George R.R. Martin and George Washington are stuck in Submarine on Lockdown and forced to have a deep conversation.

Here's the conversation:

"Blast this iron coffin!" Washington boomed, pacing the cramped space. "Confinement ill suits a man accustomed to open fields."

Martin sighed, adjusting his suspenders. "Confinement breeds stories, George. And stories are all that truly endure, even more than republics."

"But what good are stories," Washington retorted, "if they do not inspire virtue and duty in the living?"

"Virtue?" Martin chuckled darkly. "A gilded cage, my friend. Men are driven by hunger, lust, and the endless game of thrones."

Washington frowned. "Such cynicism! I believe in the inherent goodness of man, though it requires cultivation."

"Cultivation? Or ruthless weeding, George? The garden of humanity is choked with ambition's thorns." Martin paused, stroking his beard. "Consider the Starks..."

"The Starks?" Washington inquired, intrigued. "Were they as steadfast as my Continental Army?"

"Steadfast, perhaps," Martin mused, "but beset by betrayal, loss, and the cruel whims of fate. Much like war, wouldn't you say?"

Washington nodded slowly. "Indeed. War is a crucible, testing the mettle of men and nations alike."

Martin leaned back. "And in the end, George, only the song remains...a song of ice and fire, of courage and despair."