fill.

    In the aftermath, Bran found them¡ªthe Children of the Forest.

    They were not friends. Not at first. But Bran, still a boy, demanded answers with blood on his spear and death behind his eyes. The Children, older than language, listened. They too had lost. The Long Night had not spared their kind.

    A pact was made.

    Not one of peace, but of necessity.

    From this pact, House Stark was born¡ªhalf man, half myth. And in return, Bran learned green magic. The power to see, to shape, to build using weir wood trees.

    The Wall was his penance. His masterpiece.

    And his curse.

    Gojo watched Bran as he laid the foundations, as the Children taught him to twist roots and ice and blood into structure. But the magic needed sacrifice. That was the price. Every time the weirwood trees screamed, Bran screamed with them.

    They crucified people¡ªliving people¡ªto those trees. Men. Women. Children. Then froze them into the Wall, binding the structure with their blood and suffering.

    Gojo¡¯s stomach twisted.

    Bran tried to protest. Once. Twice. But every time he did, the moon would shift in the sky. The White Walkers would stir in the far north. The Children reminded him: this is the only way.

    The children told bran that blood is magic. And for the wall to stand it needed a source of constant blood flow.

    Thus bran created The First Night.

    When smallfolk married, their lords would bed the bride first¡ªensuring that noble blood, infused with green magic, would spread. These royal bastards, born of stolen nights and silence, were abandoned in nature where then the Children of the forest, sacrificed to the wall before they could speak. Others were sent to the Wall¡ªtold they had purpose, given black cloaks and empty oaths. There they would fight a war that was never meant to end. And their bloods would fuel the wall and its magic.

    If they ran?

    They were hunted. Executed. Their blood would be dripped into a weir wood tree.

    Bran hated himself. But he told himself it was worth it. That a thousand deaths were better than the return of the moon and the endless night.

    The Old Ways, they called it.

    Not tradition. Not heritage.

    A machine. Of magic. Of fear. Of endless blood.

 Cursed witch

    The visions had not ended.

    Gojo staggered as more truth surged through him like lightning through a cursed tool. Bran the Builder¡ªno longer just a myth, no longer just a name carved into stone. He was a man, weighed down by regrets, decisions, and blood.

    Gojo saw how Bran, after building the Wall, did not rest. With the help of the Children of the Forest, he constructed other fortresses across Westeros¡ªstrongholds interwoven with magic, designed to repel the touch of the White Walkers and the darkness beyond. Storm¡¯s End, Hightower, Moat Cailin¡­ each one held whispers of the old blood, the old ways.

    And at the heart of it all, Bran created Winterfell.

    A root. A core. A home.

    The seat of House Stark. The family that would bind the pact in blood, generation after generation.

    Gojo saw the truth in Bran¡¯s design: if the Starks ever abandoned Winterfell, the magic in the Wall would collapse. The blood would run dry. The sacrifices would cease. The moon would rise again.

    "Winter is coming."

    Not a warning for the world.

    But for the Starks themselves.

    Bran married. Had children. Laughed. Loved. But none of it washed away what he¡¯d done. In every quiet night, he heard the screams of those frozen into the Wall. And even when his children asked for stories, all he saw were weirwood roots, coiling like veins beneath the earth.

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    So, when the time came, Bran did not resist the call of the Night¡¯s Watch. He became the Thirteenth Lord Commander¡ªthe man who built the Wall, swearing to die in it.

    It was penance. Justice. A twisted circle of duty.

    Until she came.

    A woman from Asshai. Pale as dawnlight, with eyes like silver flame. She came to the Wall cloaked in shadow and snow, bearing secrets old as the stars.

    She whispered to Bran of the truth he had never been told.

    Of the moon shard buried deep in the Land of Always Winter. Of how the Children of the Forest had worshipped it¡ªnot as a god, but as a weapon. Fed with blood, pulsing with ancient hunger. A tool to call down one of the three moons of world, to veil Westeros in night.

    She told him the Children had never stopped.

    That the glass candles were their newer, crueler invention¡ªtools of cursed preservation. That they could use them to keep a man alive indefinitely¡ªnot in body, but in soul. That they used the blood of these men to craft the White Walkers. Controlled. Artificial. Designed to strike when sacrifice waned.

    She told him the pact had never been peace.

    It had been control.

    Bran did not believe her¡ªnot at first. He ordered her gone, furious that she dared speak against the Children who had given him his power, his magic, his purpose.

    But after she left¡­ Bran began to see.

    He followed the weirwood roots further than ever before. Backwards. Into times older than memory. And the deeper he looked, the darker the truth became.

    Everything the woman had said¡­ was true.

    The Children had manipulated him.

    Manipulated everyone.

    Bran, the boy who wanted to save the world, had helped create its prison.

    Gojo watched the agony bloom on Bran¡¯s face like a wound. The betrayal of it. The knowledge that all his pain, all his sacrifices¡­ had fed something worse.

    The winter moon was not gone.

    It had only waited.

 Cursed reign

    The visions did not stop.

    Gojo stood still in the crumbling throne room beyond the Black Gate, glass candles pulsing in his hands like cursed hearts. He saw Bran the Builder¡ªolder now, wearier, but no less determined¡ªas the truth of the Children¡¯s betrayal rooted itself deep into his soul.

    And then came the dreams.

    The White Witch haunted him.

    Eyes silver like the pale moon, hair flowing like liquid starlight, a voice soft as snowfall. Her beauty was beyond anything Bran had known, but it was the purpose in her gaze that drew him¡ªnot lust, but understanding.

    From atop the Wall, Bran saw her again.

    She came not cloaked in mystery, but in sorrow.

    He took her to the Nightfort, the heart of the Wall¡¯s dark legacy, and asked the question that burned in him since her first words:

    "Why?"

    The White Witch did not flinch.

    She spoke of the Shadow Lands, of ancient cities now buried under black stone and silent screams. Of how the people there, too, had fed shards from the sky with blood. How they, too, had forged cursed tools and pacts. And how, eventually, they all turned to ash.

    "Asshai is all that remains," she said. "I do not want the same fate for Westeros¡­ or for Winterfell."

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    She looked at Bran¡ªnot as a weapon, but as a hope.

    If he could defeat the Children of the Forest¡­ if he could destroy the Moon Shard that hovered above the Land of Always Winter, tethered by cursed roots and forgotten rituals¡­ then he could do what no sorcerer or king had ever done.

    He could undo the apocalypse.

    Bran believed it was fate.

    He fell in love with her, the White Witch of Asshai. A union neither holy nor recognized, but real in its defiance of all that came before.

    He named himself Night¡¯s King, and her his Queen.

    Together, they ruled the Nightfort¡ªnot as Watchers, but as Monarchs.

    For thirteen years, they held the castle.

    During that time, Bran the Builder¡ªthe man now cloaked in shadow¡ªdid what had once been unthinkable. He turned on the Children of the Forest. He sacrificed them.

    Not for power.

    But to usurp it.

    He wanted control of the weirwood network¡ªthe ancient root-bound web of blood and memory. He wanted dominion over the Moon Shard above the north, to destroy it before it could ever fall again. He wanted to sever the cycle.

    He was close. So close.

    But then came the end.

    Wildlings, united by old grudges and older whispers, stormed the Nightfort in the dead of night. While Bran was immersed in the weirwood realm, shaping its currents like a sorcerer god, he felt the breach.

    And then¡ª

    Pain.

    An explosion of cursed energy, sharp as betrayal.

    He turned in the vision¡ªand saw his brother.

    Brandon the Breaker.

    The only one left of his blood. The boy who once looked up to him, now a man with eyes full of tears.

    And in Brandon¡¯s trembling hands, a glass candle.

    Driven through Bran¡¯s skull.

    The visions shimmered as Bran''s thoughts echoed through Gojo¡¯s mind, a last flicker of soul imprinted into the cursed tools:

    ¡°I was so close¡­ so close to saving the world¡­¡±

    Then silence.

    The cursed energy in the vision faded. The glass candles dimmed. The room went still.

    The last image burned in Gojo¡¯s mind¡ªBran the Builder, betrayed not by enemies, but by those who thought they were saving the realm.

 Cursed throne

    The last vision faded like smoke in the wind.

    Before Gojo, the skeleton of Bran the Builder¡ªonce thrumming with cursed energy¡ªcrumbled into dust. The final remnants of resentment, pain, and purpose dissolved into the cold air.

    Even five thousand years of rage couldn¡¯t last forever.

    Gojo watched silently.

    A man who saw the truth, who reached for something greater, only to fall short. Bran had no successor. His children, born of the Corpse Queen, were taken back to Winterfell¡ªraised in ignorance, their bloodline twisted into a lie. A kingdom built on sacrifice and silence.

    Gojo sighed.

    "Fool," he muttered.

    Not out of cruelty¡ªbut pity.

    Bran had tried to do the right thing. Alone. In the shadows. And he failed.

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    But at least¡­ he tried.

    Now, the burden passed to someone else. To Gojo Satoru. He wouldn¡¯t make the same mistake. He wouldn''t die with regret¡ªor leave the next generation in chains.

    Gojo turned to the glass candles¡ªonce tools of vision, now prisons of cursed energy.

    "A chore," he muttered. "Always a chore."

    One by one, he swallowed them.

    Each shard scraped down his throat, humming with the weight of forgotten history. But Gojo didn¡¯t flinch. His body lit with cursed energy, Conversion igniting with divine purpose. The glass melted, shattered, turned to nothing.

    The throne room trembled.

    A distant, groaning crack echoed through the North.

    The Wall¡ªall of it¡ªbegan to crumble.

    A thunderous avalanche of stone and ice. The ancient spellwork undone, no longer fed by blood or binding vows. Gojo felt it all fall. From Eastwatch to Shadow Tower, every stronghold buckled, collapsed into ruin.

    When the silence returned, only roots remained.

    Weirwood trees. Towering. Unnatural.

    Their faces twisted, mouths open wide in silent screams. Red sap bled like tears as they stood in place of the Wall, guardians of a pact older than memory. The cursed forest had returned to claim its place.

    Gojo stood before them, cloak flapping in the wind.

    No turning back now.

    The path ahead led only north. To the Lands of Always Winter. To the Moon Shard. To the source of all of this madness.

    He would end it.

    No matter what it was. No matter who stood in his way.

    Even if he had to tear the sky apart

 Cursed eye

    Gojo could feel it.

    A great blizzard was forming across the northern sky¡ªits cursed energy vast and monstrous, swirling in ancient patterns he had never seen before. Not even during the golden age of jujutsu sorcery had anything reached this scale.

    ¡°Too big,¡± he muttered. ¡°Not a puppet user. This is something else.¡±

    His eyes narrowed.

    The center of the blizzard was exactly where the Moon Shard cursed tool lay¡ªdeep within the Lands of Always Winter. A storm of blood, ice, and memory.

    Gojo didn¡¯t hesitate.

