A/N: Chapter 34. Samwell II. Less than a month since I uploaded the last chapter. Hopefully I can keep up with that going forward.

Samwell

"You two are going to hate yourselves in the morning," Alleras told Leo & Pate as they began their drinking game. Leo only smirked as he poured the first two cups of rum.

Sam paid the others no mind, focusing instead on the book sat on the table in front of him. It was a volume penned by a Maester Morten, who served the Umbers years before Aegon's Conquest. It complied all the information about the Long Night and the White Walkers he could find in the library of Last Hearth. Most of it was repeated knowledge accompaned by notes from Morten stating whether over not he believed the information was true. One article Sam hadn't seen before was the transcription of two surviving diary pages from an inhabitant of Last Hearth that Morten judged to have been written during the Long Night because of state of the pages & their contents: a section detailed description about an attack on the castle by a White Walker and a group of wights.

By the time Sam had finished reading it – noting the volume's title and the page number of the transcription – Marwyn walked in, frowning as he usually did after his meetings with the rest of the archmaesters. He immediately noticed that Leo & Pate were playing a drinking game with Alleras watching them disapprovingly.

"You bring any of that rum up, you'll be the ones mopping it off the floor," he warned.

Leo downed his cup before turning to the Archmaester to reply: "Of course, Archmaester."

Pate nodded.

Marwyn reached the hearth where a fire was keeping the cold of night away; hanging above it was a cooking pot Alleras put on so it would be ready for when Marwyn returned. Inside was a simmering gruel which Sam had learned Marwyn prefered to normal porridge or stew. The Archmaester brought his bowl to the table and sat, bringing a hot spoonful to his lips, not bothering to let it cool before placing it inside his mouth.

Sam closed his book. "How did the meeting go, Archmaester?" he asked.

"News comes from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms," Marwyn replied after swallowing another mouthful. "The army that attacked Highgarden has reached King's Landing and is preparing the city defenses. Several archmaesters suggested preparing maesters skilled in healing to be sent for when the fighting finishes, but Ebrose said it was an unrealistic course of action. He has more sick and wounded in the Citadel health wards than he has ever counted in all his years as Archmaester of Healing, many of them victims of the cold."

"That's winter for you," Alleras said, matter-of-factly. And he wasn't wrong. Snow had been falling on Oldtown since winter had begun in earnest. The streets quickly became less crowded as people decided to stay indoors: where the heat was. Sam had noticed it whenever he departed from the Citadel to visit Gilly in the apartment Marwyn had arranged for her to stay in. She kept herself busy by doing cleaning work for an inn, getting paid a small wage which she used to buy food for herself & Little Sam.

"Indeed it is," Marwyn agreed. "Ebrose also reported the recent arrival of another victim of Greyscale, adding to his workload." He looked at Sam. "And this victim is someone you might be interested in, Sam."

"Who is it?" Sam asked.

"Jorah Mormont."

"Really? Jeor Mormont's son?" Sam was incredulous, before a thought came to him. "Would it be possible for me to speak to Jorah? I was with his father when he died. Perhaps he doesn't know about it."

Marywn smiled, as if this was what he'd wanted from bringing the subject up. "I will do what I can to persuade Ebrose into allowing you audience with Mormont, otherwise there is little else I can do."

"So long as you try. That's what's important."

And so Marwyn tried. It was another thing that was added to the plate of things he was doing to help Sam and the effort against the White Walkers. Marwyn had told Sam he was able to communicate with Bran in Winterfell and was looking for a maester called Crighton. Unfortunately, there were a good number of maesters named Crighton. Marwyn was doing is best to filter through all of them for the one he wanted – needed.

Meanwhile, Sam was making good progress in his studies. In the few months that he'd been at the Citadel, he had already forged the copper link of his maester's chain, thanks to a life time of reading history, and a black iron link, thanks to his time spent tending the ravens in the Night's Watch. Sam kept the two links in his chambers under the rookery with the rest of his things.

