Blood shines like an eerie glaze painted over a blackened vase on his glove when he peels it away from where it was pressed firmly against the tear in his leathers. The part of him that's survived much, much worse and lived (again) to tell tales off it wants to shrug the injury off and keep going; wants to feel the pain coursing through him like a lightning strike as he's lurched about to remind him of how very much alive he (once more) is.

Unfortunately for that side of him, there's still too much of the impression Ned Stark left upon him for Jon to go full tilt reckless.

"I ought to land!" He shouts, not knowing if he'll be heard, pointing at the ground to indicate yes, down.

Rhaegal lets out a whinny-like noise in tandem, as if voicing his own agreement.