Rich's rules: 1. Play as ruler of the North, Ned Stark. 2. Don't die. 3. No honour, only backstabbing. 4. I'd really like not to die, please.

Welcome to the Game of Thrones diary, in which Rich plays as Ned Stark and tries to stay alive in the excellent Game of Thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. The diary may contain spoilers for Game of Thrones book one and season one of the TV show. Missed the story so far? Here's part one, part two, part three and part four.

My wife tried to kill me, but that’s OK. I’ve decided Mya Stone – King Robert Baratheon’s bastard daughter, and my new bride who professes to love me – slipped and put the poison in the wrong cup. She must’ve been trying to kill someone else in the castle. An innocent mistake. A totally innocent mistake with absolutely no troubling connotations whatsoever for my rule of the largest bit of Westeros.

I think it’s time for a holiday, away from Winterfell for a bit. Fortunately, Arya has managed to fabricate a claim for me on The Twins, the province to the south. That claim means I can legally go to war for control of the region, and as I’m a double-hard bastard on the battlefield, I’ll put myself in charge of my combined armies and lead from the front. That way, I’ll be out of the house and away from any further possible poisonings. Here’s hoping I don’t come back to a heap of bodies and Mya standing over them claiming that “wolves did it”.

Arya is a genius, it should be said. I mean, she’s a ‘genius’ according to her character sheet, giving her happy bonuses to her major statistics – but she’s also a genius for managing to fabricate a claim on The Twins for me. I previously had my spymaster Roose Bolton on the task, and despite being one of the most duplicitous men in Westeros, he failed in his job time after time. I cut Roose loose earlier in the year, and installed my brilliant daughter in his place on my small council instead. It’s not simple nepotism. Roose held the position for half a decade; in the six months it took Arya to draw up a fake claim and let me go to war, the only thing he managed was to die of severe stress.



My daughter is turning into one of the game’s best characters, and everyone else knows it. She’s inundated with marriage proposals and, as her dad, I get to choose which ones she says no to. For now, that’s all of them: not only are most of them too lowly to consider – and in the case of Narbert Whent, too stupidly named – but Arya’s too useful to lose.

"Arya’s also, weirdly, followed around by a big brown bear."

If she marries, she goes off to live in another castle, and I lose control of someone sneakier, cleverer and more dastardly than Roose Bolton. Arya’s also, weirdly, followed around by a big brown bear, and bears – as I’m sure you know – are handy to have around in a fight. Between her, Daenerys (married to my son Robb) and baby Batman (who’s responding well to her schooling), I might be able to dominate Westeros with a cabal of brilliant women in a few decades, thanks to my excellent genes and good eye for marriage.

Crusader Kings II’s marriage system is accurate to 12th century customs and, unless the female partner in the marriage is a lordly step above the male partner, the woman shacks up with the man. That’s why Bran – second in line for my seat after Robb, but not yet a full lord – has moved away to live with his betrothed wife, Lady Pia of the Vale, and why Jon Snow’s wife now lives in my house.

She’s clever but only a courtier, so I took a hit in my familial prestige. Worse, she’s called ‘Eddara’. Bit close to Eddard, that one, making me – as marriage organiser – look like a mad egotist. Jon seems happy, though, and when I attack, take and give him control of The Twins, he’ll be even happier.



I call up my armies from all corners of the north. CKII’s armies are made up of local peasants rather than professional standing troops, and the size of my lands mean it takes the most northerly men weeks to get down south. I arrange to meet them all at Greywater Watch, on the border of The Twins, and then cool my heels for a month or so. Once there, I install myself as their leader, and bring up the Diplomacy menu.

"I declare war for my claim on The Twins: a claim that’s total bollocks."

The option for ‘declare war’ is greyed out. I hover over the tooltip. It kindly informs me that I can’t start a war with armies already on the field.

Back home, lads! Yes, I know the castle we’re going to attack is just across the river, and yes I know you’ve marched for 30 days solid and some of you live half a continent away, and yes I am going to give you a Westerosi version of a phonecall when you get home to come back south again, but rules are rules.

