THE CITADEL. NIGHT.
(cell door opens)
JORAH: Who are you?
SAM: My name is Samwell Tarly. I’m the smartest fucker on this entire show, I’ve killed a wight walker, and I own a Valyrian steel sword, yet no one expects me to sit on the Iron Throne.
JORAH: Pardon me?
SAM: Never mind. I’m here to cure your greyscale.
JORAH: Oh. Well, shit. Knock yourself out, homey.
SAM: Here. Bite down on this.
JORAH: What is this, beef jerky?
SAM: Shoe leather. I think? Fuck, I dunno man, I found it outside the door. Just bite down on it.
SAM: Because you’re covered with some weird scaly shit, and I’m about to take a knife to your big Scottish chest. Just relax and pretend you’re Sean Connery.
JORAH: Now that I can do.
(Sam starts cutting)
JORAH: OW, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, OW! Wouldn’t Mercurochrome be easier?
SAM: (side eye) We’re fresh out.
JORAH: HOLY FUCK KNUCKLES, THAT HURTS ONLY SLIGHTLY MORE THAN THE KHALEESI REJECTING MY ROMANTIC ADVANCES.
JORAH: Never mind. What happens after you’re done cutting?
SAM: Well, according to this book? Vicks Vaporub.
JORAH: Makes sense.