[Jon halts in his tracks. It was his thought that, standing out as the weirwood does, it might be worth a closer look. And they are on a hunt: they must move forward, slowly and quietly, or lie in wait.
But Tormund is right. There have been no weirwoods: not when Jon rode through the desert, not in Taravast, not in Ellethia. He can see a face carved into the trunk, even from this distance, weeping the red sap that looks like blood. It’s a pair of eyes for the old gods to look out on this world, and they must be part of any world; it should be a comfort to see them. But no one here would have any reason to carve that kind of face. It’s not how they keep their gods.
When Jon looks back at Tormund again, his mouth is a grim line.]
When we’ve finished with this hunt, I’ll tell you some of the things this place can do.
[He looks back at the tree.]
For now, we’ll go slow. Seen any traces of the foxes?
no subject
But Tormund is right. There have been no weirwoods: not when Jon rode through the desert, not in Taravast, not in Ellethia. He can see a face carved into the trunk, even from this distance, weeping the red sap that looks like blood. It’s a pair of eyes for the old gods to look out on this world, and they must be part of any world; it should be a comfort to see them. But no one here would have any reason to carve that kind of face. It’s not how they keep their gods.
When Jon looks back at Tormund again, his mouth is a grim line.]
When we’ve finished with this hunt, I’ll tell you some of the things this place can do.
[He looks back at the tree.]
For now, we’ll go slow. Seen any traces of the foxes?