Jaime's stomach does do something of a somersault, but only because he was unprepared for how much of a true rush the experience of lifting off the ground on the back of a dragon would be. It's nothing like being aside a horse while it vaults over brush, a gorge, or stream. There's absolutely nothing he can compare the whirlwind of sensations he's experiencing to.

Especially with a Targaryen prince at his back acting as a firm, immovable stone pillar as the dragon makes its ascent, forcing Jaime to lean back against him whether he wants to or not. He grips the pommel in his lone hand tight and wishes — not for the first time and certainly not the last — that he had a better substitute for his missing hand than the gaudy golden hand Cersei had constructed for him.

Damned thing was useless for everything save backhanding smarmy so-called knights with the gall to insult a highborn lady in his presence. (Talk shit about Brienne of Tarth, lose teeth.)

"Seven hells," he breathes in wonder, not fear, once they're up amongst the clouds.