The morning came and Leo & Pate found themselves wishing they'd heeded Alleras' warning. The two of them couldn't do anything except moan about their headaches all morning. This left Sam having to spend all day working in the rookery since Pate couldn't take over at any point. It was easy work, mainly because Sam was so used to it. People would visit the tower, bringing the messages they wanted to be sent: novices, acolytes, maesters and archmaesters. He knew only the destination of the scrolls, who they were intended for and nothing of their contents; quite frankly, he didn't care to know anything else. Sam was too occupied by reading in the spaces of time between work. Every now and again, Alleras would come up to ask if he wanted something to drink or to relay a piece of information found in an old book. Walgrave would also check in on Sam. The old Archmaester was certainly of the age where one's wits dulled; but he remained a pleasant enough old man who respected Sam for his sharp mind and skill in ravenry. Sam had liked him since meeting him. In the afternoon, a pleasant surprise came in the form of a raven scroll from Dickon. It read:

Dear Sam,

By now you've probably heard about Highgarden. Know that I am safe and uninjured from the battle there. Right now I'm in King's Landing and Father is taking charge of the city defenses. I send this letter mainly just to say I hope you are safe and keeping warm. Father's attention has been drawn away from you, but you are not in the clear yet. I do not doubt he will try to retrieve Heartsbane when the Dragon Queen is dealt with.

Until next we meet brother.

Dickon

It warmed Sam's heart to know his brother cared so much for him.

Come evening, Leo & Pate had recovered from there drinking game the previous night and Sam told Pate that since he hadn't done any work today, he'd be tending the ravens all day tomorrow. Marwyn returned from the main Citadel building, frowning as usual. He dropped the books and scrolls he was carrying on an empty chair at the side of the room before heading to the kitchen area to pour himself some ale. The Archmaester sat himself down in front of the fire, warming his hands with the heat coming off it.

"Tarly," he said.

Sam walked toward him. "Yes, Archmaester."

"After an hour of heated argument in a small room with Ebrose, he has permitted that you time to speak with Ser Jorah Mormont, but never for more than a quarter hour and never without his own supervision as well as mine."

"Thank you, Marwyn."

The Archmaester allowed Sam a small smile. "You're welcome. I would expect you want to make use of this alloted time beginning tomorrow."

"Yes."

"Then first thing in the morning, after breaking out fast, we will make our way up to the healing wards."

It was as Marwyn said. After breakfast the next day, he and Sam made their way up to the healing wards, where they located Ebrose's study. The Archmaester of Healing was a tall man with grey hair cirling the sides of a mostly bald head. He wore robes like most other maester and spoke with a voice that demonstrated confidence and authority in his field of expertise.

"So this is the Samwell Tarly I've heard so much about," Ebrose said upon Sam & Marwyn's entering his study. "Marwyn tells me you're to be the new maester at Castle Black."

"I am, Archmaester Ebrose," Sam managed.

"Well, you have big shoes to fill. Maester Aemon was one man in a million. Few could compare to the knowledge & wisdom at his disposal." Ebrose stood. "But we're not here to discuss your adaquacy to be his successor. No, you wish to talk to Ser Jorah Mormont." Walking from behind his desk, Ebrose took long, quick strides that spoke to excellent health for someone of his age. "Let's get on with it, shall we. I have bodies to cut apart. Some acolytes have been given to me to show them the structure of a human body. Be glad Marwyn that your field of expertise is so uncommonly pursued. Otherwise you wouldn't have the spare time to haggle your peers about allowing people to see others carrying a highly dangerous disease."

Leaving the study, Ebrose lead the way through the healing wards, speaking over the rattle of his chain as he walked: "Sometimes I regret choosing to put my name forward for this role. Healing is one of the most necessary arts in this world and so many need to become one of its artists. Plenty of the basic knowledge of Healing is readily known by most people, but one can only perfect the skills required to become a master of the art by learning here at the Citadel, Samwell, as I'm sure you fully understand. You yourself will have to be taught by myself and other maesters the many more complex ways of healing wounds and injury. It will take years for you to absorb all the knowledge. I have no doubt that you're up to the task; Marwyn tells me you already forged two links of your chain in the short months that you've been here. To that I say well done, but healing people is not so easy as remembering history written of in books and practicing good penmanship to be sent by raven. Your achievements in these two fields are results of your live before coming to the Citadel. There is much more to healing than many are even aware of, sometimes maesters with forty years of learning might be ignorant of a remedy to a highly specific illness and it is situations like that which prove that one should never stop learning. One can never know too much."

