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—just 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.
A dragon's roar echoed in the far distance, but Gojo didn't even flinch. He had bigger concerns now.
The knitting needles—the disguise—they 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—sealed.
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—or whatever twisted remnants of them existed now—weren't ready to reveal everything just yet.
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