    With a flick of his fingers, he cast Simple Domain, wrapping himself in a protective shell, honed to catch any sudden ambush. And within it, Conversion began to hum, burning cursed energy to keep his body warm, his lungs from freezing. Every breath was laced with willpower.

    He stepped into the blizzard.

    The snow howled like an animal¡ªlike it remembered every death, every sacrifice poured into the land. The air grew colder, and colder still, until it no longer flowed around him. It sank, heavy and slow, like water flooding the world.

    Gojo trudged forward.

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    His breath turned to needles. His skin numbed beneath layers of energy. His lungs filled with ice each time he inhaled. Without Conversion, he would¡¯ve died minutes ago. No mortal could survive this.

    Even his cursed energy was being drained, thinned by the atmosphere. He reinforced his body again and kept moving.

    Then¡ªgravity began to fail.

    The ground swayed. He floated. The world twisted. Liquid oxygen rose into the air like reverse rain, floating toward the sky, pulled by something unseen.

    Gojo looked up.

    The Winter Moon hovered above the world¡ªmassive, pale, and full of hunger.

    And beneath it, pulsing with unnatural light, was the Moon Shard.

    Weirwood roots¡ªthousands of them¡ªsnaked through the snow and earth, dripping blood into the shard like veins feeding a heart. A cursed tool so ancient, so alien, it seemed to bend the rules of existence itself. Time didn¡¯t move here. Gravity didn¡¯t obey. Even cursed energy felt fragile.

    Gojo didn¡¯t care.

    He raised his hand and focused. Red¡ªhis repulsion cursed technique¡ªexploded from his palm with a thunderous crack. The sky warped. The earth split.

    The cursed technique hit the Moon Shard¡ª

    And vanished.

    As if it never existed.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°It¡­ absorbs cursed energy?¡±

    His jaw tightened.

    He turned to the weirwood trees¡ªthe endless forest of faces and roots, all feeding this abomination. With a snarl, he lunged forward and began to tear them down. Each strike of Conversion ignited like lightning, severing roots, vaporizing bark, setting the red sap aflame.

    The blood flow slowed.

    The storm began to hiss in protest.

    And then¡ªthe Moon Shard moved.

    It opened an eye.

    Not a metaphor. Not a trick of the wind or madness.

    A massive, lidless eye cracked open within the shard¡ªglowing with impossible color, deep as the void between stars. It stared directly at him.

    Gojo froze.

    Whatever this thing was¡­ it was awake now.

    And it had seen him.

 Cursed vessel

    The Moon Shard stirred.

    A cursed tool that had absorbed too much blood, too many sacrifices, too much resentment. It had grown sentient¡ªaware of its own existence.

    Gojo had never seen anything like it.

    Even in his past life, not a single cursed tool had awakened a will of its own. This¡­ was something entirely different.

    Then it began to bleed.

    Thick, crimson droplets slid down its pale surface and landed upon the snow, hissing as they froze. Roots of ice erupted from the ground, twisting and coiling like tendrils until they shaped a vessel¡ªan icy simulacrum of a man.

    Of Bran the Builder.

    Only, it wasn¡¯t truly him. The soul was missing. Empty.

    The Moon Shard¡¯s blood became the third eye embedded in the puppet¡¯s forehead¡ªits gaze cold, empty, and watching.

    Gojo tensed. ¡°A puppet?¡±

    The Ice Puppet charged, sword in hand, movements swift as wind over ice.

    Gojo sidestepped, barely dodging a sword swing that sliced through frozen stone like butter. He countered with a punch laced in cursed energy¡ªcracking the puppet¡¯s chest, sending frost and shards flying. But it didn¡¯t fall.

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    Gojo narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°Durable bastard.¡±

    The Ice Puppet tilted its head, almost confused. As if it couldn¡¯t comprehend being hurt. Then it opened its mouth¡ªand exhaled a frigid breath that shattered the ground into frozen dust, a mist that could flash-freeze even cursed energy for a moment.

    Gojo leapt back, holding up his hand. ¡°Clever.¡±

    While he reset his stance, the puppet retreated¡ªonly to summon.

    The land around Gojo began to groan. Cursed energy surged.

    Out from the icy ground crawled wights, eyeless and snarling. White walker shikigami, twisted mockeries born from the weirwood network. Ice spiders, large as wolves, dripping venomous frost. And worst of all¡ªa frost dragon, its wings a canvas of shattered glass and howling storms.

    They all charged Gojo at once.

    He sighed.

    ¡°Always a damn parade.¡±

    Gojo¡¯s aura pulsed. His fingers twitched. And then¡ª

    Red.

    A brilliant wave of repulsion cursed energy exploded from him, flattening the battlefield. The blast shattered mountainsides, vaporized monsters, and even tore the frost dragon apart mid-air, scattering its wings like snowflakes.

    Silence returned.

    The blizzard paused, stunned.

    But it wasn¡¯t over.

    The Ice Puppet looked up, its third eye blazing. Then the Moon Shard pulsed¡ªand a thick mist fell across the land.

    And Gojo felt it.

    A cursed domain, ancient and vast, unfolding.

    The Domain Expansion engulfed everything¡ªthe entire Lands of Always Winter. The sky cracked. The stars vanished. A winter moon eclipsed the real one, casting a blue glow over an endless world of frost and blood.

    Gojo clenched his fists, his breath visible in the cursed air.

    ¡°So this is your game¡­¡±

    The eye in the sky stared down.

    And the duel truly began.

 Cursed domain

    Gojo stood beneath a sky of false stars, the cursed domain stretching infinitely over the Lands of Always Winter.

    The air was poison. The sky, heavy. Every inch of this realm crushed down on him with the pressure of a curse that had endured for millennia.

    And still¡ªhe had no Domain Expansion.

    No matter how much he trained, meditated, bled, the technique remained elusive. Perhaps it was the nature of his Conversion technique. Perhaps it was his own fractured soul.

    But he had something else.

    "Simple Domain," Gojo whispered, and the barrier snapped into place, thin as glass and just as fragile.

    Thirty seconds. That was all it would last under the overwhelming pressure of the Moon Shard¡¯s sure-hit domain.

    But that was enough.

    He launched forward like a white blur, cursed energy burning bright as he clashed with the Ice Vessel.

    It met him in kind, wielding ice and shadow, swinging its frozen sword like the wrath of a long-dead god. But Gojo was faster¡ªcleaner. Their strikes echoed like thunderclaps.

    Twenty seconds. The ground cracked beneath their feet.

    Gojo caught the puppet¡¯s blade in one hand and shattered it with a twist. The puppet staggered, confused again, empty eyes trying to comprehend loss.

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    Ten seconds. Gojo¡¯s hand glowed. He felt it¡ªthe moment of harmony.

    A perfectly timed strike.

    Black Flash.

    Gojo¡¯s fist slammed into the Ice Vessel¡¯s chest. The cursed energy resonated, tearing the puppet apart, scattering pieces of it across the battlefield. Icy ribs, frozen entrails, and a spine like glass shattered into the snow.

    But the domain didn¡¯t collapse.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°What?¡±

    Five seconds.

    His Simple Domain was cracking. The Moon Shard¡¯s eye above twisted¡ªalmost¡­ smiling.

    Gojo took a gamble.

    He dropped to one knee, scooping the liquid oxygen that had flooded the cursed domain, and without hesitation¡ª

    He drank it.

    It tore through his throat like razors and ice, and for a moment, he felt his insides burning and freezing at once.

    ¡°Damn cold,¡± Gojo gasped, forcing Conversion to activate¡ªturning the deadly substance into raw cursed energy.

    With his last breath inside the domain, Gojo summoned his strength.

    Red.

    It wasn¡¯t a technique¡ªit was a cannon.

    The empowered Red slammed into the remnants of the Ice Vessel, vaporizing it completely and leaving only a frozen crater in the cursed land.

    Gojo landed, panting.

    He waited.

    Waited for the domain to fall.

    But nothing changed.

    The eye in the sky blinked. The Moon Shard''s eye... grinned.

    Then Gojo realized.

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t the puppet casting the domain expansion,¡± he muttered. ¡°The domain¡­ is the Moon Shard itself.¡±

    His Simple Domain cracked, shattered¡ªgone.

    And in that instant, a piece of the cursed moon fell from the sky, impaling him through the chest. Gojo didn¡¯t scream. He barely had the breath for that.

    Ice surged through him.

    He was frozen solid in an instant¡ªevery cell encased, cursed energy flickering like a dying star.

    Then¡ª

    Shatter.

    Gojo Satoru, the Strongest, broke into a million pieces of light and snow.

    And the cursed moon watched, silently, as its domain remained untouched.

 Cursed train station

    Gojo¡¯s soul stood in the middle of a quiet train station¡ªvast, sterile, and endless. The silence rang in his ears, broken only by the faint screech of steel against steel as another train pulled into the platform.

    He blinked. For just a moment, he thought he saw Yuji Itadori walking past. But beside him was another version¡ªtaller, marked with black tattoos and wearing a cruel smile. Sukuna.

    Gojo opened his mouth to shout, to call out, but his voice didn¡¯t carry. No sound. Not even an echo.

    Yuji¡­ smiled. At Sukuna. And Sukuna, for once, didn¡¯t sneer. They walked side by side, boarding the train like old acquaintances, stepping out of this liminal realm without looking back.

    Gojo reached for them.

    Nothing.

    Then silence returned.

    And with it, the weight. The soul-deep ache of regret.

    Gojo looked around¡ªhoping for someone, anyone. Suguru, maybe. Even Shoko. Or Nanami. But the station was barren. Cold. There were no students here. No friends. No family. Just Gojo Satoru¡ªalone, again.

    Just like Bran the Builder, the one who tried to save the world and failed without ever being understood.

    He slumped onto a bench. ¡°So that¡¯s it,¡± he muttered. ¡°Not even a proper goodbye.¡±

    Another train roared past.

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    Gojo looked up.

    And on the other side of the platform¡­ stood a man in black, with a long cloak and dark eyes.

    Jon Snow. The real one.

    Gojo stood, surprised, and gave a faint smile. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect to meet you here.¡±

    Jon crossed the station quietly and sat beside him.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Gojo said. ¡°I failed. The cursed energy, the moon shard, the children of the forest¡ªI couldn¡¯t protect the world. I tried to fight it all alone.¡±

    Jon gave a soft, tired chuckle. ¡°You weren¡¯t the only one who failed. I died too¡­ stabbed by my own men at Castle Black.¡±

    Gojo blinked. Then let out a sudden laugh. ¡°Lord Commanders really do have the worst job security.¡±

    ¡°Seems so.¡±

    They sat in silence for a moment, the station humming with otherworldly stillness.

    Then Jon reached into his coat and handed Gojo a train ticket.

