A bark of laughter. Daemon is the most accomplished expert on dragons the world has seen outside denizens of the Freehold itself, and he's getting a reprimand from a boy who was just running alongside his like a child after a horse.

He strides away from Jon and Rhaegal, towards the manifesting beast. Head first, then neck, neck, even more neck, and Caraxes is massive, having grown steadily since Prince Aemon's time, thanks to Daemon's refusal to chain him. The Blood Wyrm keeps his distance, slipping downhill over snapping trees and disturbed rocks, none of which seems to bother Daemon.

"Come and prove it, Northman!" he calls, shouted over his shoulder without stopping.

Catching a tide of a minor landslide, Daemon manages to grab the side of Caraxes' kit when they connect— a war harness, still impressive despite being so worn-in. The House Targaryen crest on the front is as fine as any king's shield, polished deep red and black with spots of bronze from exposure. Quick on the ground, Daemon doesn't have much time to get all the way astride the dragon before he's heading for a far steeper slope from which to launch, but he's an old hand at this. And an old hand, but still spry enough, for a man of nearly fifty.

Vroom vroom, Jon!!