Whitetree, the village was named on Sam's old maps. Jon did not think it much of a village. Four tumbledown oneroom houses of unmortared stone surrounded an empty sheepfold and a well. The houses were roofed with sod, the windows shuttered with ragged pieces of hide. And above them loomed the pale limbs and dark red leaves of a monstrous great weirwood.
It was the biggest tree Jon Snow had ever seen, the trunk near eight feet wide, the branches spreading so far that the entire village was shaded beneath its canopy. The size did not disturb him so much as the face... the mouth especially, no simple carved slash, but a jagged hollow large enough to swallow a sheep.
Those are not sheep bones, though. Nor is that a sheep's skull in the ashes.
An old tree. Mormont sat his horse, frowning. "Old," his raven agreed from his shoulder. "Old, old, old."
And powerful. Jon could feel the power.
Thoren Smallwood dismounted beside the trunk, dark in his plate and mail. "Look at that face. Small wonder men feared them, when they first came to Westeros. I'd like to take an axe to the bloody thing myself."