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—pale, beautiful, and tired. She was his mother. And he saw himself—Jon Snow, or whoever he once was—born 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—untouchable, 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.
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—once the noble Bloodraven, now the Three-Eyed Crow—sighed.
"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—alive.
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—into Gojo.
But what he saw wasn't Westeros. It was a different world.
Towering cities. Neon lights. A battlefield of devastation. Sukuna—an ancient evil—and 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—
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.
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