The godswood at Riverrun has a proper weirwood heart tree at the center of its living web of redwoods and green, but that's about all that's right about it. Nothing is actually directly wrong about it, precisely, it's just... also not right. Tame, tended, like someone's prized garden for lounging instead of a place for the old gods. Not somewhere that has been given to them entirely. The slender white weirwood, with its carved face of sorrow and tears of sticky blood red sap, looks more out of place than welcome. It doesn't match its bright, airy, flower covered surroundings at all. All of the godswoods north of the Neck are still and silent, like all the world is holding its breath waiting for something unknowably old to whisper. Here, there is the irritating cry of birdsong. It's the difference between seeing a well bred dog and a wolf. Obvious. Blatant. A bit insulting, even, if one thinks too much about it and has half a mind to search every shadow for biting implications. Dogs are still dangerous, but dress them up enough, and they make you forget. One should never forget of the danger of any gods, especially the old. It is not for garden parties.
Certainly not this many fucking flowers.
But for one wolf, trapped inextricably in these high sandstone walls by chains of duty and injustice, it is perhaps the least wrong place available in any reasonable amount of time.
