Coco Chanel and George R.R. Martin are stuck in Underground Metro System Failure and forced to have a deep conversation.

"This subterranean labyrinth," Chanel declared, smoothing her tweed skirt, "is utterly devoid of chic. Where is the elegance, the timelessness?"

Martin grumbled, adjusting his cap, "Elegance doesn't matter much when the steel dragon decides to nap, does it? Survival is the only true style."

"Nonsense," Chanel retorted, "Even in darkness, one must maintain a certain… silhouette. Discomfort is no excuse for sloppiness."

"Discomfort is a luxury," Martin sighed, "I prefer to inflict it on my characters, not experience it myself. Although, the claustrophobia is quite inspiring…"

"Inspiration should come from beauty, not the grim realities of a stalled train," Chanel sniffed, "A simple string of pearls could alleviate this entire situation."

"Pearls won't fix a busted engine, Coco," Martin chuckled, "Sometimes, the only answer is a good old-fashioned betrayal and a plot twist."

Chanel raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, "Betrayal is a constant, dear George. But true style endures, even through the darkest of winters."

"Winter is always coming," Martin muttered, "And it rarely ends with a perfectly accessorized outfit. More often with blood and frozen corpses."

"Perhaps," Chanel conceded, adjusting her signature camellia, "But even a corpse can be elegantly draped. Presentation is everything, darling."

"Presentation is fleeting," Martin concluded, staring down the dark tunnel, "But the story... the story lives on, long after the last train runs."