There had always been a sort of camaraderie, or at the least an understanding, between Daenerys and Jon; she was more overtly set apart, the family was even less hers than it was his, but though the Stark children were by and large kind to her, though she could sit sewing and chattering with Sansa for hours and be chased across the courtyard by Arya with equal ease, Jon was the one she considered herself closest to in spirit.

As such, he was one of the few she was glad to be joined by, especially just now. Her arms were wrapped round her legs, hands plunged into her cloak (she'd come to terms with the fact that no amount of living in it would make her fully equipped to handle the cold), but she offered a polite nod hello.

"Yes," she murmured. "I imagine they would." She wasn't sure what else to say; she held no resentment toward Lord Eddard, she couldn't without spending her whole life unhappy so she'd never let herself, but the Baratheon king was another matter, and she'd been sorting through the swirling mix of fear, anger, and anxiety that the thought of him had stirred in her. "Is there any consensus?"