Ned insisted that they stay far away from the heart tree in the center of the godswood.
The old gods can see through the eyes of the trees was his reasoning. Catelyn was a Tully of Riverrun, born and blessed by the grace of the Seven, but even she had to admit that the heart tree frightened her somewhat. It had been a jest to even suggest it, and thought Ned's humor was quicker than his household and sons might know, it was not easy enough to appreciate such blasphemy.
There was a place past the hot pools, out of earshot of the strand of trees, where a willow grew crooked alongside a rustling birch, that Ned deemed far enough from the weirwood to serve. The ground was solid earth, carpeted with thick green grass and purple moss, and each time the wind gusted the birch branches swayed gently in it.
Catelyn's hands traced restlessly over the scars on Ned's chest beneath his open tunic. Strips of birch bark tangled in her hair as Ned drove her back with his thrusts, closer and closer to the trunk, until her head bumped the wood. His fingers sought the top of her head to protect her as he quickened his pace. Even with his hand as a shield she would have a bump on the morrow, along with scratches on the backs of her legs from the twigs burrowing into her flesh.
She pressed her right hand over Ned's heart to feel it beat, the beat of his release as fast as her own fluttering pulse, her cries of pleasure floating up in time with the shaking of the leaves.