I stay over in Greywater for a while as my troops disperse – the old gods know I don’t want to get back into the marital bed with poisoner Mya – and bring up the Diplomacy menu again. This time, I can follow the options that let me declare war for my claim on The Twins: a claim, remember, that’s total bollocks.





The Twins are run by Edwyn Frey. I’ve still technically got a hit out on him, but my co-conspirators have taken five years to do absolutely nothing. I make a mental note to set Arya on him when I’m done with his land, but it’s not him I’ll need to be declaring war on. Edwyn is a vassal of the Lord of the Riverlands – a title that’s changed hands a few times since the Tully family rose up against Robert Baratheon during the early years of my reign. I click on Riverrun and find its new ruler is Duncan Whent, Narbert’s dad.

"He dallies too long and I reinforce quickly."

The Whents are nobodies though, and I’m not messing up any important alliances by antagonising Duncan. My only problem will be the amount of time it’ll take my armies to march down the continent, leaving the forces of the Riverlands fairly free to molest my southern regions.

No matter. The only important province down here is the Neck, and that’s held by Meera Reed who already hates me (I cut her dad’s head off a while back and she’s yet to get over it). I declare my war, immediately call my troops, and gather in Meera’s garden before marching south.

I don’t have to go very far to meet my opposition: Duncan Whent’s forces are sat in The Twins. For a time, he has more than me – some 15,000 Riverlanders versus my 10,000 from the north’s south. But he dallies too long and I reinforce quickly, soon outnumbering him by 10,000 men. With Ned at the head of one front, and Benjen Stark – another tip-top fighter – at the head of the other, Duncan’s forces are quickly smashed.



Out on the field, I see Duncan between the pikes and horsies of battle. At least, I’m told by way of menu that I can – CKII’s battle screens aren’t so hot on the majesty and noise of battle, being two sets of numbers slowly reducing each other. The menu gives me the option to leave him alone and let him escape, or go over and duff him up. I rely on Ned’s superior sword-handling, and storm over to boss Whent.

"I can either jab my sword through his neck or take him prisoner"

Fair play to Dunc: he parries a number of my blows, but Ned is one of Westeros’s best fighters, and after knocking him onto his armoured rump a fourth time, I’m given the choice to either jab my sword through his neck or take him prisoner. Thinking that a man clapped in irons in my dungeon will be a lot more willing to negotiate for land than a head mounted on a spike on my castle wall, I let him live and scatter his forces to a hasty retreat.

The Whents are broken, but they have a few armies dotted around the Riverlands. My men and I have been aching for a proper fight since the start of this diary, so I take them on a tour of the region’s best locations, before laying siege to them and drinking all their booze. Last on my whistle-stop tour of Time Out Westeros’s “top 10 places to set fire to” list is Riverrun itself.

I’ve been holding on to Duncan Whent all throughout my rampage. He’s in chains somewhere in my retinue, held for when I’ve stopped killing his generals and shrinking his line of succession. I can only really demand The Twins from him – although, with his army gone, I could grab so much more – but I figure he’ll say yes on the spot.





He doesn’t. I keep pressing the matter in the Diplomacy menu, asking him to give me The Twins in exchange for the safety of his family and the pleasure of not having his entire lordship revoked, but he just won’t listen. I try waving my sword about and pointing up at all the heads of his citizens that I’ve arranged in neat little rows, but he’s still not giving in.

"I send super-Arya to fabricate a claim."

So I take him home. Not back to his home, but to mine. I pull my forces back – they’re overextended and starting to succumb to disease and lack of resources – and set a course for Winterfell. The second I drag Duncan over the border, he capitulates, offering me peace, money and, most importantly, the Twins. I immediately accept and let Duncan loose. He’s a good prize, but he fought well and I’m in danger of forgetting my original aim: wiping the Freys off the map.

I give The Twins to Jon Snow. He’s an acceptable commander, and it should stop his – heavily accented – bleating. Next on the list of Frey properties I want to pilfer is the Freylands themselves.