Sam listened keenly to everything Ebrose had to say, all the while taking in his surroundings. The journey from Ebrose's study to where the Greyscale patients were cared for took the three of them through narrow corridors and wide open halls. Each housed men and women suffering from things as simple as a broken leg as well as diseases that Sam had only ever heard of. It was quite daunting, if Sam were to be honest with hmself: absorbing all Ebrose was saying at the say time as seeing the shear number of possible illnesses and conditions he would have to acquaint himself with in order to forge the silver link of his maester's chain, let alone become a maester.

They came to the Greyscale area to find each door made of iron. They were sealed closed by heavy bolts and padlocks, with only a small opening broken up by iron rods to allow someone to look inside. Small platforms jutted from the doors at stomach height, sitting in front of small hatches: the means by which the occupant of each room was fed. All of this was accessed after passing a checkpoint made of a desk operated by a clerk in front of two heavy, iron rod gates. One could not enter without first putting on a large, leather apron and leather gloves that covered an arm all the way to the shoulder. The whole thing seemed more like a prison rather than a healing ward. Ebrose led the way to one door in particular after the three of them were signed in and outfitted with their leather apparel.

"Mormont," he said through the small opening. "I've brought the person I said I was bringing to see you. Are you sitting on the chair?"

"Yes," replied the voice the other side of the door.

"Good. We're coming in."

Ebrose summoned a set of large keys from a fold in his robes. He selected the key he wanted to and undid the heavy padlock keeping the door's bolt lock in place. With the loud groan of iron on iron, the Archmaester pulled the bolt open, then the door. Marwyn stepped in first, then Sam. Ebrose stayed outside, standing in the open doorway.

Ser Jorah Mormont was a middle aged man with a widow's peak of straw blonde hair that was on its way to becoming grey. His face was grim aside from the glimmer of hope lingering in his weary eyes. He wore no shirt, showing off a well muscled chest, stomach and arms, the left of which was tainted by hard, cracked skin that reached half way up his upper arm. Sam stared long and hard at the man. Very little pity came into his judgement. There was much more curiosity and respect instead. He looks like his father at the very least.

"Hello," Sam began, "my name is Samwell Tarly."

"I knew that already," Jorah replied, voice as weary as his eyes. "Maetser Ebrose told me. He also said that you were with my father when he died."

"I was. It happened beyond the Wall at Craster's Keep."

"Killed by his own men."

"One man. A traitor. His name was Rast. He stabbed the Lord Commander in the back." Jorah's lips fell into a frown. "Rast stabbed him because he was holding a sword against Karl Tanner, who had just murdered Craster while under his proection as a guest. You see, your father died doing his best to up hold justice, Ser Jorah. He died honourably."

The frown faded and Sam could have sworn he saw a tear falling from Jorah's eye. "Thank you, Sam. I would like to know everything you can tell me of his life leading up to his death."

"Yes. Of course. I'll tell you everything."

"But it will have to wait for tomorrow," Ebrose cut in. "You've met each other. That will be good enough for today. Star your proper conversations tomorrow."

"Very well," Sam said. "I can wait until tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," Jorah said. "It will be the only thing I can look forward to. What with this being the state I'm in." He lifted up his left arm.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Jorah."

"And I'll see you, Sam."

So Ebrose escorted Sam and Marwyn out of the Greyscale area. Before letting them go off, the Archmaester of Healing said he would collect the two of them when he was ready for them to see Jorah. Sam saw to his studies for the rest of the day.

When supper time came and the occupants of the rookery tower gathered in the living quarters to eat, Sam did not touch his gruel or ale. Instead it he stared into the middle distance as he thought: People say that Greyscale is impossible to cure in adults without cutting off the infected limp before it spreads, but it can be halted in children. Has anyone even bothered to try curing Greyscale in adults?