    Gojo looked at it, then shook his head. ¡°No. I¡¯ve had enough. I gave everything I had. There¡¯s nothing left.¡±

    Jon frowned. ¡°That¡¯s not true. You still have time. There¡¯s something waiting for you.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Gojo¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°I¡¯ll just end up like him. Like Bran. Alone. Unloved. Forgotten. We¡­ we always die alone, Jon. That¡¯s the burden of the strongest.¡±

    Jon looked away, his voice low. ¡°If I go back¡­ I won¡¯t be me anymore. I¡¯ll be bitter. Angry. Melisandre¡¯s lies will make sense. I¡¯ll believe sacrifice is the answer. And then I¡¯ll try to become something¡­ something terrible. The second Night¡¯s King.¡±

    His hands clenched. ¡°I¡¯ve seen it. Every version of me. Every time. I fail. Some times I sit on the iron throne. Some times I sit on the throne of winterfell. But it never works out¡±

    Gojo¡¯s lips parted, eyes wide. ¡°Then why give me the ticket?¡±

    Jon looked him dead in the eye. ¡°Because it¡¯s time someone else tried. Someone who still believes in the world. Someone who doesn¡¯t think love is a curse.¡±

    He placed the ticket firmly in Gojo¡¯s hand.

    Gojo held it tightly. ¡°We¡¯ll always be alone. That¡¯s our fate.¡±

    Jon stood. ¡°All men die alone. But not all leave something better behind.¡±

    Gojo stood too.

    They embraced¡ªtwo broken warriors, too stubborn to stay dead.

    The next train whistled in the distance, its doors opening to nowhere and everywhere.

    As Jon began to fade, he gave a final whisper.

    ¡°Take care of Daenerys.¡±

    The train doors closed.

    And Gojo Satoru stepped aboard.

 Cursed worship

    The Moon Shard stirred¡ªafter five thousand years of silence, it awoke.

    Deep within the Land of Always Winter, buried under frost and blood, it had waited patiently. Quiet. Dormant. And now, it pulsed with cursed energy, the cursed tool reborn.

    It was not satisfied.

    ¡°Not enough.¡±

    The Moon Shard, sentient and cruel, reached with ancient awareness into the earth. Its original worshipers¡ªthe ones who once etched their rituals into ice and bone¡ªwere long dead, their names forgotten. Yet the Shard remembered. It never forgot. It never would.

    Its purpose was eternal:

    Prevent mankind from taking Westeros.

    Cull them.

    Bleed them.

    Reset the world with silence and snow.

    It required sacrifice.

    And thanks to the blood-dripping weirwood roots¡ªthe last gifts from the faithful descendants of its worshipers¡ªit had enough to awaken. Their loyalty, carved into trees and rituals, had sustained it. Fed it. Strengthened it.

    The Moon Shard would be generous to those who remembered. It would leave them last. Let them watch as it buried the rest of the world in ice. Leaving behind a grateful world for these worshiper.

    And now, the Wall was broken too.

    With its cursed energy surging, the Moon Shard moved the Winter Moon, dragging it inch by inch across the sky of Westeros. The light dimmed. The winds howled. The temperature dropped. Another Long Night was coming.

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    It was time to begin the culling.

    But then¡ª

    A man appeared.

    No mortal. Not truly.

    The Moon Shard observed him with curiosity as he marched through a blizzard so cold it froze the very breath of the gods. Even oxygen had turned to liquid, yet this man walked through it¡ªdefiant, with cursed energy wrapped around his body like a cloak.

    And then¡ªblasphemy.

    The man fired red light, a cursed technique that ruptured the weirwood trees, snapping their roots and severing their lifeline to the Moon Shard.

    He had interfered.

    He had wounded it.

    The Moon Shard seethed with ancient rage. Man had always been a destructive species. Never understanding. Always conquering. Always killing.

    It would teach him.

    It shaped a vessel¡ªa body made of flesh, ice, and diamond. Forged in the coldest parts of the moonlight, no blade could shatter it. It imbued itself. A third eye. A weapon.

    But then¡ªthe man punched it.

    A single strike. A ripple in its soul.

    Cursed energy. Foreign. Corrupting. Terrifying.

    The Moon Shard retreated, retreating for the first time in millennia.

    And it learned.

    From this man¡¯s energy, from his violence, from his defiance, the Moon Shard drew knowledge. It stretched its cursed capabilities and cracked open the veil between planes. A domain expansion bloomed, vast and merciless, engulfing the north in its shimmering frost.

    And then, it shattered him.

    The man was frozen.

    Crushed.

    Reduced to a million shards of flesh and soul.

    The Moon Shard stared down at the remnants. No name. No memory.

    Just impact.

    And for the first time in its long existence, the Moon Shard felt¡­ unsettled.

    ¡°I will not forget this man.¡±

    Even if it never learned his name, it had felt him. The blow would echo in its being for centuries.

    It withdrew the domain, its task unfinished.

    The moon dragged lower across the sky.

    And then it paused.

    Because there, floating naked in the sky, framed against the very Winter Moon it controlled¡ªwas the man.

    Alive. Glowing. Resurrected. His silhouette, naked and divine, blocked the moonlight itself.

    The Moon Shard froze.

    Its cursed eye thudded.

    It stared into the face of something it did not understand.

    The man had returned. Again. What had the moon shard killed just now?

 Cursed purple

    Gojo Satoru floated¡ªnaked, whole, and divine¡ªabove the shattered landscape of the Lands of Always Winter, silhouetted against the drifting Winter Moon. There were no clouds, no sounds, just the silence of awe and confusion.

    He felt like a god.

    No... something more.

    Invincible.

    He clenched and unclenched his fingers, testing his body¡ªthe one he had just rebuilt. The pieces of his former self had scattered into a million shards, crushed by the moon itself. And yet, here he stood.

    The Moon Shard¡¯s eye¡ªthat cold, all-seeing, ancient thing¡ªtrembled.

    ¡°How?¡±

    It echoed across the cursed winds.

    How had this man survived the unthinkable?

    Gojo smirked. ¡°Long time no see.¡±

    His words were casual, even playful, but his voice carried the weight of something eternal. Something that had danced on the edge of life and death and come back sharper.

    He stared into the eye of the Moon Shard.

    ¡°I was blind,¡± he said, ¡°so blind.¡±

    He raised his hand, admiring the glow pulsing beneath his skin. So this is what it felt like¡­ to walk above life and death.

    ¡°If I could turn cursed mass into cursed energy¡­ why couldn¡¯t I do the reverse?¡±

    The Moon Shard stilled.

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    Gojo¡¯s smile grew.

    ¡°That moment¡ªright before my brain was destroyed¡ªI gambled everything. My technique¡­ my soul¡­ everything.¡±

    And then he whispered:

    ¡°Cursed Technique Reversal.¡±

    He had taken all his cursed energy and, instead of using it to attack or defend, had transformed his body into cursed energy itself¡ªpure essence, floating and untouchable. And then he reformed¡ªatom by atom¡ªoutside the blast, immune to destruction.

    The Moon Shard had destroyed only his clothes.

    It had never touched him.

    The ancient eye twitched, furious, boiling with hate.

    Gojo winked. ¡°You just made me stronger. You made me realize.¡±

    The sky darkened.

    The Moon Shard screamed, calling down every remaining moon fragment from orbit. Blades of light, of ice, of cursed stone¡ªhundreds of them¡ªrained down on Gojo like divine judgment.

    But¡­

    They didn¡¯t land.

    Everything that approached Gojo slowed¡­ stopped¡­ froze in place.

    There was a ripple of disbelief from the Shard.

    Gojo tilted his head lazily. ¡°You don¡¯t get it yet?¡±

    He raised a finger and flicked it in the air. The attacks crumbled into dust before they could ever touch him.

    ¡°I can convert cursed energy into mass,¡± he said. ¡°And mass into cursed energy.¡±

    His Infinity was no longer a technique.

    It was now reality.

    The Moon Shard''s ice vessel¡ªits champion¡ªroared and charged, fists shimmering with domain amplification, hoping to cancel Gojo¡¯s technique by force.

    Gojo looked up one last time.

    He thought of Jon Snow. Of that quiet train station in the afterlife. Of that worn-out, kind smile. Of that ticket in his hand.

    ¡°I hope your next life¡¯s kinder than this one,¡± he whispered.

    And then he raised his left hand¡ªcalm, precise¡ªand made a subtle, ancient gesture.

    Like a flick of the wrist. Like an invitation to destruction.

    ¡°Throughout heaven and earth,¡± Gojo said, eyes glowing blue-white, ¡°I alone am the honored one.¡±

    A surge of cursed energy gathered, swallowing the sky in violet light.

    ¡°Strange,¡± he muttered.

    And then:

    ¡°Purple.¡±

    The blast was instant.

    A beam of concentrated destruction¡ªa convergence of Red and Blue¡ªpierced the frozen air.

    It struck the Moon Shard''s vessel mid-charge, and everything halted.

    Then¡ª

    Half the Moon Shard was gone.

    Not just shattered¡ªerased. Obliterated from existence.

    The Moon howled.

    The winds died.

    The cursed domain trembled.

    Gojo exhaled slowly, drifting in the air like a falling god.

    ¡°I¡¯m not done yet,¡± he said.

 Cursed kneel

    The sky was quiet now. The cursed winds had stilled, the shattered fragments of the Moon Shard hung in the air like falling snow¡ªsilent, slow, and heavy with finality.

    Gojo floated, suspended in the aftermath of annihilation, heart still hammering, mind still racing. He had won.

    Or so he thought.

    Then the Moon Shard¡­ knelt.

    The remains of its ice vessel bent low, the singular, cracked eye dim but¡­ gentle. Not hateful. Not wrathful.

    Grieving.

    And for the first time in five thousand years, the Moon Shard spoke with a voice that was not thunder or scream, but something quieter¡ªancient, aching, and soft.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°Please¡­ take care of them¡­ The Children of the Forest.¡±

    </blockquote>

    Gojo¡¯s breath caught.

    ¡°What¡­?¡±

    The cursed god of winter was begging.

    The Moon Shard¡¯s voice echoed again, filled with sorrow and resignation.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°I¡­ only ever wanted to protect them. To hear their songs. Their laughter. I was born to be their shield, to make them a place where mankind¡¯s steel and fire could never reach.¡±

    </blockquote>

    Gojo stared, stunned. ¡°You¡­ care about them?¡±

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    The Moon Shard¡¯s eye blinked slowly.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°They were my creators. My friends. My children.¡±

    </blockquote>

    Gojo felt the weight of that truth hit him like a wave.

    He¡¯d spent his second life believing the Children of the Forest were nothing but monsters, sacrificing humans to cursed trees, waging wars from the shadows. But this¡ª

    This was love.

    Genuine. Unfathomable. Monstrous and still¡­ pure.

