Chapter Text
i. lupus in fabula - the wolf in the story
The king’s party was close enough to the Wall that in order to see the top, one had to crane their neck almost to the point of discomfort. The legendary structure was a monstrosity of ice, stone, and, according to myth, magic. The Wall marked the very furthest edge of Westeros, separating the Kingdom of the North from whatever lay beyond, both human and magical.
Rhaenys was not in the mood to gaze in awe upon such a structure. She would much rather bury her nose into her furs and concentrate on keeping her fingers and toes from freezing off.
She had thought she had grown accustomed to the North’s fierce cold, and the land had proven her wrong with a vengeance. Here, at the furthest north of the North, as winter was beginning to draw its frozen cloak over the land, the cold was not so much weather as it was a living thing. The wind had a way of slithering in through any crevice of clothing, biting at exposed flesh with poisoned fangs. Even just breathing it in could prove to be deadly, and any extremities left uncovered for too long turned black. Why any people had chosen to settle somewhere this cold was a mystery to her.
Not that Rhaenys could complain to any of the Northerners. They almost seemed to revel in this weather, talking with fondness about wintertime contests where men would jump into frozen rivers and see who could last the longest. She had made the mistake of complaining once. Dacey had laughed at her and made a comment about her thin Southron blood. Even Robb seemed amused by the number of layers she insisted on piling on every morning before stepping outside. So Rhaenys suffered in silence, her words turning as frosty as the air.
(She would not admit it to herself, but it was easier to be pointlessly angry at the weather than to focus on the reason for their visit to the Night’s Watch. Well, one of the reasons. The news coming from Castle Black was worrying, yes, speaking of an army of wildlings just beyond the Wall, and more, rumors too fantastical to be believed. But it was the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch that she could not allow herself to think on, not after Howland Reed’s revelations.)
But the Wall loomed ever closer, and with it, Jon Snow.
“The men are uneasy,” commented Robb in a low voice, edging his horse closer to hers. “The Umbers especially. The reports all seem to contradict each other, but the one thing they seem to agree on is that the Wall doesn’t seem to be the same barrier to the wildlings it once was.”
“We spend months fighting for an uneasy peace on the southern border and now the northern border comes under attack,” said Rhaenys with a sigh. “Would it be too much to ask for a year of peace? Six moons even. We still haven’t even finished neutralizing the Ironborn.”
“At least the eastern shore has been peaceful,” he tried. She decided not to remind him of the rumors coming from Essos regarding her aunt and, of all the unlikely things, dragons. “And Ser Rodrik reports that the wildling army was repelled. Even if they regroup, no King-Beyond-the-Wall has ever succeeded in taking the North.”
The wildlings had begun attacking Castle Black shortly after the new year, but the army assembled by Ser Rodrik from the mountain clans to take back Deepwood Motte had provided the Night’s Watch with much-needed reinforcements. But news from the Wall was scarce, and for all they knew, the wildlings had regrouped and attacked once again.
“It’s odd,” she mused. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for the wildlings to attack in spring or summer? Starting a war in early winter is just foolish.”
Robb shrugged. “The wildlings are a different sort of people. Mayhaps they thought it would give them some sort of advantage.”
Rhaenys couldn’t see what advantage there could be in trying to fight through waist-high snows, but then again, they could just be used to it in the lands Beyond-the-Wall. Old Nan swore that the snow there never melted, and though Rhaenys always took the woman’s words with a healthy dose of skepticism, it wasn’t as though she could attest otherwise.
“Mayhaps,” she agreed, “though something just doesn’t fit right.”
“We’ll get all the answers we need from Jon,” he said, and she winced. “Rhae – I know you don’t want to talk about him, but you’re going to meet him soon enough.”
“I know that!” she snapped, but her anger evaporated as quickly as it came. She sighed. “I’m sorry, but what am I supposed to say? Good morrow to you too Lord Commander, funny story, it turns out you’re my half-brother, and the man you thought was your half-brother is now your cousin. Now, shall we discuss those wildlings?”
“Aren’t you the one always telling me to be more politically tactful?” he said, and Rhaenys threw him a dirty look.
“Don’t act smart with me,” she said, putting on exaggerated airs, and he chuckled.