This thought compelled Sam to ask Marwyn the next day where to find research on Greyscale in the library. Naturally, it was in the rescricted section. They spent the morning looking for it and found two large journals written by the same man, a maester named Edwyn, as well as a volume on the known history of the disease. After returning from that day's conversation with Jorah, Sam stayed up most of the night, reading Maester Edwyn's journals into the early hours of the morning. He slept for only four hours and woke only because Pate shook him awake, noting that it was later than when Sam normally woke up. For the rest of the day, he remained in the rookery tower attending to his studies and tending the ravens, leaving only to speak with Jorah. It was only after finishing the first of the two journals that Sam brought his proposition to Archmaester Ebrose, getting the reaction he expected:

"Absolutely not," the Archmaester said. "I will not allow you to risk yourself by attempting to cure Ser Jorah's Greyscale using the method proposed by Maester Edwyn in his journal."

"Archmaester, please," Sam begged. "This could potentially bring about hope for everyone of the men and women you have sitting behind those cold iron doors. Think about what it could mean for the future of Healing. If we can successfully perform Edwyn's method, it would mean saving countless lives."

"Have you even read his second journal?"

"I've started it and it is clearly focused on his failures, but he was one man, operating on his own because he didn't want to risk putting anyone other than himself in danger."

"And he was right to do so. The puss Edwyn details in all of the times he cut away hardened flesh is likely highly infectious. If even a small bit of it gets on your skin, you could catch the disease. Edwyn did, and died because of his willingness to endanger only himself. I cannot condone you doing the same, not while I am Archmaester of Healing."

"What would it take for you to agree?"

"A team of willing volunteers to help to carry out the treatment who are sufficiently skilled in healing themselves."

"Consider it done already."

"If you're referring to the group of acolytes you live with in the rookery tower, none of them are sufficiently skilled in healing for me to be happy."

At this point Sam found himself at boiling point, so he said the only thing he had left to say: "Ser Jorah's father saved me from freezing to death north of the Wall. I owe it to him to save his son. Why will you not let me try to save this man?"

Ebrose did not get angry for this outbrust. Instead, he only stared somberly at Sam before sighing. "I want to say yes, but is my duty as caretaker of the Greyscale victims and as a man of Healing to do all I can to stop the disease from leaving that corridor. I wish there was more I could for them than letting them live the rest of their days peacefully before they must be put out of their misery. Even letting you see Ser Jorah so frequently and so supervised is a risk I find uncomfortable taking, but I have allowed it for Ser Jorah's sake. The man may be an exile, but he is still a man, deserving of common decency and respect like anyone else. From what he's told me, he very clearly regrets the crime he commited. Were it within my power and safe to do so, I would allow him to live in Westeros as he used to. But it is not my place; it is not your place. So, Ser Jorah will remain in that room, eating meals of thin stew and bread, drinking only water, with only his own thoughts and the conversation he is allowed with you and I to occupy him on the way to his death, when I will give him a poison specially designed to cause no pain or suffering, before his Greyscale beings to affect his mind. Such is my duty is as a maester."

Sam found himself depressed at the thought of being unable to repay Jeor Mormont by Saving Jorah. Only now, at the end of his rope, did find himself willing to risk his final reasoning. Marwyn warned me to keep it to myself, lest I be killed discretely when going about my business, but this is too important a thing to allow to slip away without doing all I can to achieve it.

"Do you want to know about the things I saw beyond the Wall?" Sam asked monotonically.

Ebrose's eyebrows furrowed. "How on earth could that at all be relevant to the subject at hand?"

"Because, Archmaester," Sam began, propering himself up in his chair and speaking with as serious a voice that he could muster, "another reason why I want to cure Ser Jorah's Greyscale is so he can return to Daenerys Targaryen. She has dragons. They will be an extremely valuable asset when the White Walkers make it past the Wall and begin their attack on the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Jorah, in return for me saving his live, can tell Daenerys that she needs to travel north and join with the King in the North in the battle against the dead."

Ebrose laughed nervously. "You can't be serious Samwell. The White Walkers, if they ever existed, are long dead: a thing of legend told to disobedient children in order to make them behave properly."

"I am serious. You know I am serious. I would not be naming it as a reason for why I would willingly put myself at risk of catching a disease as horrible as Greyscale with I wasn't serious; and I know you're a smart enough man to realise that."