    ¡°They killed humans,¡± Gojo said coldly. ¡°Sacrificed children.¡±

    <blockquote>

    ¡°For survival,¡± the Moon Shard whispered. ¡°When the First Men came with axes and fire¡­ there was nowhere left to go. So I made them a place. The Lands of Always Winter. A final refuge.¡±

    </blockquote>

    Gojo frowned. ¡°And the Long Night?¡±

    <blockquote>

    ¡°I tried to scare man away. Tried to cull the invaders. But I failed. I don¡¯t have the strength for that again.¡±

    </blockquote>

    The ancient eye flickered, dimming with every passing moment.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°I only ask you this¡ªwatch over the Children. They are few now, forgotten¡­ hunted. Let them live. Let them sing again.¡±

    </blockquote>

    Gojo was silent for a long moment.

    He thought of Megumi. Of Yuji. Of all the cursed spirits who¡¯d claimed to act for love, for revenge, for fear. He¡¯d dismissed them all as evil.

    But maybe¡­ just maybe¡­ things weren¡¯t so simple here.

    The Moon Shard bowed its head.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°Blame me. Not them. I chose the path. I made the sacrifices. I broke the world so they could have a chance.¡±

    </blockquote>

    Gojo sighed. Deep. Resigned.

    ¡°¡­I don¡¯t trust them,¡± he said. ¡°But I¡¯ll try.¡±

    And then, he reached out¡ªand for the first time in this world¡ªmade a binding vow.

    ¡°I will protect the Children of the Forest. Not for what they¡¯ve done, but for what they can become.¡±

    The Moon Shard¡¯s eye smiled.

    And then, it began to disintegrate.

    Cursed ice turned to stardust. Flesh melted into light. Its eye faded into the wind like a dying ember. But before it vanished completely, it left something behind¡ª

    Knowledge poured into gojo like a falling sun.

    A cursed technique.

    Ancient. Primordial. Divine.

    The Manipulation of Celestial Bodies. To move the stars and the moon like toys.

    Gojo closed his eyes. He didn¡¯t know what the future held¡ªbut now, for the first time in a long time, he didn¡¯t feel alone.

 Cursed ascension

    Moving the Winter Moon was exhausting.

    Gojo had never felt a weight like this before¡ªnot in Shibuya, not in the Jujutsu Headquarters, not even in his final battle against Sukuna. It wasn¡¯t just lifting mass or converting energy; it was wrestling with the memory of an ancient god, with gravity itself.

    Now he understood.

    Now he truly understood why so much blood had been sacrificed to the Moon Shard across the millennia. That cursed god hadn¡¯t just demanded blood out of cruelty. It needed the energy¡ªoceans of it¡ªjust to nudge the moon into motion.

    And Gojo?

    He had done more than nudge it.

    He had consumed the remnants of the Moon Shard¡ªits soul, its will, its lingering cursed energy¡ªand transformed it into something new. Something his.

    Floating high above Westeros, his body bathed in silver light, Gojo channeled the celestial technique with his entire being. Hands trembling, breath ragged, heart steady.

    The Winter Moon, cold and beautiful and vast, began to drift backward¡ªback toward the Lands of Always Winter.

    The Long Night ended.

    From the Dreadfort to the Neck, from the Wall to Winterfell, the night sky began to shift. The cursed glow receded. The blizzards calmed. The stars returned.

    And beneath him, stretched across the white plains, a mass of wildlings fell to their knees.

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    They had watched it all.

    The blinding red beam that split the sky. The screaming winds that cracked mountains. The sight of a floating moon crashing down toward a lone man, only for that man to rise again, untouched and glorious.

    The destruction of the cold gods, a god of their ancestors'' nightmares, undone by one man wrapped in light.

    They didn¡¯t understand cursed energy or domain expansions. But they understood what they saw.

    They saw a god slay another god.

    And when Gojo rose again, naked and surrounded by drifting moonlight, they wept and bowed. Whispers passed through the kneeling crowds:

    <blockquote>

    ¡°He is one of the Old Gods, made flesh...¡±

    ¡°He came from the moon to protect us...¡±

    ¡°He banished the Long Night...¡±

    ¡°The god of death turned his blade on winter itself.¡±

    </blockquote>

    They had no idea what they were witnessing. Only that the moon, that second moon which had haunted them for weeks, had moved because of the figure in the sky.

    That glowing man with white hair and eyes like crushed amethyst.

    A god.

    Gojo looked down. Thousands of people¡ªmen, women, children¡ªbowed to him in fear, awe, and something like reverence.

    He frowned.

    Then he looked at his reflection in a frozen river. It startled him.

    White hair. Purple eyes. A face more beautiful and alien than Jon Snow''s ever was. The soul of Jon had truly left him¡ªpassed on, freed¡ªand Gojo¡¯s form had reverted back into something else. Something closer to who he once was.

    And he was naked.

    ¡°Ah¡­ crap.¡±

    Thousands of wildlings, staring up at him, whispering prayers. And here he was, floating naked in the freezing sky like some holy painting gone wrong.

    Gojo sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

    ¡°¡­This is so embarrassing.¡±

    Not even Infinity could protect him from shame.

    With a flicker of cursed energy, he vanished from the sky, leaving behind only a fading silhouette in the moonlight.

    He reappeared far away¡ªdeep north, far past the Wall¡ªhis feet landing softly in snow outside a cave choked with twisted roots and old, dead trees.

    The last refuge of the Children of the Forest.

    The cave of the Three-Eyed Crow.

    This was where the final answers lay. Where the true story of Westeros began¡ªand maybe, just maybe¡ªwhere it could finally end.

 Cursed children of the forest

    The wards surrounding the cave had fallen.

    Gojo stood before the mouth of the ancient cavern, once humming with layered spells and cursed protections. Now¡ªsilence. The magic was gone. Either dispelled by the death of the Moon Shard or surrendered willingly.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°Smart choice,¡± Gojo murmured.

    </blockquote>

    His voice echoed off the icy stone walls.

    The binding vow still pulsed faintly in his chest, tying his fate to the Children of the Forest. He couldn''t harm them now, even if he wanted to. Not without forfeiting everything.

    But Brynden Rivers¡­ that cursed puppet master the Moon Shard had spoken of, the one who toyed with the threads of fate like a raven weaving winter, he still needed to answer a few questions¡ªif he was still alive.

    Gojo stepped inside.

    The air was thick with old magic and fresh panic. He heard the commotion before he saw them.

    Voices. Fearful. Furious. Whispers laced with hatred and awe.

    The Children of the Forest were arguing. About him.

    As Gojo entered the cavern, the murmur grew into chaos.

    Eyes snapped toward him¡ªhuge, golden, glowing.

    Some of the Children dropped to their knees, trembling, whispering apologies and begging for their lives.

    Others gripped obsidian blades, their small frames taut with anger and hatred.

    And a few¡­ flushed and wide-eyed¡­ blushed as they gazed at him.

    Gojo blinked. ¡°Huh.¡±

    He sighed, rubbing the back of his head. ¡°Relax. I¡¯m not gonna hurt anyone. Not after the vow.¡±

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    He stepped further into the cave. The leaf-etched walls closed behind him like a ribcage of memory.

    ¡°But I need to know where Brynden Rivers is,¡± he continued. ¡°And, uh¡­ also, some clothes would be nice.¡±

    That was when one of them screamed.

    A younger child, wild-eyed and trembling with fury, leapt forward with an obsidian spear.

    ¡°You murdered Leaf!¡± he shouted. ¡°You killed our kin!¡±

    Gojo caught the attack mid-swing without even flinching. The cursed energy in the child¡¯s body crackled against his hand. He didn¡¯t strike. He didn¡¯t maim.

    Instead, he converted.

    With a pulse of his technique, Gojo turned the boy¡¯s cursed energy into inert mass, draining him of power. The child collapsed, exhausted and defeated, but alive.

    The others froze, watching with terror as their bravest had been disarmed with no more effort than a breath.

    Gojo sighed again.

    A few minutes later, one of them approached¡ªsmall, silver-haired, with flowers woven through her cloak. Her cheeks were tinted pink as she walked, holding a bundle in her hands.

    ¡°Clothes?¡± Gojo asked.

    She nodded, eyes flickering upward. Gojo gave her a lopsided grin.

    ¡°I¡¯ll call you Snowylocks,¡± he said with mock charm. Her blush deepened.

    She handed him a tunic made of stitched leaves, bark-thread leggings, and a belt of flowering vines. It was¡­ a look. Gojo shrugged into it with a grin.

    ¡°Cozy,¡± he joked.

    Wordlessly, she beckoned him deeper into the cave.

    They reached a hollow, lit only by the dim glow of moss. And there, against a root-covered stone, lay the body of Brynden Rivers.

    Stab wounds marked his chest and sides. The weapons used were unmistakable¡ªobsidian daggers, crafted by the Children.

    Gojo knelt beside the corpse.

    <blockquote>

    ¡°You didn¡¯t go out like a sorcerer,¡± he muttered. ¡°You went out like a threat.¡±

    </blockquote>

    He turned to Snowylocks.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    Her voice was soft. ¡°He was¡­ too close. He was unraveling the lies we created. The Last Hero. The Prince That Was Promised. All of it¡­ stories we made to keep men looking the other way.¡±

    She looked down. ¡°The Moon Shard¡¯s existence was at the heart of it all. If Brynden had found the truth, he would¡¯ve destroyed us.¡±

    Gojo was quiet for a long time.

    Finally, Snowylocks reached out. Her small hand grasped his.

    ¡°What will happen to us now?¡± she asked, voice trembling.

    Gojo looked at her, remembering the Moon Shard''s final smile. Its request. Its love for these strange, cursed creatures.

    He spoke slowly.

    ¡°I made a promise. To protect your kind. I¡¯ll keep it.¡±

    Snowylocks¡¯ eyes filled with something more than gratitude.

    She stepped forward.

    And then, without warning, she kissed him¡ªsoftly, briefly, reverently.

    Gojo blinked in surprise. Then he kissed her back.

    It was fleeting. Bittersweet. A moment borrowed from a world where things might have been different.

    He didn¡¯t know what the future held. But he knew this:

    Before he left this cursed land for Asshai, before he followed the dark road east to face whatever else the Moon Shard had warned him about¡ª

    He wanted to leave something behind.

 Cursed bed

    As Gojo walked deeper into the cave, guided by Snowylocks, he felt a strange stillness settle over him. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of moss, earth, and old magic. The flickering light of root-wrapped lanterns cast dancing shadows across the walls, as if the cave itself breathed with ancient memory.

    He thought of Suguru Geto.

    He didn¡¯t know why now. Maybe it was the way Snowylocks held his hand, so gently yet with quiet determination. Maybe it was the look in the other Children¡¯s eyes¡ªfear, reverence, curiosity, and something tenderer. It reminded him of a time long past, when he and Geto dreamed of a better world. A world where no one had to suffer. A world Gojo was still trying to carve from the bones of this one.

    As they entered a warm chamber tucked into the heart of the mountain, Snowylocks turned to him. Her expression was soft, unsure. ¡°This is the way of our people,¡± she whispered. ¡°If you want to be one of us... if you want to protect us... then you must become one with us.¡±

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    Gojo met her gaze, searching it. He saw no deceit, only ancient ritual and something like hope. He smiled, a rare, genuine smile. ¡°Then I¡¯ll honor your tradition.¡±

    The room was silent but for their breath, their closeness. They kissed, gently at first. Gojo¡¯s fingers trembled slightly¡ªnot from fear, but from the weight of all he had endured. This wasn¡¯t just about desire. It was about trust. About healing.