As before, I send super-Arya to fabricate a claim on them. As before, it takes her about 13 minutes before she has rustled up enough ‘evidence’ of my right to their control to convince the king. Think about this for a minute: she’s managed to convince the ruler of Westeros that the Starks have more of a claim on the Freylands than the Freys themselves. She will make a hell of a queen one day, this one.



I begin the process of war again, and bring up Riverrun’s ruler. It’s not Duncan any more: the poor bastard died of ‘severe stress’ a few weeks back. Riding along with an invading force as they pillage your lands and nick your stuff will do that to a person, I guess. His son Malwyn is the new leader of the Riverlands. Luckily for me, he’s totally useless.

"I seem to be caught in the grip of late-onset homosexuality"

My forces rampage through his already- depleted group and lay siege to Riverrun. Malwyn is trapped inside, but every time I walk up to the murder-hole and shout “give up yet?”, he shrieks “no!” and slams the door shut. Looks like my army is in this for the long haul.

I say “my army”, because I’m not going to be there all the time. I’m not going home to Winterfell – Mya’s there after all, and she might get a bit poison-y again. Instead I’m off to King’s Landing, where Robert, ever the hedonist even as his two biggest allies are butting heads, is holding a tournament. Sit tight at the gates, lads, I’ll be back in a few months.

Something strange happens at the tournament. I win the melee, which is nice – but that’s not the strange bit. I’ve been to loads of these since taking on Ned’s crown, after all, and I’m good enough in a fight that I usually come back with a win and a prestige boost. No, the strangeness is my suddenly apparent attraction to men.



I seem to be caught in the grip of late-onset homosexuality – I’m 48 now – seemingly caused by watching dudes beat the snot out of each other in a load of mud. My Ned is now gay, and I’ve taken hits to my fertility as a result, but I’m mainly worried about what Mya is going to say, and who she’ll try to poison because of it. Maybe I’ll put off that triumphant homecoming for a little while longer.

I’m on my way back to Riverrun to rejoin my troops when I get even more surprising news: Robert Baratheon is dead, and his son Steffon – no Joffrey in this campaign – has taken the throne. “Suspicious circumstances” are to blame for Robert’s passing, so I pause the game and scan through a list of the usual suspects: Cersei, Tyrion, Theon.

They’re all dead. Cersei died at 43. Tyrion died at 39, chaste and a widower, his wife Asha Greyjoy having died three years previously. I’m one of the last survivors of the old guard. Suddenly, I feel very mortal, and very alone.

Rich's rules: 1. Play as ruler of the North, Ned Stark. 2. Don't die. 3. No honour, only backstabbing. 4. I'd really like not to die, please.

Welcome to the Game of Thrones diary, in which Rich plays as Ned Stark and tries to stay alive in the excellent Game of Thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. The diary may contain spoilers for Game of Thrones book one and season one of the TV show. Missed the start? Here's part one, part two and part three.

My wife is dead and I am sad. Catelyn Stark died last month, and Ned Stark – still ruler of the North of Westeros, and still alive at my hands – is in some serious mourning. Crusader Kings II codifies that mourning in the form of negative character traits: my Ned is now ‘depressed’, ‘chaste’, and a ‘widower’ – traits that conspire to make him about as fertile as a socially awkward panda. That’s a problem when Crusader Kings II’s explicit aim is to create as strong a dynasty as possible, and my eldest son Robb is useless in a fight, diplomatic or otherwise.

Ned’s sad right now but I’m confident, thanks to some Wiki reading, that his malaise will lift. I’ll get over Catelyn, shake off my temporary chasteness and get back to the business of making strong little babies to continue the Stark name. But to do that, I need a new wife.

