06x10, 'The Winds of Winter'
This is it. His last hope.
Jorah stands outside the Citadel, waiting for Archmaester Ebrose to appear. The maester at the front desk, who had given him a look as if he was something to be scraped off the bottom of his shoe, had disappeared in search of the man in question with no indication of how long he might be.
Time is something Jorah doesn't have much of anymore. Each day, the greyscale spreads like ghost grass. It's covered the entirety of his right arm now, snakes down over the right side of his chest and abdomen. Soon it will eat across the left, then down his legs…
He doesn't want to think about what will happen if he doesn't get help soon.
He waits almost an hour before the smarmy maester returns with the Archmaester. Ebrose is a portly man with a shading of stubble and a permanent expression of weary exasperation upon his face.
"Yes?" he says brusquely, with no introductions.
Jorah ensures he maintains a distance. "I was wondering if we may speak in private."
Ebrose gives him another irritated onceover, but capitulates. "Oh, very well." He sends the other maester scurrying with a look. "What is it?"
"I was hoping you might be able to help me," says Jorah, and rolls up his sleeve to expose the blighted skin.
He has a feeling that Ebrose isn't the sort of man to flinch easily, but he does so now as he casts his eyes upon his skin. "A nasty business. But what do you expect us to do?"
Jorah feels foolish now. A plan concocted with hope more than intelligence. "Maesters are the most learned men in the world. I was hoping that you might know of some way to cure this affliction. The princess Shireen…"
"The spread of greyscale was stopped, yes." Ebrose frowns, but is clearly not someone to shy away from harsh realities. "But she was a child, and the affected area was much smaller." He sighs. "I suppose we can give you shelter, for the time at least. I warn you, it won't be a lord's holdfast. You will be in isolation. We can't risk anyone else getting infected."
"I wouldn't expect anything different," Jorah reassures him. The prospect of food and a bed lifts his spirits despite the circumstances. "I appreciate it."
Ebrose waves a dismissive hand. "Well, I suppose you ought to follow me. This way."
Jorah follows obediently, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest, out of anticipation as well as tension.
He has had weeks to plot this; it had been the memory of Lynesse that had reminded him of Oldtown. He doesn't know if he will find a cure, but the citadel is his last, best hope. One way or another, he will find the answer to his question.
Whatever the case, he will make sure Daenerys discovers the outcome.
After all, there is peace in closure.