The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle's granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.
In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.
You are not welcome here, they whispered, echoes of many voices, but none aswell. The whisper of trees rustling, the whistle of wind passing naked ears, the snow shifting underfoot, the birds taking flight and the creatures of Old scurrying the trees, watching.
You are not welcome. they repeated, spirits long gone watched on in envy, in anger, in pity. The snow shifts as they walk, they shiver from the cold but continue. The rustling of cloth against cloth as they rapped their shawl closer hoping for more warmth. The scurry of the footsteps in the forest followed each step. A Reminder.
You are not welcome here, a whispered song reached their ears. A cacophony of sounds now reached them as they walked on, snow falling faster now covering their footsteps, hiding them. The whispers grew louder as they continued. The Tree with the white bark and red leaves stood in their vision now. It held a grimace as it came closer, red sap perhaps blood of others like them, fell from its eyes.
Leave Leave Not Welcome, danger, it grew louder more noises joining, the rustle of trees and bushes grew louder, more prominent now. They hurried their footsteps as the snow covered their eyesight, only The Tree now visible. The steps followed behind them now as the wind hurled snow around them, trying to stop them. They were determined, they would not sway from their path, the sap seemed to quicken its fall from its eyes, the leaves grew darker, swishing in the wind, the spirits grew more restless.
You were warned, is whispered when the sap pools at the roots, the roots wrapping tight bringing the mass underground. The snow calms and the spirits still. The creatures slink away, finding their no longer needed, return to their burrows. The roots still once more, the sap slowing its descent and the pool disappear to the roots, leaving but stained roots and bark in its wake. The dark pools surrounding The Tree shift with the wind, a young face showing in the ripples, a frightened expression change to one of exceptance as red falls from its eyes.
"The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out,and Jaimie remembered what Cercei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne's burned, as the ghosts came rushing in" ASOS - Jaimie VI
“They were a people of the Dawn Age, the very first, before kings and kingdoms. In those days, there were no castles or holdfasts, no cities, not so much as a market town to be found between here and the sea of Dorne. There were no men at all. Only the children of the forest dwelt in the lands we now call the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Time is different for a tree than for a man. Sun and soil and water, these are the things a weirwood understands, not days and years and centuries. For men, time is a river. We are trapped in its flow, hurtling from past to present, always in the same direction. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and that river does not move them.”
House Blackwood is one of the few houses in the South that still worship the Old Gods. Ancient traditions tell that it once was part of the North. House Blackwood claims their lands were taken by House Bracken, igniting an eternal feud between the two houses.
That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so . . . Sansa 799
Sansa has a sweet dream about life in Winterfall when everyone was alive and happy.
For anyone who thinks the McDonaldland version of the heart tree is pushing it, I regret nothing.