Drogo nods, the movement sharp and sure. He hadn't spoken much at all--he hadn't really been there in general, despite the rain, mostly because he'd been around the training grounds. When he'd been in the tent it would be silence, or sleep.

Now, though, he's found something he has in common with someone else: weapons. Weapons that are not guns.

"Blades," he echoes in the ugly common tongue. They look smart--like they're easy to hide. He cranes his neck to get a better view, and then nods, chin pointing to him.

"Show."