That’s another problem. Ned’s a Lord, meaning that he’ll be wanting to marry into one of Westeros’s powerful families: the Tyrells, the Arryns, the Baratheons, that class of people. If Ned was to marry someone beneath the Starks in terms of influence, I’d take a massive hit to my prestige – and prestige is the main measure of success in Crusader Kings II. But these similarly highborn families have already been stripped of their eligible womenfolk. Even Asha Greyjoy, hard-faced daughter of piratical plunderer Balon Greyjoy, is married - to Tyrion Lannister, no less.



Shuddering at the thought of their brittle, political union, I scan around Westerosi highborn family trees. I find almost everyone is taken or dead, except for one: Pia Arryn, the daughter of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully. Lysa is Catelyn’s sister, lending an air of creepy serendipity to a potential betrothal, but more importantly, she’s currently the first in line to the Arryn lordship. With it, command of Westeros’s eastern Vale, one of the continent’s seven kingdoms. Excited, I check her relationship status. She’s single! Brilliant, I’ve found a second wife for Ned after only a few months of searching, and she’s soon-to-be head of one of the world’s most powerful families. I click through to the ‘suggest marriage’ menu and start to draw up wedding terms, when I realise there’s a small problem with my plan.
"I’m 38, with six kids and a dead wife."
Pia is eight years old. I’m 38, with six kids and a dead wife. I’ve seen the world, I’ve cut off my best friend’s head with a sword; my potential bride is probably still learning how to tie her shoelaces. I understand these unions are necessary for the peace of the land, but a 30-year age gap might be a bit too far. What would we talk about? She’s an 8290s kid, all my references are from the 8260s. I cancel the wedding proposal.

But this is business. Ned’s not the only one in the family currently unattached. My son Bran is single, and crucially, not 38 years old. He’s about the same age as her, able to talk to her about wooden blocks or skateboards or kicking a severed head around a courtyard, whatever it is Westerosi kids like talking about. In the interests of getting his dad as much glory as humanly possible, I lock him into an arranged marriage with Pia. I like to think I’ve convinced the Arryns that marrying Bran off to Pia was my plan all along, but I imagine they’re probably watching me head back up the road to Winterfell with the kind of shifty eyes reserved for 38-year-old men who try to show off to eight-year-old girls.



I’m happy for Bran – who, thanks to a careful regimen of not hanging around in windows while the Lannisters are visiting, has retained the use of his legs – but Ned is still flying solo, and is not getting any younger. This fact is further drilled home when I get notification that I’ve contracted a severe illness.
"Maesters are basically pigeon fanciers in whizzo robes"
It’s a gutpunch. The closest Westeros gets to doctors are its Maesters, and they’re basically pigeon fanciers in whizzo robes. My chances of survival are lessened by my advancing years, and the lengthy winter that’s already killing a good proportion of my northern populace. I pause the game, take a deep breath, and make preparations for my end.

Good news arrives on my apparent deathbed. Robb and Daenerys have had their first child, and it’s a son. They’ve named it Eddard. In my weakened state, I find this act of tribute surprisingly emotional: I picture stoic Ned wiping away a single tear as his firstborn boy tells him of his news; in reality, I Alt+Tab to look at a picture of a cat that’s very attached to cheeseburgers.

Proud of my grandson, I check little Eddard’s character sheet and find a honkingly huge negative character modifier in place already. It seems that as a child born of Targaryen parents – Dany’s familial house, which famously married brother with sister – he’s a child of incest. The poor bugger is only a few days old, and half the populace already hate him.





Fortunately, his lineage also means that he’ll likely develop positive traits to balance out the innate disadvantages. Dany is one of the Game of Thrones mod’s best characters, and I believe her son will do well. I call Robb to my deathbed and beckon him closer, ready to say my farewells and wish him the best – he’ll be the character I control next when Ned passes. I croak out the beginning of a goodbye when another tooltip pops up.
"Lying in bed and hacking my guts up has made Ned super-horny."
Ned’s better. I’ve been cured of my disease and am back to full strength. Not only am I healthy again, but I’ve shed my depression and chasteness. Lying in bed and hacking my guts up has made Ned super-horny. I leap out of bed and sprint past Robb, eager to get back to the business of ruling the North and finding a wife.

