Familiarity became overwhelming in that moment; when was the last time anyone had cared to help him up? It felt like none before the fall of their family. His brother, certainly, had given him a hand up a time or two when he fell about the castle. Who was this man to remind him of those long-buried days?

He hesitated, staring from Jon's face down to his hand like he had absolutely no idea what to make of any of this, like he came from a world where hands never touched at all. Just when it seemed like a fruitless endeavor, he reached out, Viserys' grip shaky, his skin perhaps soft by comparison. He could pull himself up without needing Jon to do much more than offer support, though. There was that.

But then he held Jon's a little longer than necessary, all the while staring him dead in the face. An odd thing to be sure, and only furthering that whole glaring recognition. But a direwolf, that reminded him of traitors. Soon enough he pulled his hand away and managed not to wipe his hand off on his top like he feared nasty treacherous cooties.

"I've never seen one before." He frowned at Ghost. Curious, to see one up close and personal, when he'd slotted them near dragons in his mind. "His name is Ghost. What is your name?"

Cordial enough. For the moment, anyway. That's only ever bound to change.