“It’s going to be alright, Rhae,” said Robb. She shrugged and didn’t reply. She had spent almost twenty years refusing to think on her father’s mistakes, and yet here they were now, ready to look her in the eyes.
The iron gates of Castle Black swung open slowly as they neared, creaking from rust and cold. Rhaenys tightened her fingers around the reins and urged her mare forward. Inside, the brothers of the Night’s Watch had gathered to greet them, each dressed head to toe in black furs and leathers. It made the less uniform garbs of those not in the Night’s Watch stand out. Ser Rodrik was there, standing with men who bore the colors of several different mountain clans, but it was the people in the back that caught her eye, a group of men and women in mismatched furs that bore no standard. They were wildlings, she realized with a jolt, and she exchanged a worried look with Robb as he came to the same realization.
Rhaenys pulled her mount to a standstill alongside Robb’s. A current of apprehension hung over the gathered people, like a storm waiting to break. Though the Night’s Watch was bound to no kings or queens, they bowed low as was custom, while the wildlings stood proudly straight-backed. Robb’s jaw was set in a tight line, but he shook his head minutely at a silently outraged Greatjon, as if to tell him to stand down.
Olyvar was quick in taking the reins of their horses and she dismounted as gracefully as she could. As she reassembled her cloak around her, a flash of dark hair darted through the corner of her vision.
“JON!” shrieked a voice, and a small figure threw herself at the bowing Lord Commander. He stumbled in surprise, barely keeping his footing.
“Arya!” snapped Robb, though there was really no heat to it. Jon Snow was laughing, swinging his youngest sister-cousin around in a hug. Beside them, the direwolves had barreled into their red-eyed sibling, yipping and pawing at each other in greeting. More than a few people shifted in apprehension at the sight, not that Rhaenys could blame them. A single direwolf was a fearsome enough sight, and now there were four in one place.
“I told you Arya wouldn’t listen to you,” she commented lightly.
“No one ever listens to me,” grumbled Robb, but he took in the scene with bright eyes that betrayed his inner delight.
Jon Snow lowered Arya to the ground, his cheeks coloring as he remembered his proprieties. He looked exactly like Eddard Stark, Rhaenys noted, with the same long face, dark hair, and solemn gray eyes. Lyanna Stark must have looked quite like her brother. A blessing, that must have been, or the late Lord Stark’s deception would have been uncovered. Slender white scars crisscrossed his eyes, the mark of some wild animal’s claws if she had to guess. He was Robb’s age, younger than her, but his were the eyes of a man who had seen war.
“Your Graces,” said Jon Snow, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Welcome to Castle Black.”
A wide grin took over Robb’s face and he drew Jon in for a tight hug. “It’s good to see you again, brother.”
An odd feeling curled in Rhaenys’s stomach and she turned away. She caught Arya’s eyes and motioned her over to her side. The black brothers performed a noble and necessary duty in protecting the continent, but many of them were also criminals and she did not trust them so near to Arya.
Robb broke the embrace with reluctance, both him and Jon wiping subtle tears away.
“Jon, I should introduce you to my wife, Queen Rhaenys” said Robb, placing a hand on the small of her back.
“A pleasure, your grace,” said Jon Snow, bowing, and Rhaenys tried to make her smile seem less pained.
“Likewise, Lord Snow.” Her tone came out frostier than intended.
A horse skidded to a stop near them, sending up a spray of slush that splattered the hem of Rhaenys’s cloak. Arya giggled.
“Jon!” exclaimed Bran, his legs still buckled in place on his saddle.
Jon Snow grabbed Bran’s hand in his own, smiling broadly. “It’s good to see you awake, Bran,” he said.
“Keep a tighter hold on Dancer, Bran,” advised Robb, waving Hodor over to help Bran dismount.
“I can ride now,” Bran told Jon excitedly. “Better than ever before. Dancer doesn’t need me to use my legs, she responds to my voice, do you want to see?”
“Later,” said Robb. “There is much we need to discuss with the Night’s Watch first.”
“I want to show Jon how I’ve been practicing with Needle,” insisted Arya.
“Later,” he repeated. “One of the black brothers will show you to your rooms in the King’s Tower for now. You can see Jon again for supper.”
