[When his throat was no longer in immediate (if circumstantial) danger, when that iron-taut hand clawing towards his neck instead relaxed into a comradely patting against his face, only then did Chilton take a shuddering breath. It was easier to keep cool under dire circumstances until after the potential peril had passed -- Chilton knew the value of temporary repression. Just as he knew the value of his own tongue, and what the speed of speech could afford him.]

So you think I should sedate him?

[It was a point of pressure he wasn't yet easing up on, the needling of his own Porter power, a demonstration that he wasn't useless. With bloodied streaks against his cheek, Chilton rose to his full height; no more awkwardly clamoring over Jorah's fallen form.]

I do not want this garnering any attention. [Which is the final reason as to why he called for Baelish, subtle and effective Petyr Baelish. The man had a knack for assessing bad situations efficiently.] It would be a rabid scandal. So I suppose that... Consent isn't really viable in this situation.

[Said Chilton, as he took a few steps towards Simon, his fingers bare and outstretched. A cautionary pose, ready and rearing to strike in case the subject woke up most inconveniently.]