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—no, the man—he 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—”

  “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—”

  “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—and 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.