Arya grumbled, but assented. Rhaenys still was not sure how Bran and Arya had convinced Robb to tag along to the Wall, especially not when it was so dangerous, but they were some of the few people where his authority was useless. With Eddard and Catelyn Stark dead, Robb was the closest thing the younger Starks had to a parent, something she knew weighed heavily on him. He was a brother to them, not a father, but life had given them all little choice in the roles they had taken.
Jon Snow motioned one of the men near him forward, introducing him as Eddison Tollett.
“Everyone calls me Dolorous Edd,” said the man with a melancholy sigh. He added on a hasty “your grace” after a pause. “Come along then, little prince, princess, I’ll show you to your rooms. I would much appreciate it if you didn’t let those wolves take a bite out me though, I rather like having all my fingers. Now, why anyone would want a direwolf as a pet is beyond me…”
Rhaenys watched them disappear into the King’s Tower, Nymeria and Summer following them, and tried not to feel so on edge.
“Come, let’s get out of this wind,” said Robb. “We can talk more elsewhere, there is much to discuss.” Rhaenys could not agree more. It was becoming difficult to remember what the tip of her nose felt like.
“There is hot mulled wine waiting in my quarters,” said Jon, and after exchanging a quick word with the rest of the gathered lords, they followed him inside, Rhaenys trailing a step behind behind Robb and Jon. The white direwolf – Ghost, if she recalled the name correctly – trotted beside his master, while Grey Wind kept close to her.
“Sansa and Rickon send their love,” Rhaenys heard Robb tell Jon. “I think I have some letters from them somewhere – ah, here they are. Maester Luwin wrote for Rickon, but that was likely for the best.”
“Sansa wrote to me?” said Jon, surprise coloring his voice.
Robb was quiet for a moment. “She is much changed since returning north. In truth, we have all changed.”
“I heard about Lady Catelyn,” said Jon, his voice hushed. “I am sorry. She loved you all very dearly.” He stopped at a door near the top of the tower, pushing it open. Inside, the heat from the fireplace hit them like a wave. Rhaenys had never quite appreciated fire this much.
“We buried Father in the crypts in Winterfell,” said Robb. “I know you have many duties as Lord Commander, but if you ever have the chance to come home, well, you are more than welcome to visit him.” Rhaenys looked away, feeling very much like an intruder in a private moment.
Jon swallowed audibly. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse.
Robb took a deep breath. “Jon –” he began, but Rhaenys shook her head sharply at him. Not now, not when they had so many other things that needed discussing.
“How about some of that mulled wine?” he said instead.
…
“The Others?” Rhaenys tried not to laugh. “Lord Snow, I don’t think this is the right time for japing.”
“I do not jape,” said Jon, and there was no trace of humor on his face. “I speak truly, the Others roam beyond the Wall and they are coming for us all.”
The fire crackled and spat swirling embers into the room, casting shifting shadows that made Rhaenys feel as though she were sitting with her cousins, listening to them tell scary stories of monsters and magic. But no matter how gloomy the room, it could not make her take Jon’s claim seriously.
“The Others are a myth,” she said. Of all the things Jon Snow could have inherited from their father, she had not expected this type of madness and fondness for tall tales. “Told to misbehaving children to scare them into listening to their parents.”
Robb shifted, his brow furrowed in thought. “The Others existed once, it’s true. Brandon the Breaker defeated the Night’s King many thousands of years ago. Much of Westeros has forgotten, but the North never did. But Jon, what you’re saying –”
“It sounds impossible, I know.” Jon scrubbed a hand across his face. “But it is a different world up here, one where the dead do not stay dead. The Others are real, Robb, and they will kill us all.”
“You’ve seen them then?”
Jon shook his head. “Only their wights. Corpses of men they reanimate to do their bidding. Few who have seen the Others have lived to tell the tale. My friend Sam scarcely survived with his life. Arrows bounce off their skin, the best castle-forged steel shatters upon contact. Those among the Watch and the free folk who have seen them and lived describe beings more terrifying than any tale Old Nan could ever think up.”
“Gods above,” breathed Robb. His eyes closed briefly.
Rhaenys’s mouth fell open. “You cannot be saying you believe him, Robb,” she said, incredulous. “These are tales of magic, of impossible things. There is a logical explanation for this somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
“With all due respect, your grace, your family once rode dragons.” The urge to laugh hysterically bubbled up within her once more. “Direwolves roam south of the Wall, and there have been strange sightings reported from all corners of Westeros.” Grey Wind, lying at Robb’s feet, huffed in his sleep as if agreeing.
