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—silent, 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—he 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—his power, weaker than before but undeniably present. His soul had not been broken by death; it had simply moved forward.
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—now Jon—Snow 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—his son now, for that was the truth the world would know—stirred 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—the 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.
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