We also hear about Wylla from Godric Borrell, the Lord of Sisterton. There’s no explanation for that save Ned Stark spreading the story to make sure that people have a cover story for Jon Snow.

We do not hear about Wylla from Borrell. No idea where you got that he named her. Also, your sequence of events is very off. You seem to think that Ned spread Wylla’s name and the rumor around the Sisters when he came home from the Rebellion. But the story Borrell tells is about the beginning of the Rebellion, and is not about Wylla the wetnurse at all.

“Ned Stark was here?”
“At the dawn of Robert’s Rebellion. The Mad King had sent to the Eyrie for Stark’s head, but Jon Arryn sent him back defiance. Gulltown stayed loyal to the throne, though. To get home and call his banners, Stark had to cross the mountains to the Fingers and find a fisherman to carry him across the Bite. A storm caught them on the way. The fisherman drowned, but his daughter got Stark to the Sisters before the boat went down. They say he left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly. Jon Snow, she named him, after Arryn.“

The only Wylla in ADWD is Wylla Manderly. And it’s far more likely that the gossipping Sistermen wanted to claim honorable Ned Stark’s famous bastard for their own than any rumor spread by Ned. (As it would have been about a year between the time Ned was in the Sisters and when he came home with Jon Snow.)

I dream of the beach often

Whenever I dream about being at the beach, the tide always rises too high and starts washing away people and blankets and towels. I’m always trying to save my towels and blankets and little sand pails from the rising water.

The ocean washes too high on the beach, and the waves get bigger, until they’re just a wall of water constantly threatening to fall on me and everything I have with me. 

I run around trying to account for everything and everyone, and trying to help the other beachgoers when I can, but I still see umbrellas and little plastic shovels and towels being washed into the sea.

I once was a feathered dream

i once was a feathered dream drifting on an airy draft

wafting on the warmest currents of summers breezes’ breezy paths.

i passed by dandelion seeds with little parasols of white

and danced along the churning waltz of bright green leaves in stormy flight.

the twist and turn of sweet caprice was my lifeblood in full flow

there was no place the soft wind nudged me to which i would not gladly go.

but winds do die and leaves do fall and weedy seeds must land

and feathered dreams of fancied flight are met with reprimand.

the dream’s too lofty or too sweet and never can be true,

and so the dreamer’s soft escape the world then must undo.