Lysette stands under the weirwood tree, clad in a velvet, crimson hooded robe that brushes the grass. Beneath the hood, her face seems more a mythical, outlandishly beautiful thing of some ancient tale sang of the Far North, soft and sombre and shiny, than that of a woman cometh to the capitol from the dark lands laying far into the North, beyond even Winterfell, ancient nobility on her sweet brow. The sun refracts on the water of the pool beneath the Three Singers, scattering light into her dark blue eyes. All is quiet. All is peaceful, and she, rather lost in thought, staring at the sacred tree, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; she kneels before it to offer her thanks, as if it had been a weirwood of Last Hearth, bowing her head in sacred, ancient prayer to the nameless, old gods of the forest.
â You are welcome to join me, â she offers plainly, in an almost hauntingly cold, far away voice, her words flowing ahead of her blurred thoughts at their arrival to the godswood. She tosses her gaze toward them graciously as she pulls the hood of her robe back, almost glad of the distaction: too long had she sat alone in thought and prayer; too long had her longing of home burned inside of her- from morn to dusk, from nightfall to dawn, again and again, has her blood now turned to ice, turned to stone with all that bitter, endless homesickness that too oft of late has consumed her: she is half-sick with it. â unless it is not prayer you seek.â she notes soon after, stood under the sacred trees, her hair, like starless dusk, hung long and dark down her back, soft-scented and with a slip of the sun in her noble face as she meets their gaze.
