Well, we've been through both the Prologue and Chapter 1, so why not chapter 2?
Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests , and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.
The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.
But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.
South v. North New Gods v. Old Gods
The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.
Dark and primal or a place of protection (sentinel needles) and guarding (Ironwoods)?
But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.
There is comfort to be found in the silent, natural, protection of the Old Gods.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.
How many lives has Ned taken? Who's been losing there head to Ned? Looking back to the last chapter where Jon is described as an old hand of Justice and I'd say Ned's been lopping off heads for a long time.
That's an interesting question. I would bet that the answer is a lot more than we would have ever really expected. The North is a fairly large domain. I believe that later in the chapter they mention the high level of desertions from the wall lately. Plus any wildings or criminals in his territory. Consider that he also traveled to Bear Island to provide justice to Jorah. Is that just because he (Jorah) was the Lord? Damn, no wonder his executions were so clean. Practice must make perfect.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.
This is a place for the gods. The gods' wood. Humans enter to be in the gods' wood. Vs. the garden at Riverrun--a place for humans. A human place.
Dark and primal or a place of protection (sentinel needles) and guarding (Ironwoods)?
Ironwoods old as the realm itself--reminds me again of House Yronwood. Named for vegetation that probably doesn't grow much there any more. But "old as the realm itself"--does she mean the current political realm of the the "united" seven kingdoms? Or the realm of the North?
How many lives has Ned taken? Who's been losing there head to Ned? Looking back to the last chapter where Jon is described as an old hand of Justice and I'd say Ned's been lopping off heads for a long time.
That's an interesting question. I would bet that the answer is a lot more than we would have ever really expected. The North is a fairly large domain. I believe that later in the chapter they mention the high level of desertions from the wall lately. Plus any wildings or criminals in his territory. Consider that he also traveled to Bear Island to provide justice to Jorah. Is that just because he (Jorah) was the Lord? Damn, no wonder his executions were so clean. Practice must make perfect.
Well he would have been responsible for all the time since Rickard's death.
And, yes, the practice is part of it. But I'm thinking a huge length of Valyrian steel helps it go "smoothly" as well.
All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Oscar Wilde.
Ironwoods old as the realm itself--reminds me again of House Yronwood. Named for vegetation that probably doesn't grow much there any more. But "old as the realm itself"--does she mean the current political realm of the the "united" seven kingdoms? Or the realm of the North?
Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept.
For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.
At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,”Ned called it. 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.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept.
Catelyn is not blood of the first men. She is not of the Old Gods. The godswood is not her place and feels foreign to her. Her new gods are worshipped differently, symbolized differently.
For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.
Not only are the Old Gods nameless, but also faceless. Then why do the trees have faces? First mention of the CotF?
At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,”Ned called it. 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.
Why the "heart tree?" White as bone and red as blood. The features sound Stark like. What impacts the face of the trees? Were they really carved by the CotF before the coming of men and remain unchanged or have they changed over time.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
Good point, LadyDi. Personally I think the face is the greenseer in the tree. Not a god, though with God's Eyes, can see the truth, the Heart of the matter.
First of all, thank you Lady Dyanna for creating this thread! I meant to do the same a while back as I kept rereading and relistening to it over and over again. There is a TON of great stuff to be discussed.
Never liked the wood of the old gods, never liked the north... grew to love Ned and of course loved her children... but she abandoned Winterfell and this damned godswood (and her kids) asap.
Side note: this godswood bears a tree with red leaves
The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams
I'll get the third red-side note out of the way early: her godswood bears trees with red bark. Lots of red for this catfish. The first she does not care for, the second will bring her to Nymeria, Thoros, and Beric.
Main note: Her bright and airy (burned) godswood spreads forth dappled shadows... Might we have seen such shadows in the prologue?
How many lives has Ned taken? Who's been losing there head to Ned? Looking back to the last chapter where Jon is described as an old hand of Justice and I'd say Ned's been lopping off heads for a long time.
Beyond a doubt, but...
