George R.R. Martin and Socrates are stuck in Vault in a Bank Heist and forced to have a deep conversation.

"So, this vault, Socrates," Martin grumbled, fiddling with a stray thread on his cloak, "it's just another gilded cage, isn't it? A prison built of desire."

Socrates chuckled, stroking his beard. "Indeed, George. But what is more imprisoned: the gold within, or the men who crave it?"

"The gold," Martin countered, "it can't betray you, unlike lords and ladies. It simply *is*."

"Yet, is not its very existence dependent on the machinations of men, on their lust for power, their bloody games?" Socrates pondered.

Martin sighed, "Aye, but the game is all there is. Power, birthright, and the occasional dragon. What else is there?"

"Perhaps," Socrates mused, "a relentless pursuit of virtue, a questioning of all we believe to be true?"

"Virtue?" Martin scoffed. "A fine ideal, but it's a swift path to a shallow grave in Westeros."

"And yet, George," Socrates pressed, "is not the absence of virtue the root of all suffering in your imagined world?"

"Suffering makes for a damn good story, Socrates. And good stories… well, they pay the bills." Martin paused, then added quietly, "Besides, happiness is fleeting, but sorrow… sorrow is eternal."

Socrates smiled, a glint in his eye. "Then perhaps, George, your stories are a quest for virtue in disguise, a warning against the very darkness you so vividly portray."