The former is still easy. The people of the North are a contented bunch compared with those further down Westeros. I’m notified of constant rebellions, with the most unruly territory seeming to be a place called Dalston, in the far south. Presumably Robert’s regnum hasn’t kept the region as well stocked with brightly coloured Ray-Ban ripoffs and tight red trousers as they would like: I count three open attacks on the King’s armies in a few months.

The latter is tougher, but the possibility of nabbing a spouse is growing more promising as the years go on. Ned’s illness has given some of Westeros’s eligible women the time to reach marriageable age. Primary amongst these potential wives is Mya Stone. She’s one of Robert’s many bastard daughters, and although Ned would take a small prestige hit for marrying her, she’s a better option than most. I write a list to weigh up her pros and cons.



She’s attractive! But she’s scarred. She’s gregarious! But envious. She’s a poet! But she’s greedy. With a surfeit of ladies to choose from she’d be mid-table, but my woman-cupboard is bare. As is sensible when deciding to spend the rest of your life with someone, I shrug, consider the worst that could happen, and ask her to marry me.
"I shrug, consider the worst that could happen, and ask her to marry me."
She accepts quickly and I prepare Winterfell for a wedding feast, to which I invite all my vassals. They’re joined by a troop of wandering jongleurs, in off the street. I hate jongleurs, but for some reason having them there jongling around while my guests eat is worth five prestige points. I let them in on the proviso that they don’t jongle anywhere near me, and get down to the serious business of stuffing my lordly face with capons to demonstrate how virile I am to my new wife.

The wedding clears out, my servants clear up, and I bundle the jongleurs out into the cold Winterfell night. I’m still riding a post-disease, post-marriage high, so when an invite comes in to attend a tournament I accept, and take part in the jousting competition. I bring my new wife along and show off to her by using a ten-foot pole to whack another man carrying a ten-foot pole off a horse. Apparently she likes that, as she’s pregnant within the month.

I’m finding life with Mya charmingly simple. It took Ned and Catelyn years to truly love each other; within a few months I was given the option to buy Mya a set of earrings that apparently made me utterly irresistible. Mya’s now in love with me – either Crusader Kings II has a strange view on women or I’ve married a materialistic idiot.





Elsewhere in love, Tyrion’s marriage with Asha Greyjoy is going so well that he’s decided to become chaste, and Robb and Daenerys have just squeezed out their second child. They name this one Bran, another bit of nominative copycattery. I thought naming the first one Eddard was sweet, but now I’m worried Robb might just be terminally uncreative.
"I’m worried Robb might be terminally uncreative."
Robb’s also an ultra-wuss. He comes to me and asks for an honorary title, giving him some glory but meaning he’ll not have to do much. I decide to pick the burliest honorary title I have, and make him Master of the Hunt, assuming he’ll get some fresh air without cocking anything up.

It takes him two months to cock it up spectacularly, getting himself kidnapped while on duty. I imagine he fell into a big net while backing away from his own shadow. Luckily, Daddy’s here to go and save him. Being a burly Northman, I wave off the hired help and sally forth to go and bash the Robb-nappers up. I bring him – and a boatload of personal prestige – back to the castle at Winterfell, where I’m greeted by Mya and our new baby that she managed to pop out while I was out on rescue duty.



It’s a girl! As demonstrated by the birth of baby Batman, I’ve run out of girl’s names. Instead, I remember back to Robb’s naming conventions and how pleased I was to hear about my namesake grandson. In a move of tremendous egotism, I call my seventh child Nednina.
"Robb is crowing for some land of his own, and baby Batman needs a guardian."
It’s a tumultuous time for my kids. Bran’s reached an age where he can move in with his betrothed, so I send him packing off to the Vale to live with Pia – reminding him before he goes to knock before entering Lannister bedrooms. Sansa’s had what Crusader Kings II describes as her ‘bleedings’, and can therefore be married off for my own benefit; Robb is crowing for some land of his own, and baby Batman needs a guardian. I think there’s something backwards about that last one, but I let it slide and assign her education to the Maester. There are no eligible bachelors around at the moment so Sansa will have to wait, but a turn of events means I can help Robb.