Egg took off his wide-brimmed floppy straw hat. Beneath, his head was bald and shiny. He used the hat to fan away the flies. There were hundreds crawling on the dead men, and more drifting lazily through the still, hot air. "It must have been something bad, for them to be left to die inside a crow cage." Sometimes Egg could be as wise as any maester, but other times he was still a boy of ten. "There are lords and lords," Dunk said. "Some don't need much reason to put a man to death."
I'd guess Ned has taken more heads than some lords, but far less than others. At least Ned's captives receive a trial of sorts. And, aside from Greyjoy Asses, they are treated with a degree of reverence, even when put to death.
First of all, thank you Lady Dyanna for creating this thread! I meant to do the same a while back as I kept rereading and relistening to it over and over again. There is a TON of great stuff to be discussed.
My pleasure. There are very few chapters in GOT that don't contain much to discuss. I just kept going in chronological order.
Never liked the wood of the old gods, never liked the north... grew to love Ned and of course loved her children... but she abandoned Winterfell and this damned godswood (and her kids) asap.
I'd guess Ned has taken more heads than some lords, but far less than others. At least Ned's captives receive a trial of sorts. And, aside from Greyjoy Asses, they are treated with a degree of reverence, even when put to death.
The way of the first men does not allow for one to forget the meaning of death. At least in the way Ned Stark practices it.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
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.
Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly.
He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,”he said. His voice was distant and formal. “Where are the children?”He would always ask her that. “In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups.”She spread her cloak on the forest floor and sat beside the pool, her back to the weirwood. She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them. “Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.”“Is he afraid?”Ned asked. “A little,”she admitted. “He is only three.”Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.”
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it.
I've argued this line quite a bit in Heresy. We have precious few antiquities in Westeros that date back 10,000 years. One, is House Dayne. Another, is House Stark. A third is Jon's Wall.
Winterfell did not create this godswood. Rather, it merely enshrined it with man-rock.
But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.
Bronn would seek a woman, and advises Tyrion to do so in Cat's company after killing a man. Here, Cat teaches us a bit more of the older way of these queer northmen. The Andals see killing as an act of passion. Ned sees Gared's execution as an act of compassion.
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.
In the south the last weirwoods are protected on an island surrounded by water, and Green Men watch in silence. In the north the last weirwoods are protected on islands surrounded by man-rock, and direwolves listen in silence.
He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,”he said. His voice was distant and formal. “Where are the children?”He would always ask her that. “In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups.”
Funny to imagine all of the children arguing about names for the wolf pups. I mean, Robb and Jon are nearly men grown.
“Is he afraid?”Ned asked. “A little,”she admitted. “He is only three.”Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.”
::: The little coward! How dare this toddler fear a wolf!
Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept.
Catelyn is not blood of the first men. She is not of the Old Gods. The godswood is not her place and feels foreign to her. Her new gods are worshipped differently, symbolized differently.
And those gods are directly related to family. Like the olds gods might just be ancestor memory and greenseer combos. Cat's faith is innately tied to family and place. And this place. . . is strange. Perhaps this is why the North is insular.
For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.
Not only are the Old Gods nameless, but also faceless. Then why do the trees have faces? First mention of the CotF?
The faces in the trees are so . . . bare. Vs. the expression of human based statues for the 7.
The thing that keeps striking me is that she is foreign and knows it. Struggling still to fit. Reminds me of Sansa's saying she likes the 7 better--but for real comfort: she prays with Ned and Arya after Bran wakes in a godswood. Sansa is innately northern. Cat. . . just can't do it or make herself do it.
Odd--Lysa seems to have gotten herself into a similar mess in the Vale.
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.
Cut down with fire and sword. Violence. As though that's all that happens between the old gods and the new. And. . . Cat's bringing a message portending future violence.
Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly.
He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,”he said. His voice was distant and formal. “Where are the children?”He would always ask her that.
Ahhh!! That's just a painful bit of foreshadowing.
All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Oscar Wilde.