    He traced her cheek, memorizing the warmth, the life. Snowylocks leaned into his touch and whispered, ¡°We will remember you, Gojo Satoru, for all the ages.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to be remembered,¡± Gojo replied softly, pressing his forehead to hers. ¡°I just want peace.¡±

    Outside, the cave was quiet. The Children of the Forest gave them space, whispering ancient words to the roots, to the stones. Gojo, who had once been the strongest, now laid his strength down in a place that asked not for battle¡ªbut for belonging.

    This would be his home.

 Cursed eggs

    The cave was filled with golden light, filtered through roots and crystal-veined stone. The air carried a quiet reverence as the Children of the Forest gathered, forming a wide circle around Gojo. Snowylocks nestled at his left side, her small hand clutched tightly in his, while Ash¡ªa young male with bark-brown hair and gentle, silver eyes¡ªhugged Gojo¡¯s right arm, his gaze soft with devotion.

    Gojo looked at them both. Snowylocks¡¯ stomach had begun to swell¡ªhis child growing within her. So had several others he recognized now by face and feeling. The realization struck him like a quiet bell¡ªhe was no longer just a visitor in this world. He was becoming part of its fabric.

    He stepped forward, letting his cursed energy subtly radiate¡ªnot in threat, but as warmth, like sunlight after a long winter.

    ¡°I have an announcement to make,¡± he said.

    The murmurs died instantly.

    ¡°No more blood sacrifices,¡± Gojo declared, his voice firm, yet kind. ¡°The time of offering blood and pain to the moon is over. I will protect you now¡ªwith my strength, with everything I am.¡±

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    A silence followed, deep and trembling. Then came the cheers¡ªsoft at first, like wind in the trees, but growing louder and louder until the entire cavern shook with the joy of a people freed from a millennia-old burden.

    They gave him a name, long and unpronounceable in the tongue of men. It flowed like poetry, recounting every one of Gojo¡¯s deeds¡ªfrom his celestial rebirth, to the fall of the Moon Shard, to his protection of their kin. When they finished chanting, some wept.

    Gojo bowed low to them.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said. ¡°For Leaf. For Black Knife. For the others I fought before I understood. I can¡¯t undo what I did... but I can carry it. I will carry it with honor.¡±

    A quiet weeping filled the chamber. Snowylocks wiped her tears. Ash pressed closer to Gojo¡¯s side.

    Then, with great reverence, Snowylocks stepped forward and placed a cloth-wrapped bundle into Gojo¡¯s hands.

    Inside were three dragon eggs¡ªdark, reddish-gold, and bronze. Ancient. Pulsing with dormant fire.

    ¡°These belonged to Sheepstealer,¡± Snowylocks whispered. ¡°Once bonded to Leaf¡­ who you might have known as Nettles.¡±

    Gojo¡¯s hands tightened around the bundle. ¡°I didn¡¯t know,¡± he said softly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Truly.¡±

    Snowylocks reached up, touching his face. ¡°She would have forgiven you too. We all must change to survive.¡±

    Ash leaned in and kissed Gojo on the cheek, a blessing and a promise. Snowylocks did the same, her touch feather-light. In that moment, surrounded by warmth, forgiveness, and the future growing within the Children, Gojo felt something he hadn''t felt in a long time.

    Hope.

 Cursed perspectives

    Scene I ¨C The Bloodraven¡¯s Return

    The chamber was dim, lit only by candles of black flame. Brynden Rivers opened his eyes, gasping as air filled the lungs of a long-dead man¡ªAegor Rivers. The body ached, stiff from undeath, but it obeyed him now.

    Shiera Seastar leaned over him, her crimson-painted lips curled into a smirk, her eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

    ¡°You live again, old fool,¡± she said, tracing a clawed finger along his pale cheek.

    Brynden growled. ¡°The Children... they betrayed me. Used me. Lied about the prophecy. Lied about the Long Night. I should have known¡ªshould have never trusted them.¡±

    Shiera laughed softly, dark and cruel. ¡°And yet you did. That¡¯s why I left Westeros. I saw their rot before you ever bound yourself to them. So eager to be the spider in the cave... but you were just another fly caught in their web.¡±

    He lowered his head, bitter. ¡°I wanted to save the realm... control the prince that was promised, guide the dream... but it was all illusion.¡±

    ¡°It was always going to fail,¡± Shiera said, lifting his chin. ¡°Bran Stark was never yours to control. And Jon snow was never yours to deceive.¡±

    Brynden¡¯s gaze narrowed. ¡°But we can still destroy them all.¡±

    At that, Shiera kissed him¡ªslow and lingering, her body pressed against his. In the flickering dark of Asshai, love and vengeance intertwined.

    Scene II ¨C The Swordless Warden

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    The roots tore apart with a scream of bark and old blood. From the weirwood near the Harrenhal, a man emerged¡ªeyes glowing faintly, his breath ragged.

    He was naked, scarred, and seething. He dropped to his knees, hands digging through the snow for something that wasn''t there.

    Dark Sister... gone. His dragon dead.

    His mind raced. He felt it¡ªthe Wall was no longer whole. The wards were broken.

    ¡°No...¡± he muttered, staggering to his feet. ¡°The Prince that was promised is unprotected. The Long Night is coming. This wasn''t the plan.¡±

    He looked north, toward the fading trace of the Winter Moon.

    ¡°I must find him. I must find the Prince... before it¡¯s too late. Nettles is waiting for me.¡±

    Scene III ¨C The Ship of Silence

    Far out at sea, where light dared not reach, a grotesque vessel drifted.

    The Silence groaned with each wave, its sails made of stretched skin, its hull formed from ribcage and bone, thrumming with cursed life.

    At its helm stood a captain with lips sewn shut, his single eye bright as a storm.

    He watched as the Winter Moon, far on the horizon, reversed course¡ªdrawn back toward the Lands of Always Winter.

    He sighed through his nose, voice muted but thoughts blazing.

    ¡°So the strongest lives... .¡±

    He turned to the helm. ¡°Then I must prepare a second seal.¡±

    The Silence changed course, gliding like a predator toward the east.

    Scene IV ¨C The Mountain Holds Its Breath

    Beneath the Fourteen Flames, deep within the veins of fire and stone, a man sat.

    He had four arms, all wreathed in flame, and four eyes¡ªeach a different color, each seeing a different future.

    He held the molten heart of the mountain in place with all four of his hand

    The Winter Moon flickered in the distance, as the man saw through the earth

    He grinned.

    ¡°At last... the strongest has returned.¡±

    Scene V ¨C The Cry in the Shadow

    In the deepest pit of the Shadow Lands, past the ghost grass and ashen sands, something stirred.

    A voice¡ªnot human, not quite spirit¡ªechoed through the canyons, reverberating through the bones of the world.

    ¡°Gojo...¡±

    It was a cry. A lament. A challenge.

    The shadow itself recoiled from the sound.

    Something ancient, something forgotten, had awakened.

 Cursed peace

    Snow fell lightly, but there was no storm. Only the quiet stillness of a North holding its breath.

    Ned Stark arrived at the shattered gates of Castle Black, flanked by Benjen and a dozen loyal bannermen. The sight of the broken Wall stole the air from his lungs. It had stood for over eight thousand years¡ªand now it was gone, crumbled like a ruin from some forgotten age. He felt older in its absence. Smaller.

    Yet the dream from the night before stayed in his heart, warm and strange. A vision of peace¡ªof Jon, radiant like the dawn, speaking with the voice of kings and gods. Ned didn¡¯t believe in prophecy. But he trusted his instincts.

    He rode through the gates with grim resolve.

    The Wildlings were already inside. Their blades were sheathed, and their posture was calm. Yet their eyes were sharp, focused¡ªnot like raiders, but soldiers guarding something sacred. Ned¡¯s men bristled, but Benjen raised a hand to keep them from drawing swords.

    Ned¡¯s gaze swept across the courtyard. Children of the Forest carved strange symbols into the stone with hands of bark and bone. Ravens circled overhead. And Castle Black, once cold and crumbling, had been transformed¡ªpart fortress, part living grove.

    He stepped inside the great hall.

    At the head of the blackstone table stood Jon Snow¡ªor what remained of him. Hair white as snow, eyes bright as amethysts, and a presence that shimmered like heat in the cold. Ned¡¯s heart clenched. Gods, he thought, he looks just like Rhaegar. He¡¯d have to tell the boy to hide it somehow, dye his hair, cover his eyes. If Robert saw him like this¡­

    And then Ned saw who stood beside him.

    On Gojo¡¯s left, a Child of the Forest, beautiful and ethereal, her stomach rounded with pregnancy. On his right, a male Child clung to his arm with a protective fondness. The myths had returned. They were alive. And Jon¡ªno, Gojo¡ªwas their center.

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    Ned blinked. It was too much.

    And yet¡­ he smiled. Lyanna would have been proud. A grandchild. A legacy. A new world, perhaps.

    Mance Rayder, standing across the table, looked similarly stunned at Snowylocks¡¯ presence, though he masked it with a grunt and folded arms.

    Gojo raised his voice, clear and composed. ¡°Sit. We have much to speak about.¡±

    Ned and Mance exchanged glances, then took their seats.

    ¡°I want to begin,¡± Gojo said, ¡°by apologizing for the deaths of your people, Mance. I killed five thousand of your Wildlings¡ªbut only to protect the Wall, and the Children. I believe¡­ you were manipulated. Fed false visions in your dreams.¡±

    Mance¡¯s jaw clenched. ¡°Bloodraven.¡±

    Gojo nodded. ¡°Yes. He tried to use me too.¡±

    Ned furrowed his brow. ¡°Bloodraven? You mean Brynden Rivers? The old tale?¡±

    Mance spat. ¡°Tale nothing. That shadow¡¯s been whispering lies to every man with green dreams since before my father¡¯s time.¡±

    Ned didn¡¯t respond, but something in him stirred. The dream he¡¯d had¡­ it felt planted. Designed.