One of my vassals, Daryn of Hornwood, has been caught plotting. I’ve been rash in my reactions to these kinds of plots before, but this one is a legitimate cause for concern: he’s trying to fabricate claims to the entire North, making him Lord and usurping the Stark family. This can’t stand, and I send a group of goons to duff him up and bring him back to me. They succeed in the former but fail in the latter, and Daryn escapes to put together an army.



A fight! It’s only a small one, but it’s a fight, something my men – and me – have been desperate for since I started to wear Ned’s skin. Daryn flits about his corner of the North, sacking small towns and moving on. I set Hornwood itself as my prize, and install my troops around the castle walls, starving Daryn’s pals out.
"A fight! It’s only a small one, but it’s a fight."
It’s not long before the upstart himself appears; he approaches me on the field of battle and I batter him around the head. My army takes him prisoner, I take his town, and before he can say anything seditious to his cellmate I chop off his head with my super-sword, Ice. His baby son comes to me, asking for his rightful land – at least I think that’s what he was asking, he’s two years old and there’s a lot of raspberry blowing – and I deny him outright. Hornwood is now mine. Shortly afterwards, it becomes Robb’s. My firstborn is happy, and at the cost of just one rebel head.

This is a great success for Ned: spotting a plot and stopping it in his tracks shows how he’s grown as a duplicitous, cynical sneak – exactly how I wanted to play him. I’m proud. Proud until I come home to Winterfell, and find Mya putting something strange in my wine glass. Mya likes me 100, and I like her 97: as close to a perfect match as possible. But, as I check the plot menu to confirm my fears, I see that Mya Stone – my new bride and the mother of my youngest baby – wants me dead.

So I married a murderer. Now what?

Can Ned survive his wife? Find out next Sunday in PART FIVE of the Game of Thrones diary.

Rich's rules: 1. Play as ruler of the North, Ned Stark. 2. Don't die. 3. No honour, only backstabbing. 4. I'd really like not to die, please.

Welcome to the Game of Thrones diary, in which Rich plays as Ned Stark and tries to stay alive in the excellent Game of Thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. The diary may contain spoilers for Game of Thrones book one and season one of the TV show. Missed the start? Here's part one, part two and part three.

My wife is dead and I am sad. Catelyn Stark died last month, and Ned Stark – still ruler of the North of Westeros, and still alive at my hands – is in some serious mourning. Crusader Kings II codifies that mourning in the form of negative character traits: my Ned is now ‘depressed’, ‘chaste’, and a ‘widower’ – traits that conspire to make him about as fertile as a socially awkward panda. That’s a problem when Crusader Kings II’s explicit aim is to create as strong a dynasty as possible, and my eldest son Robb is useless in a fight, diplomatic or otherwise.

Ned’s sad right now but I’m confident, thanks to some Wiki reading, that his malaise will lift. I’ll get over Catelyn, shake off my temporary chasteness and get back to the business of making strong little babies to continue the Stark name. But to do that, I need a new wife.

That’s another problem. Ned’s a Lord, meaning that he’ll be wanting to marry into one of Westeros’s powerful families: the Tyrells, the Arryns, the Baratheons, that class of people. If Ned was to marry someone beneath the Starks in terms of influence, I’d take a massive hit to my prestige – and prestige is the main measure of success in Crusader Kings II. But these similarly highborn families have already been stripped of their eligible womenfolk. Even Asha Greyjoy, hard-faced daughter of piratical plunderer Balon Greyjoy, is married - to Tyrion Lannister, no less.



