If Jon's as Targaryen as he says he is, he should at least want to be doing all this damn fool nonsense without proper equipment. The first dragonlords had to figure it all out somehow, no mount was hatched fully formed with a saddle and harness. Daemon turns in his seat to observe him, and Rhaegal's behavior. For a moment it threatens to make something in him twist sharply — he has flown with so many lovers, taught so many children, gone now in ways ever more nightmarish than the last — but he puts it away.

Flying, being one with Caraxes, letting his mind focus only on the technical progress of auditing another's performance and drifting away with the elation of experience something far beyond human.

Caraxes warbles back and forth, making sounds, communicating with the younger dragon in a way only the two creatures understand. He dips down sharply and twists, putting Daemon briefly upside down, to swoop back around to fly alongside Rhaegal instead of leading. Getting to know him. Seeing how steady, or not, he is.

Daemon keeps his eyes on Jon. Even if he doesn't slide off, he might pass out from the way the oxygen changes at certain heights, shocking cold air into lungs while stealing breath. Always best to be attentive.