The khal did not like what the godswife had done to his wound. It was not the way his people treated wounds. Her strange ways were foreign and he did not trust them in the slightest.

A good washing usually did the trick to take care of their wounds. Sometimes stitching was required, but that was all they needed. Now, his wound felt hot like fire under his skin. It itched and smelled of rot. He picked at the herb and straw concoction that had been put on him. It was unnatural. The godswife had some dark magic about her.

"Moon of my life, it is but a scratch," he replied. His deep voice was more gruff than usual, because of his ailing state. He felt weaker than usual, and quite tired. This was unbecoming of a khal, he knew it and did not like that he was in such a state. If it continued to get much worse, he would not be able to ride.

A khal who could not ride was no khal at all.

Thankfully, he did not argue or attempt to stop his wife's attempts. He would actually be grateful to be rid of the witch woman's strange remedy. Nothing that came from her could be good.

"Wine. Give me wine." He knew whatever his wife meant to do would hurt, worse than acquiring the wound in the first place. Wine would help to ease the pain.

Drogo made very little protest as Daenerys scrubbed the wound clean. It hurt a great deal, but to show pain was to show weakness. He would not be perceived as weak, not even by his wife. When she pushed on a particularly pained spot, he would grunt, but that was it.

He watched the khaleesi's actions as she prepared a needle and string. This was something much closer to what he was used to in the art of healing. This was not the dark magic of the witch - he would have to remember to bring punishment upon her. Perhaps he would tie her limbs to their four strongest horses and have each run in a different direction. Or perhaps he would have her burned.

Those were the thoughts that ran through his head as his wife worked. It helped to keep his mind busy with something other than the wound.

Before Daenerys began stitching the wound, he drank the wine in his cup in one great gulp. The khal did not, however, take anything to bite down on. He would endure the pain, instead. Having the already tender flesh pierced by the hot needle hurt a great deal more than the scrubbing. He did not cry out, though. His expression was stone faced and did his best to keep it that way as his wife finished stitching the gash.

Once Daenerys was done, Drogo stood from where he'd been laying. He still felt weak, which he despised, but knew that the wound would now heal. He did not care that it would scar, Dothraki wore each scar with pride. It was just another to add to his his collection.

He grabbed a wine skin and drained it thoroughly, then threw the empty skin aside. The wine helped with the pain, which had now dulled to an ache. Having not eaten that much during the day, he also grabbed himself some dried horse meat. It would help him regain his strength, as would the sleep that his wife suggested.

"We should tie the witch down to stakes and let the crows feast on her while she still lives," he said as he walked to their bed. He was not nearly as forgiving as Daenerys, and did not consider second chances. For now, though, he laid down on their bed with his wife. "What would you do with her, moon of my life?"