Thank you ''Godlord0123'' for supporting me on my ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/theprosecutor'', this is the 2 Bonus chapters I promised you
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At two years old, Gojo had already become keenly aware that Winterfell was unlike any place he had ever encountered before. It was not just the cold, the harsh winds, or the towering, ancient walls of stone. There was something more—something deeper, something missing.
It didn't take long for him to confirm it: no one here could use cursed energy.
He had spent the early months trying to gauge the flow of cursed energy, as he always did. His senses, sharp even in this small body, had detected nothing. The cursed energy, usually so dense and tangible, seemed to simply bleed out into the air, dispersing into nothingness. He couldn't feel any of the familiar currents that ran through people's souls, the lines of cursed energy weaving between individuals.
There were no cursed spirits here either. No curses lurking in the shadows, no malevolent forces wreaking havoc. That was illogical. How could there be so much cursed energy and no curses to feed on it?
Gojo pondered it for days. The cursed energy had to be going somewhere. It wasn't just dissipating. He could sense that the weirwood tree—its twisted, human-like face—was absorbing some of it. But not enough. The tree's absorption was barely a trickle compared to the amount of cursed energy bleeding into the atmosphere. It wasn't just dissipating; it was being drawn somewhere. Northward, to some unknown purpose.
It wasn't until one particular evening that Gojo's senses tingled with something—someone—unexpected.
An old woman, hunched and frail, shuffled into the courtyard near the weirwood tree. Gojo had seen her before—she was always telling stories to the children. "Old Nan," they called her. But there was something wrong about her. Something that set Gojo's mind on edge.
He watched her closely, his sharp eyes catching the subtle clues. The knitting needles she carried, for one, hummed with cursed energy. It wasn't a strong presence, but it was unmistakable. There was a faint aura around her, one that reminded him of the cursed energy he had left behind at Jujutsu High.
She had a stench about her, too. The faint odor of blood, like the weirwood tree. It clung to her skin and hair, and it made Gojo's stomach tighten.
Why was she here? He thought, narrowing his eyes as she leaned down to speak with the children.
She was clearly using some sort of disguise technique, but Gojo could see through it easily. His cursed energy sensing abilities were far too advanced for her to hide from him. And what was her true purpose? Was she here just to tell stories, or was there something more?
As Old Nan left, Gojo followed, carefully staying out of sight. He watched her move toward the well in the center of Winterfell. She was moving strangely, as though something was pulling her toward it—toward the underground tunnel that Gojo could sense beneath the castle.
She vanished into the depths of the well, and Gojo's heart skipped a beat. An underground tunnel. What was she doing here?
There was too little information to go on, but Gojo knew one thing for certain—he needed answers. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He needed to investigate further, and he had an idea where to start.
The weirwood tree.
That night, after everyone had fallen asleep, Gojo sneaked out into the yard, determined to get closer to the tree. He didn't know why, but he felt a strange pull towards it, as though the tree was calling to him.
He focused his cursed energy, gathering it in his small hands. He had always been able to burn things with his cursed techniques, even as a child. He unleashed the power, sending a stream of energy toward the weirwood tree.
But nothing happened.
The tree didn't even smolder. It felt... different. Hard. As if the tree itself was made of metal. It didn't burn. It didn't bend. It simply stood there, cold and unyielding.
Gojo stepped back, his eyes wide in disbelief. This wasn't normal. Nothing here was normal.
Something was very wrong.
Gojo stood at the window, staring out at the courtyard, lost in thought. The wind howled through Winterfell's stone walls, but it barely registered in his mind. He was brooding, thinking about the things he had seen, the things he had sensed.
It had been a quiet day, until the execution.
He had been walking past the weirwood tree when he noticed the gathering of soldiers and his father, Eddard Stark. A convict—likely a deserter, from what he had overheard—was being led to the tree. Gojo had watched in silence, his small hands balled into fists. The convict was pleading, speaking in frantic tones about the White Walkers, their cold terror creeping into every word.
But Ned Stark wasn't listening. With a cold, practiced motion, he unsheathed his greatsword, "Ice," and with a single swing, decapitated the man.
Gojo's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. He could feel it now, the roots of the weirwood tree stirring, drawing in the blood of the convict. The cursed energy pooled around the tree, feeding on the life force that had just been spilled. Gojo could sense the power coursing through the roots, the tree drinking deeply from the blood like some dark, ancient thing.
His father cleaned the blood off the sword, his expression unreadable as the body slumped to the ground.
Damn.
Gojo thought bitterly. This family was a murderous, ritualistic one. They sacrificed lives without a second thought, without even questioning what they were doing. It was an ugly truth, but Gojo couldn't ignore it.
He didn't want to kill his new family, not yet. They had taken him in, after all. But he couldn't escape the gnawing thought at the back of his mind. Anyone who sacrificed humans to cursed objects—who used lives as if they were nothing more than tools—deserved to die.
It was something Gojo could never tolerate.
He wondered if the original Jujutsu Sorcerers had been like this—people who sacrificed others in the name of experiments, of trying to understand the curses they wielded. They must have treated humans like playthings, making them suffer for some greater, twisted purpose.
And now, it seemed like his family shared that same trait.
Gojo's eyes flickered toward the weirwood tree, his thoughts darkening. He had seen enough. The roots of this place were not just part of the land; they were part of something deeper, something sinister. He could feel the darkness creeping in, and he knew that it wasn't just the weirwood that held the cursed energy—it was the whole damn place.
And as long as he was here, he would have to keep his eyes open. Because anyone who sacrificed humans to these cursed objects, to these forces... they were the true monsters.
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