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—surrounded by it—and 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—but 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—his shoulders broader, his voice steadier—but 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.