Shuddering at the thought of their brittle, political union, I scan around Westerosi highborn family trees. I find almost everyone is taken or dead, except for one: Pia Arryn, the daughter of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully. Lysa is Catelyn’s sister, lending an air of creepy serendipity to a potential betrothal, but more importantly, she’s currently the first in line to the Arryn lordship. With it, command of Westeros’s eastern Vale, one of the continent’s seven kingdoms. Excited, I check her relationship status. She’s single! Brilliant, I’ve found a second wife for Ned after only a few months of searching, and she’s soon-to-be head of one of the world’s most powerful families. I click through to the ‘suggest marriage’ menu and start to draw up wedding terms, when I realise there’s a small problem with my plan.

"I’m 38, with six kids and a dead wife."

Pia is eight years old. I’m 38, with six kids and a dead wife. I’ve seen the world, I’ve cut off my best friend’s head with a sword; my potential bride is probably still learning how to tie her shoelaces. I understand these unions are necessary for the peace of the land, but a 30-year age gap might be a bit too far. What would we talk about? She’s an 8290s kid, all my references are from the 8260s. I cancel the wedding proposal.

But this is business. Ned’s not the only one in the family currently unattached. My son Bran is single, and crucially, not 38 years old. He’s about the same age as her, able to talk to her about wooden blocks or skateboards or kicking a severed head around a courtyard, whatever it is Westerosi kids like talking about. In the interests of getting his dad as much glory as humanly possible, I lock him into an arranged marriage with Pia. I like to think I’ve convinced the Arryns that marrying Bran off to Pia was my plan all along, but I imagine they’re probably watching me head back up the road to Winterfell with the kind of shifty eyes reserved for 38-year-old men who try to show off to eight-year-old girls.



I’m happy for Bran – who, thanks to a careful regimen of not hanging around in windows while the Lannisters are visiting, has retained the use of his legs – but Ned is still flying solo, and is not getting any younger. This fact is further drilled home when I get notification that I’ve contracted a severe illness.

"Maesters are basically pigeon fanciers in whizzo robes"

It’s a gutpunch. The closest Westeros gets to doctors are its Maesters, and they’re basically pigeon fanciers in whizzo robes. My chances of survival are lessened by my advancing years, and the lengthy winter that’s already killing a good proportion of my northern populace. I pause the game, take a deep breath, and make preparations for my end.

Good news arrives on my apparent deathbed. Robb and Daenerys have had their first child, and it’s a son. They’ve named it Eddard. In my weakened state, I find this act of tribute surprisingly emotional: I picture stoic Ned wiping away a single tear as his firstborn boy tells him of his news; in reality, I Alt+Tab to look at a picture of a cat that’s very attached to cheeseburgers.

Proud of my grandson, I check little Eddard’s character sheet and find a honkingly huge negative character modifier in place already. It seems that as a child born of Targaryen parents – Dany’s familial house, which famously married brother with sister – he’s a child of incest. The poor bugger is only a few days old, and half the populace already hate him.





Fortunately, his lineage also means that he’ll likely develop positive traits to balance out the innate disadvantages. Dany is one of the Game of Thrones mod’s best characters, and I believe her son will do well. I call Robb to my deathbed and beckon him closer, ready to say my farewells and wish him the best – he’ll be the character I control next when Ned passes. I croak out the beginning of a goodbye when another tooltip pops up.

"Lying in bed and hacking my guts up has made Ned super-horny."

Ned’s better. I’ve been cured of my disease and am back to full strength. Not only am I healthy again, but I’ve shed my depression and chasteness. Lying in bed and hacking my guts up has made Ned super-horny. I leap out of bed and sprint past Robb, eager to get back to the business of ruling the North and finding a wife.

The former is still easy. The people of the North are a contented bunch compared with those further down Westeros. I’m notified of constant rebellions, with the most unruly territory seeming to be a place called Dalston, in the far south. Presumably Robert’s regnum hasn’t kept the region as well stocked with brightly coloured Ray-Ban ripoffs and tight red trousers as they would like: I count three open attacks on the King’s armies in a few months.

The latter is tougher, but the possibility of nabbing a spouse is growing more promising as the years go on. Ned’s illness has given some of Westeros’s eligible women the time to reach marriageable age. Primary amongst these potential wives is Mya Stone. She’s one of Robert’s many bastard daughters, and although Ned would take a small prestige hit for marrying her, she’s a better option than most. I write a list to weigh up her pros and cons.