    Gojo pressed on. ¡°The Wall no longer stands, but a new border can be made. Let it mark peace, not fear. The North shall be yours, Lord Stark. The Lands of the Free Folk shall remain with their people.¡±

    Ned hesitated. ¡°Robert Baratheon will never acknowledge a king beyond the Wall. Nor will the Iron Throne.¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t need to,¡± Gojo said. ¡°They never ruled it. And they never will. The weather alone will break their armies. Let them call it wilderness. Let it be forgotten. But not feared.¡±

    Ned slowly nodded. ¡°I can tell Robert¡­ that it''s a land beyond our concern. No kingship. No war. Just a cease of hostilities.¡±

    Gojo turned to Mance. ¡°And your people will leave the southern villages in peace. No more raids. No more revenge.¡±

    Mance tapped his fingers, then nodded. ¡°Aye. We¡¯re tired of running.¡±

    Benjen Stark finally spoke. ¡°And the Night¡¯s Watch?¡±

    Gojo looked at him. ¡°They¡¯re free to live here. But they will no longer patrol the other side. Nor will your side be breached by mine. No more forced exile. Let Castle Black be a gate of trade, not of chains.¡±

    ¡°And the Children?¡± Ned finally asked. ¡°They¡¯re... real.¡±

    ¡°They are,¡± Gojo said. ¡°And they reside mostly in the Lands of Always Winter for now. They want peace. Visitors from the North and the Free Folk may come, as long as they respect that peace.¡±

    Ned rubbed his chin. ¡°And you? Are you their king?¡±

    Gojo smiled softly. ¡°No. I¡¯m their protector. Their blade, if needed. Nothing more.¡±

    Snowylocks laid a hand on Gojo¡¯s arm. Ash nodded, eyes calm.

    Ned stood. ¡°Then let¡¯s write this pact, and carve it into stone and page.¡±

    Gojo extended his hand across the table.

    Mance clasped it first. Then Ned.

    Three hands. One future.

    The Pact of Ice and Root was born.

 Cursed feast

    After the treaty was signed and sealed in the hall of Castle Black, Ned Stark wasted no time. Ravens were sent in every direction¡ªfrom Last Hearth to the Dreadfort, from White Harbor to Bear Island, and even farther south to King''s Landing. The messages were simple, clear, and bound in the Stark seal: peace had been achieved. The North would not march to war, and the Free Folk would no longer be enemies. It was better to end a war before it ever began.

    When the ravens had flown, and the dusk began to settle over the Wall¡¯s ruins, Ned found Jon¡ªno, Gojo¡ªwalking in the courtyard with Snowylocks. The Child¡¯s hand rested protectively on her stomach, her steps small and sure over the packed snow.

    ¡°Jon,¡± Ned called softly.

    Gojo turned, his white hair catching the light, his amethyst eyes unreadable. Yet when he smiled, it was still the boy Ned had raised.

    Ned approached, nodding at Snowylocks. ¡°I wanted to ask¡­ the child. Have you chosen a name?¡±

    Gojo looked down at Snowylocks¡¯ belly, his expression distant. ¡°Megumi.¡±

    ¡°A foreign name,¡± Ned said, his brow furrowed.

    Gojo nodded once.

    Ned placed a hand on Gojo¡¯s shoulder, rough and warm. ¡°A good name, then. And when your child is born¡­ will you return to New Winterfell? Your cousins miss you.¡±

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    Gojo smiled. ¡°After the birth, yes. I think it¡¯s time I stopped running for a while.¡±

    Ned¡¯s smile faded then. His voice grew quiet, serious. ¡°There¡¯s something else. Your hair¡­ your eyes. Gods, Jon¡ªyou look like Rhaegar reborn. If Robert hears about you¡­¡±

    Gojo nodded before he even finished. Without hesitation, he pulled a length of dark cloth from his sleeve and tied it around his eyes. As if he¡¯d done it a thousand times.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see through the magic,¡± he said. ¡°The world doesn¡¯t need to see me clearly.¡±

    Ned blinked, surprised. ¡°You did that far too naturally.¡±

    Gojo grinned. ¡°It¡¯s an old habit.¡±

    That night, Ned called for a feast.

    The Free Folk, the Night¡¯s Watch, the Stark bannermen, even a few Children of the Forest all gathered beneath Castle Black¡¯s great hall, now adorned with greenlight lanterns and burning braziers. The mood was cautious but growing warmer with every shared drink and bite of roasted elk. With men gawking at the childnre of the forest.

    Benjen Stark sat at Ned¡¯s side, still watching the Children warily. Snowylocks and Ash sat with Gojo, flanking him like twin stars orbiting a moon. Laughter trickled out when the crowd noticed their joined hands, the warmth between them.

    One bearded Wildling nudged another and grinned. ¡°A Stark lad with children of the forest as two wives. Must be living every northern boy¡¯s dream.¡±

    Gojo chuckled as he sipped his drink. ¡°Actually, I¡¯m lucky to have several husbands and wives.¡±

    The table went silent for a moment before a round of surprised laughter rolled out like thunder.

    Benjen raised an eyebrow, amused. Ned only sighed¡ªlong and deep¡ªbut a smile tugged at his lips.

    ¡°You¡¯re just like Brandon,¡± Ned muttered. ¡°Maker help me.¡±

    Gojo leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire and the mingled voices wash over him. For the first time in two lives, he felt something close to peace. It wouldn¡¯t last forever¡ªnothing ever did¡ªbut for now, it was enough.

 Cursed king

    <hr>

    King Robert Baratheon rode north with the thunder of hooves behind him, his royal host cutting through the Kingsroad like a storm. His belly jostled with every step of his horse, but for once, he didn¡¯t mind. He hadn¡¯t been this curious¡ªor annoyed¡ªin years.

    Ned¡¯s letters had come one after another. Always the same neat, Stark handwriting. Always full of strange things.

    The first one claimed that Winterfell had collapsed due to an earthquake. Strange, Robert thought. He had never heard of earthquakes in the North before. Then came another¡ªthe Wall had fallen too, also from some ¡°deep tremors in the earth.¡± By the third raven, Robert had half a mind to call it all nonsense. Only Pycelle¡¯s shaking lips offered some crumb of context.

    ¡°Ancient texts,¡± the old man said, ¡°mention the North once being seismically unstable. There is also¡­ fanciful legend, of a horn that could bring the Wall down¡­¡±

    ¡°A horn?¡± Robert snorted. ¡°What next, flying pigs and silver mermaids?¡± Pycelle muttered apologies and returned to his herbs.

    Still, the idea lingered.

    Robert may have been a drunk, but he wasn¡¯t a fool. Something was wrong in the North. But even with the Wall gone and wildlings crawling about like lice on a bear¡¯s back, Robert found a strange joy in one thing: Winterfell was no more.

    The dreaded crypts had collapsed with it. The statues, the tombs, the bones¡ªthey were buried deeper now. No more Stark ghosts, no more Lyanna lying cold in stone. Ned had written that he¡¯d moved her bones to a sunny hill not far from the new castle. A place where the sunlight kissed the snow and the rain could wash the stone clean.

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    Good, Robert thought. She would¡¯ve liked that. She was never meant to be caged like a corpse in the dark. It was the first letter from Ned that made Robert smile.

    Then came the strange ones.

    Varys, that bald spider, had whispered to him like always. ¡°My little birds say Rhaegar Targaryen has been seen¡­ north of the Wall.¡±

    Robert had nearly struck him. ¡°I caved in that bastard¡¯s chest,¡± he had growled. ¡°I heard the bones break.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps a ghost, Your Grace,¡± Varys had whispered. ¡°Or something worse.¡±

    Ghosts don¡¯t rape women, Robert thought darkly. Ghosts don¡¯t steal princesses from their beds. His hands clenched the reins tighter. If Rhaegar had returned, Robert would kill him again. This time, with fire.

    Then came the latest letter, and Robert¡¯s jaw dropped.

    A peace treaty¡ªwith the Wildlings.

    Robert hadn¡¯t even known the savages could read, let alone negotiate. He had long dreamed of marching north and smashing them like cockroaches. Yet if Ned Stark had sat down and signed parchment instead of drawing swords, there had to be reason. Robert grumbled, but he trusted Ned like no other.

    Still, what came next was insanity.

    Jon Snow¡ªNed¡¯s bastard¡ªhad impregnated one of the Children of the Forest and was their leader.

    Robert had laughed for a full minute in his tent before sobering up. They were supposed to be myths. Fairy tales told to scare squires into the woods. But Ned had always had a strange way of keeping secrets, and this was no exception.

    And Jon Snow? He had a child coming. A child of man and legend. Robert needed to see it with his own eyes.

    With Jon Arryn dead and the crown needing a strong hand at his side, Robert had already made his decision. He would ride north. He would see this ¡°New Winterfell,¡± this magical bride, this bastard prince with silver eyes. He would drink, he would curse, and then he would name Ned Stark Hand of the King.

    If the North was mad, Robert would meet the madness face to face.

    And maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªit would feel like the good old days again.

 Cursed hearth

    New Winterfell wasn¡¯t as grand as Robert remembered the old one being. The walls were newer, less weathered, still smelling faintly of sawdust and fresh stone. There was no weirwood tree in the godswood anymore¡ªa fact Robert welcomed with a relieved sigh. The thing had always unsettled him, with its bloody eyes and carved smile. Without it, the air felt cleaner. Less like the dead were watching.

    Still, though smaller and newer, New Winterfell felt¡­ warmer. Like a hearth freshly lit. Robert couldn¡¯t deny the comfort.

    He dismounted with a grunt and was greeted by a familiar procession of Starks. Ned first, of course, always somber, always dependable. Then Catelyn with her tight smile. Robb, now nearly a man grown. Sansa, Arya, little Bran, and Rickon¡ªNed¡¯s litter of pups all lined up like the old days.

    Robert greeted them all as if nothing had changed, laughing loud, hugging rough. ¡°You¡¯ve all gotten uglier,¡± he said with a grin, earning a chuckle even from Catelyn.

    Then he leaned over to Ned and muttered, ¡°Where is he? The bastard. And the wife and child of his.¡±

    Ned gave a rare smile. ¡°They¡¯re in the hearth.¡±

    ¡°The hearth?¡± Robert raised a brow.

    ¡°You¡¯ll understand when you see it.¡±

    Inside the rebuilt castle, Robert was led to a chamber unlike any he¡¯d seen before. The hearth was vast, stone-lined, and burning with a gentle blue flame. Strange symbols marked the walls, and the air felt heavy¡ªnot ominous, just¡­ dense. Thick with something unseen.

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    There, seated beside the fire, was Jon Snow.

    At first glance, Robert thought the Jon snow had changed little¡ªstill brooding, still pale. But then he caught the color of his eyes: violet, deep and luminous. His hair was black, but his features...

    Gods, Robert thought. He looks like Rhaegar.

    The resemblance was uncanny enough to make Robert¡¯s fists clench, but he said nothing, his mind was just playing tricks on him. He turned his gaze to the others in the room.

    Two women sat beside Jon.

    No, not women.

    Snowylocks and Ash.

    The Children of the Forest.

    They were beautiful in a way that unsettled him. Smaller than humans, their limbs sinewy and lithe, their skin tinted faintly green. Their eyes were enormous and luminous, and their hands¡ªthree fingers and a thumb, ending in black claws instead of nails¡ªwere delicate but dangerous.

    Their ears, long and pointed like bat wings, twitched with every noise.

    Robert stared. ¡°They¡¯re¡­ exotic,¡± he said slowly. ¡°Strange. But I¡¯ll be damned. The world really is full of surprises.¡±

    One of them¡ªSnowylocks, Robert presumed¡ªsmiled at him with sharp teeth. Not threatening, just¡­ honest.

