if relief allows the youngest to crumble, it strengthens the elder's foundation, porcelain hardening to marble, unwilling to brittle and eager to offer comfort to someone whose pain she knows well of. ysilla's question, though, renders her quiet for a moment. "praying make me feel not so lonely." she had not always done so by herself, quietly begging for grace and strength as she stood as good a distance allowed during the worst bouts of harlon stark's illness, as well as wailing in another's arms, but it was all the same to her. of course, no amount of prayer for strength from dead starks had done her father any good, but if lynara was to dwell on this, she'd lose her wits, and this is something she couldn't have afforded then, and she can't afford now.
her heart is wrenched at the arryn's words; much as she had when her father wasted away, she knows little of how she can be of help. if anything, she can only commiserate, imagine how miserable her father would be if he had not found his eternal rest on the stark crypts, alongside all of the others of their house. "it is so very awful," at last, she says, squeezing ysilla's hand in heartfelt sorrow. "but it is so soon. the king shall not deny his greatest friend a return home… one day." a sutured, heavy body, with meat still rotting would be a difficulty — bones, however, may find easier travel. "i know little of how convincing i can be, but i shall speak with his majesty… that on the anniversary of this day, your father shall be home. and in the meanwhile… have you seen that his statue is commissioned, silla? i know it is of no replacement but…" none would ever be enough, not the only suitable one was lord melvan still breathing.
a soft nod is offered. "in the north, we have our trees with faces, faces that have known a hundred of my ancestors. it's like they still remain there, lending their strength to me." the tree in the godswood of the red keep does not have a face, nor is it the ancient weirwood she had known all her life — but the southern have their gods too, all with their own distinct faces (she chances a glance to the veiled figure of the stranger somewhere near the altar, the abhorred god of the death for those down south). "there is no hymns, i'm afraid. we only ask, earnestly, from our hearts, what it is that we need and they shall see that it will happen. i have been praying for your father, for both the old and the new, as soon as i have heard. but i can stay with you and do as you wish for as long as you'd have me."