It is perhaps unkind of him, to see that Rhaegal has no saddle and insist Jon get on and prove himself anyway, but he needs to assess the situation in full. And he needs a moment to clear his head with all these surreal implications so soon after walking willfully to his death, having given up on a future for any survivors of Valyria, to say nothing of his house. He gave his life to the Fourteen Fires and asked for the survival of his children. Too late, for his stepsons, but if the rest can go on and live in a world that doesn't want Targaryens anymore, better then to be without without him—

Caraxes manages a lift off of limited leverage, beating his winds enough to turn rocks to gravel beneath him, going up, and up, his unusual body long and straight like a blood red spear being launched into the sky. He works harder than usual to do it, either aware that he needs to give the younger dragon behind them a current to follow, or because he, too, is feeling a strange way after death. Dragons are as smart as men, or even more, merely thinking differently. Daemon knows that Caraxes has as much interiority as he does, even if he doesn't speak the same way.

Past the trees and cliffs, past distant peaks, higher and higher until Caraxes can bank around and begin to get a feel for Rhaegal. Jon is a dark patch against deep green scales, like Daemon knows he's just a flash of silver from a distance. Nothing fancy, he intuits to his dragon; he doesn't want the odd northman to have a tumble. They could probably grab him, but still.