That is... fine news. [It's not. There are days now when Jon trusts certain of the free folk much farther than he would trust any Westerosi. His father had been abandoned by the whole of the kingdom and called a traitor in their stead, his brother left afield by scores of his own bannermen after they'd placed the damned crown on his head, and his smallest and most defenseless kin had been slain brutally by the ironborn boy who had shared meat and mead and hearth with them all their lives.

Their countrymen are so often false that it's all Jon can do not to turn his head and spit - he knows that much for all he knows nothing, because he sees and arms and teaches some of the very worst of them up on the Wall every day. But his face betrays none of the lie, stony of expression in his uncertainty:] Many, I hope. Who would fight a war half so eagerly as men of the seven kingdoms? [Alright, that came out more honestly than he had meant to allow himself. He shakes his head stiffly, like it might erase the previous sentence and let him to start over.] I am glad of your continued safety, my lady.