Ebrose stared hard into Sam's eyes for what felt like hours. He couldn't guess what the Archmaester was thinking about, but he knew it was possible that it involved making him disappear. All Sam could do was hold the eye contact, hoping for a reply to come soon. When it did, Ebrose first let out another sigh.

"I believe you. The simplest explanation for you saying what you do is that you're telling the truth, I will not let my own arrogance or stubbornness make me fail to accept that simple truth. I will let you perform your treatment on Ser Jorah. You will be accompanied by myself & Marwyn and I will be in charge of the operation, giving all the orders."

Sam could not believe his ears. "Thank you Archmaester."

"Yes, well, please don't go about the Citadel announcing I'm doing such a thing, or that I believe you about the White Walkers. I may not be amoung those who would organise for you to be pulled into a dark room, but I am not immune to that fact myself, should I go about talking about White Walkers and magic."

"Of course Archmaester, I know. Marwyn has warned me about such a thing."

"Good. We will be doing the operation tomorrow night. Get me a list of things Edwyn listed as equipment in his method, I will gather them throughout the rest of today and tomorrow."

And so Sam did as Ebrose asked. Marwyn was suspicious about Ebrose's motivations to help, but he agreed to help in curing Ser Jorah of Greyscale to help potentially improve the chance that the living had against the dead. Sam told Alleras, Leo and Pate about the conversation with Ebrose and the impending operation. Unsurprising, Leo and Pate admitted they wouldn't have been comfortable helping, but Alleras said he would have helped, even asking to help when the time came. Sam asked Ebrose is he was fine with it and the Archmaester allowed Alleras to help only as the person to lock the first checkpoint gate behind them.

Come the night of the operation, Sam, Marwyn and Alleras ate with the others before setting off to meet Ebrose in his study, bringing with them the journals written by Maester Edwyn. When they reached the study, there was a trolley holding everything they would need to preform the operation on Jorah as well as a journal in which Ebrose wanted to record the operation's details. Ebrose also said they would wait a short while before heading to the Greyscale ward: "You see, I do not wish for this to be on any official Citadel records, so we must wait for the checkpoint clerk to retire for the night. If word reaches the Conclave about such a risky operation to being enacted, Marwyn and I risk losing our positions as Archmaesters and all four of us risk being expelled from the Citadel. Maester Edwyn's research was only made aware to the Citadel after his death as part of his Will. He operated in secret far away from Oldtown."

The time came for when they would make their way to Jorah. The four of them slowly walked the corridors of the healing wards to the corridor of the Greyscale ward. The wards were quieter than during the day, both patients and maesters settling down for the night. A few pained groans and busy footsteps filled the corridors and halls, but not many. It was a lot less likely for them to be discovered on the way to their destination.

When they did reach the checkpoint, Ebrose unlocked the draw in which the key for the first gate was kept. The way checkpoint gates worked was for the clerk to unlock the first gate, let whoever was entering the ward step inside the space between the two gates and then lock the first gate behind them. The first gate could only be locked from the outside and it was done like this to increase sercurity. Ebrose only had the key for the second gate, which certain other Maesters were also allowed to keep, but the only other copy for first gate key was kept in a secure, secret location that only a single member of the Conclave knew the location of, and that member of the Conclave was not revealed until the location of the second copy was necessary information. Ebrose told the other three all this as they had waited to for the right time to set off.

When Sam, Marywn and Ebrose entered Jorah's room, the Mormont Knight, shot up from his place on his small bed, confused and drowsy. "What's this all for?" he asked, referring to the trolley of medical equipment.

Sam was the one to answer him, as Ebrose and Marwyn made ready all the equipment. "We're going to try and cure you of your Greyscale."

"Why?"

"Because your father saved me from dying behold the Wall and because we need you ask something of Daenerys Targaryen."

"What?"

"I'll tell you after the operation."

Jorah's lips remained flat, but he nodded, understanding. "Very well."

Ebrose came to stand beside Sam. "Now, Ser Jorah, we will need you to sit on the chair for this operation." Jorah moved to the chair as Ebrose continued to talk. "The operation will consist of cutting away the layer of calcified flesh at the top of your skin before applying the a medicinal paste to the soft flesh underneath it. This will be a slow, long and painful process, and if at any point you want us to stop, simply slap yourself hard on your right knee to signal you want us to."