“Magic is dead,” she replied stubbornly. “It existed once, in the times of our ancestors, but it died long ago.”
“Don’t they say your aunt hatched dragons in Essos?” Robb reminded her. “If the dragons and direwolves are returning, it does make sense that creatures such as the Others might too.”
“Robb, this is all absurd. Call me a skeptic, but I simply cannot accept the existence of the Others on the word of a single man and a few wildlings.”
“Free folk.”
“Sorry?”
“They call themselves the free folk, not wildlings,” said Jon.
“The free folk,” she conceded. If they were to negotiate with these people, she might as well avoid trying to directly antagonize them. “But my point stands.”
“I’m not saying I believe it all,” said Robb. “But I trust Jon. And the North owes it to the Night’s Watch to at the very least determine what is going on beyond the Wall.”
Rhaenys pursed her lips. “That’s fair.” As ridiculous as the claims sounded, Jon Snow did not have the demeanor of a mad man, and if Robb trusted him, she had to at the very least trust Robb. Mayhaps there was some truth in his words, mayhaps she was simply too southron to understand, but it went against everything that Rhaenys believed to accept the existence of creatures like the Others. Dragons had existed once, it was true, but they had left behind skeletons and scorch marks. All the Others had left behind was the cold winter wind and stories whispered from parent to child.
“We can speak to the rest of the Night’s Watch and to the wild – the free folk,” said Robb. His mind was made up, and nothing Rhaenys said could change it, but there was no harm in asking around. “And if they’re real, well, we will have far bigger issues than dealing with the free folk.”
“The free folk cannot remain Beyond-the-Wall,” said Jon, his grey eyes intense. “They do not have a prayer of a chance of holding out against the Others. If we do nothing, they are nothing more than wights in the making.”
Robb’s eyebrows rose. “Aye, but if the free folk are allowed past the Wall, my lords will surely string me up by my feet.”
“The Gift belongs to the Night’s Watch, not the North,” Jon reminded him.
“And how well do you think these free folk will respect boundaries drawn arbitrarily on a map?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Rhaenys told him. “We haven’t even spoken to them yet. You have at least two days before your lords begin plotting treason.”
Jon choked on a sip of wine, but Robb just laughed. “You always make me feel so much better, love,” he said drily. “Maybe I should let you be the one to tell the Greatjon there might be free folk near his lands soon.”
“Do that, and I’ll sic Arya on you,” she said, deadpan, and even serious, brooding Jon Snow laughed.
Robb clapped Jon’s shoulder in the easy, intimate way of brothers, and then Jon said something that must have been an inside joke because Robb laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear away. Rhaenys watched them, the way their respective titles and positions seemed to fall away in an instant to reveal two young men as normal as any others.
It was Jon Snow she found herself watching most often, searching those dark, Northern features for even a hint of her father. Rhaegar Targaryen was a ghost, his face lost among the drifting mists of her mind, but perhaps that there was his laugh, that the quirk in his eyebrows, those his haunted eyes. Or maybe those were all Lyanna Stark’s, or even simply just Jon Snow himself.
His nose, she decided, was Rhaegar’s. It was the only feature she and him seemed to share, that aristocratic angle that reminded her of portraits of her ancestors in books. Otherwise, they could be strangers, she and him, the Dornish princess and the Northern bastard.
Maybe it was best that Rhaegar left so little in either of them. Maybe it was best that the memory of their father faded from this world, his mistakes and his victories alike.
But with proof of her father’s folly sitting before her, it was hard to forget.
“It’s getting late,” said Jon, and Ghost yawned, as if in agreement. “I’m sure you and Queen Rhaenys would like to get some rest after so long on the road.”
Rhaenys could feel herself beginning to flag, the idea of a featherbed calling to her, but then Robb met her eyes and she swallowed.
“We should –”
“Tomorrow,” she told him, but Jon did not miss their half-spoken exchange.
“What is it?” he asked, confused.
“It’s late, we can just talk tomorrow,” said Robb, but he had always been terrible at hiding things.
“Is something wrong? Is someone ill?”
