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.

JORAH: Why?

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.

(Sam cuts)

JORAH: HOLY FUCK KNUCKLES, THAT HURTS ONLY SLIGHTLY MORE THAN THE KHALEESI REJECTING MY ROMANTIC ADVANCES.

SAM: Sorry?

JORAH: Never mind. What happens after you’re done cutting?

SAM: Well, according to this book? Vicks Vaporub.

JORAH: Makes sense.

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