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.