Robb shook his head. “Nothing of the sort, but – well are you sure you wouldn’t rather just speak tomorrow?”
“What is it, Robb?” repeated Jon, voice low.
Robb swallowed. “It’s about your mother.” Rhaenys closed her eyes and sucked in a steadying breath.
Jon jerked back involuntarily. “You know who she is.” It was not a question.
“We stopped at Greywater Watch when we were returning north,” explained Robb. “We spoke to Howland Reed. I - Jon, are you sure you wouldn’t rather speak of this tomorrow morning? This is not something you can unlearn.”
“If my mother is dead, I’d rather just hear about it now,” he said tonelessly.
Robb nodded, hesitant. “She died. In childbirth.” A vein jumped in Jon’s neck, but he just pursed his lips.
“Who was she then? Some camp follower?” Any levity that had once existed in this room had drained away, leaving only dust and tension.
“Lyanna Stark. Your mother was Lyanna Stark.”
Rhaenys spoke at last. “And your father was Rhaegar Targaryen. My father. Our father.”
Jon went even more still. He could have been carved from the same stone as the statues in the Winterfell crypts “You must be mistaken. Eddard Stark was my father, Robb –”
“He had to claim you to protect you from Robert Baratheon,” said Robb quietly. “You know what happened to Aegon Targaryen, Father must have believed this was the only way. He was still your father though, in all ways except for one, just as I am your brother. This doesn’t change any of it.”
“How does it not change everything?” spat Jon, stalking over to the window, his back to them. “My father is not my father, my real father is a raper and a kidnapper, and my mother has been dead for eight-and-ten years. The only thing that has not changed is that I am still a bastard, so at least I have that.”
“For what it’s worth, Howland Reed said he did not think your mother was taken against her will,” said Rhaenys quietly. “Our father was arrogant and a fool, and he took advantage of the childish affections of a sheltered girl, but he was no raper.”
Jon’s laugh was as harsh as the winter wind. “Thank you for the reassuring words, your grace. My father may have plunged the realm into war and inadvertently caused the deaths of thousands, but at least he was no raper.” Ghost was on his feet, Rhaenys realized, hackles raised and growling softly. Grey Wind stood between her and the other direwolf, but her neck prickled in fear.
“How you were born does not matter,” said Robb, walking over to him. He laid a reassuring hand on Jon’s shoulders, but was coldly rebuffed. “Eddard Stark raised you to be the man you are today, it was he who was truly your father. You are still a Stark, no matter what.”
“No Robb, I am a Snow.” Jon dragged a hand down his face. “Just go Robb, please.”
Robb looked as though he wanted to protest, but Ghost seemed ready to jump at the slightest provocation. Rhaenys took Robb’s hand, pulling him toward the door.
Outside, the air was even more bitterly cold than before, but Rhaenys hardly felt it.
“Well that went terribly.” Not for the first time, she cursed her father for leaving her to deal with his mistakes.
Robb sank to his knees in the powdery snow and buried his face into Grey Wind’s fur. His shoulders slumped, the energy drained from his body.
“Robb?” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We ought to go find our chambers. Arya and Bran are likely getting hungry.
He leaned back on his heels, hands still buried in Grey Wind’s fur. “I’ve never seen Jon look like that,” he said quietly. “Look so – so angry, so broken. Was it a mistake to tell him? He would have been happier that way.”
“The most important truths are always the most painful ones.” Rhaenys ran her fingers through some of Robb’s more unruly curls. “Jon Snow needs time, that’s all. He is still your brother, this won’t change it.”
Robb stood, brushing the snow and dirt from his knees. “He's your brother too.”
She shook her head. “Blood isn’t everything.”
…
Arya did not take the news that Jon would not be joining them for supper well.
“I haven’t seen him in years and he decides to stay alone in his room? He’s being stupid, and he needs to be told so,” she huffed, crossing her arms.
“He needs space, Arya,” Robb told her. “He got some difficult news and we need to respect his wishes.”
“What kind of bad news?” asked Bran. “If he’s feeling sad, wouldn’t having his family around make it better?”
“It’s more complicated than that, Bran,” Rhaenys said softly. “Eat up, both of you, your food is getting cold.”
Arya pushed her plate away. “I won’t eat if Jon isn’t here with us.”