    Jon stood and turned, holding a small bundle wrapped in grey wool.

    ¡°This is Megumi,¡± he said simply, stepping toward them.

    He handed the child first to Ned, whose arms cradled the babe with practiced care. The infant¡¯s hair was pale, white-blonde. His eyes were shut, but his small hands clutched with strength.

    ¡°He¡¯s strong,¡± Ned murmured, something soft in his voice. ¡°Lyanna would have adored him.¡± Ned thinks

    Jon nodded, saying nothing.

    Robert, arms crossed, looked between the strange women, the half-wild child, and the boy he believed a bastard of Ned¡¯s.

    ¡°You¡¯ve done well for yourself,¡± Robert finally said. ¡°Strange, but well.¡±

    He turned to Ned and clapped him on the back. ¡°You were always the quiet one, but you know how to keep order and won another war. And now I see you were right, again.¡±

    He paused, watching Megumi squirm in Ned¡¯s arms.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be my Hand,¡± Robert said. ¡°I need someone with sense. And gods know there¡¯s none in King¡¯s Landing.¡±

    Ned looked up at him, his expression unreadable. But he nodded.

    Robert left the hearth chamber with a full belly, a spinning mind, and a curious sense of peace.

 Cursed questions

    Tyrion Lannister had seen many strange things in his life¡ªdragons in dusty tomes, direwolves at feasts, kings too stupid to rule. But none were quite as strange, or as compelling, as the sight before him now.

    Jon Snow, once thought a mere bastard of Winterfell, sat quietly beside the fire with his child in his arms. A pale-haired infant, swaddled in wool and cooing softly. Beside Jon were the two creatures Tyrion could barely believe existed¡ªSnowylocks and Ash, Children of the Forest.

    Lucky bastard, Tyrion thought, sipping his wine.

    It wasn¡¯t just the wives¡ªor husbands, he still wasn¡¯t sure what to call them. It was everything. The mystery. The ancient blood. The raw power around Jon now. It clung to him like mist.

    Tyrion wandered over, quill in hand, parchment already unfurled. ¡°Might I ask you both a few questions?¡± he said, addressing the Children of the Forest with a polite bow.

    Snowylocks tilted her head curiously. Ash blinked slowly, then nodded.

    Tyrion sat on a low stool beside them, already scribbling notes. ¡°Your people are older than the Andals. Older than the First Men. Older, some say, than the Wall itself.¡±

    Snowylocks smiled, her sharp teeth gleaming. ¡°We were born when the stars still wept light.¡±

    Ash added, ¡°Before men named the winds.¡±

    Tyrion¡¯s eyebrows lifted. ¡°Poetic. But tell me¡ªyour traditions, your rites. How does your kind choose a leader?¡±

    Snowylocks answered with elegance, ¡°The one who sings the old blood into new. The one who binds sun to stone, and rain to fire.¡±

    Tyrion blinked and wrote it all down, even if he didn¡¯t understand a word of it.

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    He pressed gently, ¡°And what about rituals? Magic? Any stories of old practices¡ªsacrifice, perhaps?¡±

    Both Children glanced at Jon Snow, who gave them a subtle nod¡ªjust enough to tell them to skip the gory parts.

    Snowylocks offered a dreamy smile. ¡°We plant trees with our dead. We sing to their roots so they may dream.¡±

    Tyrion scratched his head. ¡°No bones, no knives?¡±

    Ash shook her head solemnly. ¡°Only songs.¡±

    Tyrion hummed thoughtfully. ¡°Disappointing. I was hoping for something scandalous.¡±

    Snowylocks chuckled, a dry whisper of wind through leaves. ¡°You are scandal enough for many lifetimes, lion-born.¡±

    Tyrion grinned wide at that. ¡°Flattery will get you everywhere. And may I ask about your marriage customs?¡±

    Ash glanced at Jon, then shrugged. ¡°Our leader may take who they wish¡ªwives, husbands, many or none. Love is not caged.¡±

    Tyrion nodded appreciatively. ¡°Now that¡¯s a custom I can toast to.¡±

    He tucked his quill away and rolled up the scroll. ¡°I may just publish this in Oldtown. Become a maester, perhaps.¡±

    He paused. ¡°No, celibacy would kill me faster than wildfire. Never mind.¡±

    As he stood to leave, Jon Snow looked up at him with a question in his eye.

    ¡°Tyrion,¡± Jon said, his voice calm but curious, ¡°do you know if there are any blood ties between the Starks and the Lannisters?¡±

    Tyrion raised an eyebrow. ¡°None that I know of. Why?¡±

    Jon shifted slightly. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ Cersei. Jaime. Even her children. They feel familiar to me. Not by face, but by¡­ presence.¡±

    Tyrion frowned. ¡°Strange sentiment.¡±

    Jon nodded. ¡°Yes. But it lingers.¡±

    The fire cracked behind them. The air hung heavy for a moment.

    ¡°Well,¡± Tyrion said at last, brushing off his coat, ¡°if you start growing golden hair, I¡¯ll be very concerned. Until then, I¡¯ll chalk it up to wildling wine and northern winds.¡±

    Just as he turned to leave, Jon shifted and extended his arms. ¡°Here,¡± he said, gently passing the infant into Tyrion¡¯s arms. ¡°Would you like to hold him?¡±

    Tyrion blinked in surprise. ¡°Me?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Jon said. ¡°His name is Megumi.¡±

    Tyrion hesitated for a heartbeat, then took the child carefully into his hands. The baby stirred in his blanket but didn¡¯t cry. His skin was soft, his body warm, and his breath gentle against Tyrion¡¯s wrist.

    Tyrion looked down into Megumi¡¯s peaceful face.

    ¡°Just like any other baby,¡± Tyrion murmured. ¡°Warm too.¡±

    He smiled to himself.

    ¡°Strange world,¡± he whispered. ¡°But maybe not so terrible.¡±

    Then, softly rocking the child, he stood for a while longer, forgetting the cold, the questions, and even the politics.

    Just a man, holding a child, beneath the hearthlight of a rebuilt home.

 Cursed daemon

    Jaime Lannister had a headache.

    It wasn¡¯t the cold of the North, nor the endless stretches of dull grey stone. It wasn¡¯t even the foul-smelling stables or the strange hush that clung to New Winterfell like a second skin.

    No¡ªit was Joffrey.

    The boy had been screeching for the better part of an hour, his royal lungs unrelenting. ¡°I am the crown prince!¡± Joffrey shrieked, stamping his gold-inlaid boots into the icy stone floor. ¡°That bastard should kneel before me! He must let me hold the child and his wives!¡±

    Jon Snow, calm and expressionless as ever, simply turned away.

    Snowylocks and Ash, standing beside him like silent shadows, regarded the tantrum with visible discomfort. One of the northern knights nearby had reached for his blade at least twice already, and Jaime had to give him a warning glare to hold back. He couldn''t blame the man¡ªJoffrey had the voice of a dying cat and the manners of a madman.

    ¡°Gods save us,¡± Jaime muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

    Cersei refused to approach the Children of the Forest, clutching her cloak and whispering about curses and old blood. Her paranoia had worsened with every passing day. Every time someone mentioned Jon Snow or his unnatural companions, her face would tighten into a grimace. Her once commanding presence was beginning to crack.

    Jaime had tried to reason with her, but it was no use. In desperation, he turned to Robert.

    The king, red-faced and irritable, had finally stood up and bellowed at Joffrey to behave, adding something about ¡°spare the rod and spoil the prince.¡± Joffrey sulked in silence afterward, but the damage was done. Jaime felt the mood in the hall curdle. It was a blessing that the royal party would soon be returning to King¡¯s Landing.

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    As the King¡¯s company made their preparations to leave, Gojo¡ªJon Snow¡ªwatched them from a high balcony.

    His expression was neutral, but his thoughts were far from calm.

    He had hoped for more. Robert Baratheon¡ªthe man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen¡ªwas just a bloated, aging man now. Gojo couldn¡¯t feel hatred for him. Only indifference. He had imagined fire, vengeance, justice. Instead, all he found was a tired old king, already halfway buried beneath wine and regret.

    Still, something stirred inside him as he watched Jaime and Cersei mount their horses. A strange pull. Familiarity.

    Tyrion confirmed it, Gojo thought. No known blood ties between Lannister and Stark¡­ but this feeling¡­

    The truth had clicked into place days ago.

    Jaime and Cersei must be the Mad King¡¯s children. It explained the strange aura. The resemblance. The obsessions. The way madness threaded through Cersei¡¯s paranoia, through Joffrey¡¯s cruelty.

    The Mad King had been obsessed with Joanna Lannister. Perhaps that obsession had borne fruit.

    Gojo¡¯s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of armored footsteps behind him.

    Daemon Targaryen knelt, his glamour flickering faintly in the cold wind. His face was disguised¡ªhe was a knight of New Winterfell in the eyes of others¡ªbut to Gojo, he was unmistakable.

    ¡°We should have killed them all,¡± Daemon said bitterly, his voice sharp with anger.

    Gojo didn¡¯t turn. ¡°And start another war?¡±

    Daemon rose to his feet, his silver-blonde hair flickering beneath illusion magic. ¡°They¡¯ll betray us. Sooner or later. That prince¡ªJoffrey¡ªwill spill blood for amusement. That queen will whisper poison into the ears of lords. And Robert¡ªhe¡¯s too weak to hold a crown.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± Gojo said flatly. ¡°I didn¡¯t save this world to drown it in another war. Innocents would die. Children.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re stronger than all of them,¡± Daemon growled. ¡°Stronger than Aegon the Conqueror. Stronger than any of the fools on the Iron Throne.¡±

    ¡°I am the strongest,¡± Gojo replied, turning at last. His eyes, hidden beneath glamoured hair and illusioned features, still carried the glint of Limitless power. ¡°That¡¯s why I don¡¯t need to prove it. Not to them.¡±

    Daemon didn¡¯t speak. He simply knelt again, silent and simmering.

    He had found Gojo months ago, recognizing something divine, something cursed in him. Believing him to be the prince that was promised. He had offered loyalty, swearing to serve and protect. But his fire was always burning. Reckless. Impatient.

    He thinks I¡¯m weak, Gojo thought. Just like Viserys I Targaryen.

    Gojo¡¯s hand twitched slightly at the thought of Megumi.

    He looked toward the chamber where his son rested, swaddled and safe.

 Cursed triplets

    In the heart of the newly built tree city of Tokyo¡ªnestled among the ancient, whispering branches of the weirwood forest¡ªGojo stood atop a balcony carved from living wood, cradling his newborn son.

    Three infants, swaddled in silken wraps spun with wyrm-hair and tree bark, slept peacefully beside each other. Gojo had named them Megumi, Yuji, and Yuta. His sons. His legacy. Each born of a different mother¡ªSnowylocks, Coals, and Scales¡ªthree wives as fierce and loyal as any dragonrider. Each had given him a piece of the future.

