"Not always," Jon remarks with an air of confident certainty that seems almost out of place with him.

He would have beat Ramsay Bolton to death had Sansa not stopped him. He had certainly wanted to. It had been satisfying to slam his fists into the face of the bastard who'd defiled and traumatized his sister cousin, who murdered innocent young Rickon, who had stolen his family's ancestral home from them and turned their own vassal lords against them.

Sansa had fed Ramsay to his own dogs. A poetic end if nothing else, but a part of Jon would have loved nothing more than to have done it himself.

Had he been bonded to Rhaegal at the time, he would have fed the false lordling to his dragon.

Jon's brows knit together in confusion as Daemon draws near. He doesn't move away, but he doesn't lie back down yet, either. "...why?"