"Who will be doing work?" Jorah asked.

"I will be cutting away flesh and Samwell here will apply the paste. Archmaester Marwyn help in handing tools and noting down everything that happens. If this is successful, I will be doing my best to achieve similar results with the rest of the people suffering from this disease."

Ebrose walked over to the trolley and poured some Milk of the Poppy into a cup for Jorah to drink. The Knight took it thankfully, slowly swallowing the chalky potion that would alleviate some of the pain. After Jorah finished drink, Sam gave him a strip of leather to place between his teeth, but before he did that, he said, "Thank you for doing this Sam."

"Of course. Lord Commander Jeor was the caring father I never had growing up. This is the least I can do in return."

With that, Jorah placed the leather between his teeth and Ebrose grasped a scalpel in one hand and a pair of forceps in the other. Sam was ready, holding an empty bowl in which Ebrose would place flesh he cut away while Marwyn prepared the medicinal paste on the trolley. Sam also held a lit candle to provide Ebrose with light as he worked.

"Are you ready?" Ebrose asked both Jorah and Sam.

"Yes," Sam said. Jorah nodded, his teeth digging hard into the leather.

"Then please lift your arm."

The arm went up and the operation began.

Ebrose began by first pressing against the hard, grey skin covering Jorah's arm with the forceps. His face portrayed no emotion as he worked. "I will begin with the skin further up the arm. The infection may not have taken root properly, so the paste will have easier work to do." Sam nodded, Jorah nodded. "Prepare yourself, Ser. I am about to cut."

Jorah's arm visably tensed before the blade began closing in on the skin. Ebrose lightly dragged the sharp edge of the scalpel a few millimeters ahead of the infected flesh. Dark red blood began to seep out the cut and Jorah let out a pained groan. The forceps lightly gripped the skin as Ebrose worked with the blade, cutting toward the hard skin slowly and carefully. There was a chink soundwhen the blade touched the calcified flesh, as if the scalpel had hit a small pebble. All the while Jorah groaned with pain.

Blood was seeping steading out of the ever-growing wound, catching on the fine hairs of Jorah's arms as it made its descent toward the floor. There was so much of it that it was making Ebrose's work more difficult. "Marwyn," Ebrose said. "Bring over a cloth and wipe away the blood." Marwyn was prompt, dropping his pestle and mortar to come over and do as Ebrose bid. The Archmaester's thick fingers were surprisingly delicate in the way they pressed the cloth against the broken skin. "Thank you." Marwyn moved away, back to the trolley, leaving the cloth with Sam, who held both the candle and the empty bowl in the same hand.

With the scalpel, Ebrose began to work at the hard flesh. Making his cuts brought forth thick, yellow puss and the hiss of gas leaving through the wound. The smell hit Sam's nostrils and he nearly gagged on it. Ebrose worked the blade around his chosen piece of cracked flash, allowing more pus to come forth & mingle with the dark red blood. Sam wiped the puss away when motioned to do so by Ebrose. Eventually the chunk of flesh of was cut away from the arm after the underside was worked at by the scalpel as the forceps gripped. Ebrose placed the chunk inside the bowl and began work on the next chunk of calcified flesh. Slowly and deliberately, the Archmaester worked his way around the circumference of Jorah's arm – his groans becoming subdued screams – creating a red ring of exposed flesh that separated healthy and infected skin, weeping blood. That gave Sam hope, the blood leaking so early. It meant that the Greyscale had not begun getting any deeper into Jorah's arm.

"Marwyn, the paste," Ebrose ordered. He brought over the pewter bowl of paste and a soft brush, swapping them for Sam's cloth and bowl. With light hands, Sam applied the thick, light green paste to the exposed flesh: a mixture of pine resin, white beeswax, mustard seed power and lime juice heated over a soft flame before Marwyn brought it over. Jorah's pain was clearly dulled as Sam applied the paste because the moment it touched Jorah's skin his face relaxed. They let the paste sit for a few minutes before beginning work again. Jorah asked for more Milk of the Poppy so Marwyn poured him another cup to drink as they let the paste sit.

