What’s a little speculative fiction without a bald-faced ripoff and anachronistic speculation? Imagining Game of Thrones with less imperfect, outdated information: pervasive landlines and occasional cell phones, like if Westeros was in 1995. P.S. GRRRRR Martin, please don’t sue my breeches off.

“Ned? Is that you? Can you hear me?”

The voice, even as the maester’s equipment transmutated it into signals over a wire, was unmistakable. And unbelieveable.

“Jon…Jon Arryn?”

“One and the same, my friend....