Rheagal's behavior takes an odd turn as the dragon twists in the sky in his elder's wake, Jon's hands gripping the spikes so tightly that they cut into his palms and he bleeds through his gloves. He saves himself from both sliding off into the sky and passing out by protecting himself with a harshly learned instinct, one born of a dozen cold blades piercing his flesh as his consciousness threatened to fade away forever.

Jon's expression goes blank, dark eyes glossing over and turning an iris-less, pupil-less white. Instead of ceasing the motion altogether, an equally white-eyed Rhaegal does it again— and a third time, twisting around joyfully and swooping up into the clouds and back down again.

He does enjoy it. So much that even in guarding himself, he cannot help but experience the rush of flying about in mid-air like this firsthand.