On they went through the night, cutting a new ring of hard flesh away and replacing it with medicinal paste. As they worked down the arm, more puss than blood came out from openings in the skin, but this reached its peak in the centre of the forearm. Moving toward the hand, the opposite began to happen. Jorah got used to the pain, so did not need more than a third cup of Milk of the Poppy. They worked with the only noise being Jorah's grunts and screams: two Archmaesters, an acolyte and a patient doing the best to get rid of a disease. Sam felt a sense of belonging as he helped during the operation. This is what I will be doing once I forge my chain and become a maester. The thought brought a smile to Sam's face.

Reaching Jorah's hand, Erbose first cut away the hard flesh cover the main body of it, being very careful not to dig too deeply with scalpel and accidentally cut a tendon. Moving to the fingers, Ebrose began with the smallest, moving right to the ring finger, middle finger, forefinger and finally the the thumb. As Sam finished applying the paste to the thumb, their work was done. It had taken three and a half hours, the progression of time marked by the need to replace the candle used to give Ebrose light. All of the cut away flesh had been emptied form the bowl into a large metal container for it to be burned later.

"Now we will wrap your arm in thick bandages with the paste underneath it," Sam explained. "We must give the paste time to work. We will remove it in two days. If there is any calcified flesh, then this operation will not have worked. If there is scar tissue forming instead, then it will be safe to say you've been purged of the disease. We will wrap your arm in bandages again and let you be on your way."

Ebrose and Marwyn saw to applying the first set of bandages, working from the top of Jorah's arm to the hand. All the while Jorah spoke to Sam: "Thank you, Sam, for trying this. There aren't words for what you've done."

"It is only what is owed of me Jorah."

Jorah smiled. "Very well, then. What was it that you wanted me to ask of Daenerys?"

"I need you to convince Daenerys to make peace with the King in the North. The biggest weakness of the Wights I told you about is fire. If Daenerys were to join force with Jon, then he will have gained the best weapon he can use against the army of the dead. It is vital to the survival of Westeros that Daenerys travels north."

Jorah steeled himself. "You have my word Sam. If this operation has done its job, then I will stop at nothing to convince Daenerys to make peace with Jon."

"Thank you Jorah. Truly. Thank you."

The two days pasted and the operation was succesful in going unnoticed by anyone expect those involved. The time came for the bandages and paste to be removed. Ebrose, Marwyn and Sam shuffled inside Jorah's room. Ebrose did the work, cutting away the bandages and scraping away the light green paste. It had hardened some in the two days that it had been sitting underneath the bandages, so Eborse had to put a bit of effort into removing it. But all the extra effort turned out to be worth.

The first good sign was the fact no flesh had calcified beyond on the banfages, the second was Ebrose's eyes lighting up as he scrapped away the first portion of medicinal paste, and the last was when a decent portion of the paste had been removed, showing off the scar tissue that was forming where once there was Greyscale. Once all Ebrose had worked his way down the arm, he washed off the excess paste with a mixture of water & lime juice. Jorah winced a bit as the flesh of his arm was very tender and sensitive and the lime juice stung a fair bit; but once the arm was delicately dried with soft linen, his face returned to normal. The second layer of bandages went on as Ebrose commented on their success and Marwyn noted everything down in the notebook.

"Since scar tissue is forming, it's safe to say the disease its gone from your arm," Ebrose stated as he applied the bandages. "Of course, we can never be completely sure, and should you begin to notice any greying flesh, you should return here immediately, but as it stands, I am comfortable in letting you leave the Citadel and making for King's landing where you will be most likely to meet up with Daenerys Targaryen. You must leave tonight, under cover of darkness, and without us to see you off."

"I will have a horse made ready for you, Ser," Marwyn said. "All you will need to do is give your house's words to the man keeping it for you."

"Of course," Jorah agreed. "Thank you. All of you. There aren't words that can express my gratitude."

"The only words you need worry about, Ser Jorah, are the ones you speak to Daenerys when you find her," Sam told the Knight.

Jorah nodded. "I will think of little else on my journey to King's Landing."