    Near the hearth, three dragon eggs sat in a bed of smoldering coals¡ªempty now. All had hatched.

    Daemon Targaryen, reborn in this age through fire and blood, had bonded with Sheepstealer again, the ancient dragon snarling like the mountain storms of old. The bond had been easy¡ªfate, perhaps, or the lingering trace of love. Daemon had once ridden beside Nettles, the girl who tamed Sheepstealer with kindness and hunger.

    "I''m sorry about Nettles," Gojo had said quietly one night, the fire between them casting long shadows.

    Daemon''s expression barely flickered. "She did her duty. That is all any of us can do."

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    Gojo understood. Duty had bound him since birth¡ªfirst as a cursed child of a dying world, and now, as the strongest in a land that bent the knee to dragons.

    Still, there was peace in this treetop city. A moment of stillness.

    But peace never lasted.

    Rumors came from Castle Black¡ªwhispers among the traders and wildling merchants who now made the Wall their route. Daenerys Targaryen, his aunt, had married a horse lord¡ªa Dothraki khal across the Narrow Sea.

    The blood of the dragon wedded to a barbarian warlord.

    Daemon spat at the mention of it. "The Dothraki are savages. Raiders and rapists. She is a queen, not chattel."

    Gojo said nothing at first. He had once promised Jon Snow he would protect Daenerys, should the time come. And now, that time had arrived.

    "I¡¯ll go alone," he finally said.

    Daemon raised a brow. ¡°Even the strongest can bleed.¡±

    Gojo smiled thinly. ¡°No one in this world can harm me now.¡±

    Since his return from the far north, Gojo had reshaped the cursed energy inside him. His Domain Expansion had fully awakened¡ªreality itself bent within it. He had refined his use of Red, Blue, and Purple into something purer, something almost divine. And more than that, he had taken Conversion¡ªhis cursed technique that once only turned matter to energy¡ªand woven it into a barrier technique, layering it atop the barrier around gojo like a second skin.

    Much like the Limitless that once made him untouchable in another life, Gojo had become more than invincible. He had become inevitable.

    Snowylocks kissed his cheek goodbye. Coals clasped his shoulder, and Scales whispered a blessing in Valyrian. His sons slept on, unaware that their father was flying to foreign land.

 Cursed pyre

    After months soaring across oceans and scorched lands, Gojo finally arrived at the edge of the red wastes, where the wind carried the scent of death and ash.

    High above the cracked desert floor, a crimson comet streaked across the sky¡ªa bleeding star piercing the heavens. Gojo narrowed his eyes. Another omen, he thought. Or just a sky cut open like everything else in this world.

    Below him, fire danced.

    A funeral pyre had been built in the heart of the Dothraki camp¡ªrough, haphazard, primal. Tied to the pyre was a gaunt woman¡ªMirri Maz Duur. Atop the pile lay a silent corpse¡ªKhal Drogo, mouth sealed shut by death, and in his arms, a small bundle swaddled in white linen.

    A dead man. A dead child. And nestled between them¡ªthree dragon eggs, untouched by flame.

    Gojo hovered in silence as Daenerys Targaryen stood in front of the pyre, her silver-blonde hair matted with dust and sweat. Her violet eyes burned with a fury she could barely contain. Her breath hitched as she stared into the fire, her mind shattered between grief and rage.

    She didn¡¯t even see Gojo descend until a gust of cursed wind snuffed out the flames with a deafening snap.

    The fire died. Smoke spiraled into nothing. Daenerys gasped and whirled around, eyes blazing with confusion and fury. ¡°What did you do?!¡± she shouted. ¡°Was it her?¡± She turned to the bound witch, screaming, ¡°What trick is this? What curse have you brought upon me now?!¡±

    ¡°No curse,¡± came Gojo¡¯s voice from the smoke.

    Daenerys¡¯s gaze darted toward the sound. Gojo stepped forward, calm and radiant, lifting the blindfold from his eyes.

    Violet met violet.

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    White hair glinted beneath the moonlight. His presence hit her like thunder. For a heartbeat, Daenerys said nothing¡ªeyes wide with disbelief, recognition creeping in her bones.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

    ¡°I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,¡± Gojo said, his voice like a blade sheathed in silk. ¡°And Lyanna Stark.¡±

    Daenerys blinked. Her lips parted, then closed. ¡°Impossible,¡± she said, hoarsely. ¡°Rhaegar¡¯s only children were¡ª¡±

    ¡°Slain in the sack of King''s Landing. I know.¡± Gojo tilted his head, then rose into the air effortlessly, levitating as gently as drifting snow.

    Then, with a flick of his fingers, Daenerys rose too, her feet lifting off the ground. Gasps rippled through the Dothraki camp. Horses reared. Men screamed of dark magic, of maegi and sorcery.

    Daenerys, wide-eyed, hovered in the air across from Gojo.

    ¡°You want proof?¡± he said, smiling. ¡°This is mine.¡±

    He slowly descended, bringing her with him. She stumbled slightly as her feet touched the sand.

    Gojo stepped toward the extinguished pyre. ¡°You can waste those eggs in fire,¡± he said, pointing to the dragon eggs, ¡°or follow me to Tokyo. I can give them what they need. Not just blood and fire. Purpose.¡±

    Daenerys trembled. Then tears welled in her eyes. ¡°I thought¡­ I thought it was over. That I¡¯d lost everything.¡± Her voice cracked. ¡°If there¡¯s a way¡­ if I can have a dragon... just one...¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have three,¡± Gojo replied. ¡°But not for war. Not yet.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll give you one,¡± Daenerys said, suddenly firm. ¡°In return. One of the dragons will be yours.¡±

    Gojo chuckled. ¡°Dragons don¡¯t interest me. I already have four.¡±

    He turned toward Mirri Maz Duur.

    ¡°You stole her child,¡± he said flatly.

    The witch hissed something guttural in her native tongue, but Gojo didn¡¯t listen. He simply raised one hand, and fired Red.

    A crimson flare lanced through the air and struck Mirri square in the chest, turning her to dust before her final scream could echo.

    Gojo¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Let Drogo burn. But Rhaego deserves peace.¡±

    He approached the infant¡¯s corpse and lifted it with reverent care. ¡°He¡¯ll be buried in Tokyo,¡± he said softly. ¡°Where you can mourn him properly. Where he¡¯ll be honored.¡±

    Daenerys nodded, lips trembling. ¡°Yes. Thank you.¡±

    Together, they built a new pyre for Khal Drogo. When the flames caught, Daenerys stood beside Gojo, the three dragon eggs in a satchel at her hip, her face lit by fire and shadow.

    Then they rose into the night sky, Gojo carrying her and the remains of her child, the dragon eggs resting between them.

    Above them, the bleeding star burned ever brighter¡ªwitness to a new chapter.

 Cursed red door

    To Gojo, Daenerys was like untouched snow¡ªquiet on the surface, but full of buried storms.

    She was curious, insatiably so. Each night, beneath foreign stars and beside warm campfires, she asked everything: about cursed energy, about dragons not born of fire but of will, about domains and techniques, about how Gojo had crossed the world alone¡ªand lived to speak of it.

    But there was always one question that came wrapped in silk and edged in steel.

    ¡°Do you have wives?¡±

    Gojo blinked. The firelight danced across Daenerys¡¯s face, catching in her silver hair. He didn¡¯t lie.

    ¡°I do,¡± he said simply.

    The answer cast a fleeting shadow over her eyes, but she didn¡¯t press. Instead, she smiled faintly, nodded, and continued to ask about Sheepstealer¡¯s temperament and whether dragons could ever be taught to love someone.

    Gojo wasn¡¯t blind.

    He could feel the ache beneath her voice¡ªthe weight she carried not from strength, but from isolation. For all her titles, Daenerys was still alone. To most, she was just a name, a symbol, a ghost of House Targaryen. A dragon-woman. An heir without a home.

    So when she turned to him one evening, her voice barely above a whisper, and said, ¡°Can we go to Braavos? There was a house there¡­ with a red door and a lemon tree,¡± Gojo didn¡¯t hesitate.

    He took her by the hand, and they flew.

    When they arrived, Braavos was cloaked in morning mist, the sea lapping against its stones like whispered memory. They found the house easily enough¡ªa forgotten thing, faded and chipped. The red door remained, dulled by time.

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    But the lemon tree was gone. Chopped at the roots, long dead.

    Daenerys stood frozen at the threshold, her hand brushing the old wood. Then she stepped inside.

    The rooms were bare. No laughter echoed off the walls, no sun painted the windows in gold.

    It was just a house now.

    And Daenerys broke.

    She sank to her knees in the dust, hands trembling, her sobs raw and unfiltered. Gojo stood behind her, watching in silence as the floodgates opened.

    ¡°I was always running,¡± she whispered, between tears. ¡°Always cold¡­ always hungry. Begging for bread while Viserys told me I was meant for crowns and thrones.¡±

    Gojo knelt beside her.

    ¡°He hit me when I cried,¡± she said. ¡°And still¡­ I wept when he died.¡±

    Her voice shook harder now. ¡°I loved Drogo, but I couldn¡¯t save him. I couldn¡¯t save Rhaego. My baby came out twisted and dead, and the witch laughed. I burned her for it.¡±

    She looked up at Gojo, eyes rimmed red, silver hair clinging to her damp cheeks.

    ¡°I have nothing left,¡± she said. ¡°Just names and ghosts.¡±

    Gojo wrapped his arms around her without a word, holding her tightly, firmly, as if the warmth in his chest alone could shield her from the memory of a life lived on the edge of sorrow.

    That night, the stars passed overhead without judgment.

    In the quiet of morning, Gojo stirred to find Daenerys beside him. Her hair was tangled, her breath soft against his neck. She looked younger in sleep, less queen and more girl.

    When she awoke, she smiled at him¡ªnot the courtly smile of a ruler, but something genuine and fragile. A smile meant only for him.

    ¡°You¡¯re warm,¡± she said.

    Gojo raised an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m always warm.¡±

    Daenerys sat up and stretched, her mood lighter than he had seen in weeks. ¡°Tell me about Tokyo,¡± she said. ¡°About your new home. About the dragons and the towers and the snow forests and your sons.¡±

    Gojo smirked. ¡°Which part? The part with magic? Or the part where the trees whisper and the sky bleeds stars?¡±

    Daenerys laughed. ¡°All of it.¡±

    And so he told her.

    Of the dragons nesting beneath the great roots of the tree-town. Of Megumi¡¯s strange, quiet stares. Of Yuji¡¯s laugh echoing across canopies. Of Yuta¡¯s wild eyes as he learned to float. Of Scales, Coals, and Snowylocks watching their children grow.

    Daenerys listened, rapt, her fingers brushing against his as he spoke.

    That night, the house with the red door was no longer empty.

    It was filled with memory again¡ªold and new. Grief and comfort. Loneliness, and the first flicker of something more.

    Something like home.