Robb sighed. “Arya –”
“Besides, saying something is complicated is an excuse that adults use when they don’t want to tell the truth.”
Robb exchanged a look with Rhaenys. “It’s about Jon’s mother,” he said at last.
Arya sat up straighter, grey eyes gone wide. “His mother? Who was she? Is she dead?”
“It is Jon’s story to tell, not ours,” Rhaenys said.
“Well he’ll tell me, I’m his favorite sister,” declared Arya, pushing her plate aside and slipping off the chair with the wobbly legs.
“Arya, get back to your seat, you haven’t finished your supper,” Robb said, but the tired lines by his eyes betrayed his attempt at authority.
“Father would let me go help Jon feel better,” she said, and Robb looked like he had been slapped. Regret came over Arya almost immediately, but too stubborn to walk her words back, she grabbed her cloak and all but ran out the door, Nymeria on her heels.
“Arya, get back here!” Rhaenys made to follow the younger girl, but Robb shook his head.
“Let her go,” he said, defeated. “If anyone can get through to Jon, it’s Arya. The guards know to keep an eye on her.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. The meal would not have been appetizing under the best of circumstances, little more than broth and boiled peas, but with Arya’s sudden departure, it tasted more like sand. Rhaenys pushed peas around her plate in some sort of abstract design, her stomach too knotted to entertain the thought of eating.
Bran cleared his throat awkwardly. “Might I be excused?” he asked politely. “Jojen said he had lots of stories of the Wall that even Old Nan doesn’t know.” The Reed siblings, Bran’s ever faithful companions, had accompanied them to the Wall. Rhaenys found Meera to be a practical sort of girl, with a clever sense of humor, and though Jojen was an odd sort, Bran seemed to like him.
“Go ahead,” said Robb. Out of the three of them, Bran was the only one who had managed to clear his plate.
Hodor was fetched by a guard, and Rhaenys helped settle Bran into the basket on his back. The wheelchair had had to be left in Winterfell, as it would have been useless on the icy stones of Castle Black, and so Bran got around on Hodor or on Dancer. He didn’t seem to mind as much anymore, though Rhaenys knew he hated the stares that followed him.
“Stay warm tonight,” she advised him, and after bidding them all goodnight, Bran left.
The only sound left was the whistling of the wind beyond the walls of the room. Robb had pushed his food aside, finding the depths of his mug of ale more interesting. Grey Wind, sensing his master’s unhappiness, moved away from his place by the fire to settle at Robb’s feet.
“Arya didn’t mean it,” said Rhaenys quietly, breaking the silence at last.
Robb took a long swig of ale and grimaced. “I know she didn’t. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t have a point. I’m not Father. I keep trying to emulate what I think Father would do, but it just keeps coming out wrong.”
“You are not your Father,” she agreed, “but that doesn’t mean you have to try to be more like him. You make for a wonderful king and brother just as you are.”
He gave her a wry smile. “You give me too much credit, considering I’ve managed to anger both Arya and Jon.”
“Arya has always been willful, but she’ll come around. And Jon –” Rhaenys paused, unsure. She hardly knew Jon Snow, couldn’t say how he would deal with the news of his parentage. “Jon Snow has a lot to process, but he is still your brother.”
“He’s your brother too.”
She winced. “It’s not the same.” This was not the first time they had had this conversation.
“You share a father.”
“Blood isn’t everything. And our father – Rhaegar Targaryen made many mistakes. I don’t think he makes for great common ground.”
“Rhaenys –”
“Let’s not talk about my father,” she pleaded. “I have spent far more time thinking about him in these past months than I would ever like.”
“Alright,” said Robb, but his tone said this would not be the last time they spoke of this. “What about the Others then?”
She huffed. “You heard my thoughts about them. I’m not saying there’s nothing going on beyond the Wall, but the Others? Really Robb?”
“They existed once,” he reminded her. “The South may have forgotten, but the North remembers.”
“Yes, yes, winter is coming,” she said impatiently. “Call me a skeptical southroner, but I just can’t accept at face value the existence of mythical monsters.”
“We will talk to the Night’s Watch and the wildlings tomorrow,” said Robb. “Even if it isn’t the Others, we need to know what’s happening. This many wildlings near the border is making the lords nervous.”
That, Rhaenys could agree with.