She’s attractive! But she’s scarred. She’s gregarious! But envious. She’s a poet! But she’s greedy. With a surfeit of ladies to choose from she’d be mid-table, but my woman-cupboard is bare. As is sensible when deciding to spend the rest of your life with someone, I shrug, consider the worst that could happen, and ask her to marry me.

"I shrug, consider the worst that could happen, and ask her to marry me."

She accepts quickly and I prepare Winterfell for a wedding feast, to which I invite all my vassals. They’re joined by a troop of wandering jongleurs, in off the street. I hate jongleurs, but for some reason having them there jongling around while my guests eat is worth five prestige points. I let them in on the proviso that they don’t jongle anywhere near me, and get down to the serious business of stuffing my lordly face with capons to demonstrate how virile I am to my new wife.

The wedding clears out, my servants clear up, and I bundle the jongleurs out into the cold Winterfell night. I’m still riding a post-disease, post-marriage high, so when an invite comes in to attend a tournament I accept, and take part in the jousting competition. I bring my new wife along and show off to her by using a ten-foot pole to whack another man carrying a ten-foot pole off a horse. Apparently she likes that, as she’s pregnant within the month.

I’m finding life with Mya charmingly simple. It took Ned and Catelyn years to truly love each other; within a few months I was given the option to buy Mya a set of earrings that apparently made me utterly irresistible. Mya’s now in love with me – either Crusader Kings II has a strange view on women or I’ve married a materialistic idiot.





Elsewhere in love, Tyrion’s marriage with Asha Greyjoy is going so well that he’s decided to become chaste, and Robb and Daenerys have just squeezed out their second child. They name this one Bran, another bit of nominative copycattery. I thought naming the first one Eddard was sweet, but now I’m worried Robb might just be terminally uncreative.

"I’m worried Robb might be terminally uncreative."

Robb’s also an ultra-wuss. He comes to me and asks for an honorary title, giving him some glory but meaning he’ll not have to do much. I decide to pick the burliest honorary title I have, and make him Master of the Hunt, assuming he’ll get some fresh air without cocking anything up.

It takes him two months to cock it up spectacularly, getting himself kidnapped while on duty. I imagine he fell into a big net while backing away from his own shadow. Luckily, Daddy’s here to go and save him. Being a burly Northman, I wave off the hired help and sally forth to go and bash the Robb-nappers up. I bring him – and a boatload of personal prestige – back to the castle at Winterfell, where I’m greeted by Mya and our new baby that she managed to pop out while I was out on rescue duty.



It’s a girl! As demonstrated by the birth of baby Batman, I’ve run out of girl’s names. Instead, I remember back to Robb’s naming conventions and how pleased I was to hear about my namesake grandson. In a move of tremendous egotism, I call my seventh child Nednina.

"Robb is crowing for some land of his own, and baby Batman needs a guardian."

It’s a tumultuous time for my kids. Bran’s reached an age where he can move in with his betrothed, so I send him packing off to the Vale to live with Pia – reminding him before he goes to knock before entering Lannister bedrooms. Sansa’s had what Crusader Kings II describes as her ‘bleedings’, and can therefore be married off for my own benefit; Robb is crowing for some land of his own, and baby Batman needs a guardian. I think there’s something backwards about that last one, but I let it slide and assign her education to the Maester. There are no eligible bachelors around at the moment so Sansa will have to wait, but a turn of events means I can help Robb.

One of my vassals, Daryn of Hornwood, has been caught plotting. I’ve been rash in my reactions to these kinds of plots before, but this one is a legitimate cause for concern: he’s trying to fabricate claims to the entire North, making him Lord and usurping the Stark family. This can’t stand, and I send a group of goons to duff him up and bring him back to me. They succeed in the former but fail in the latter, and Daryn escapes to put together an army.



A fight! It’s only a small one, but it’s a fight, something my men – and me – have been desperate for since I started to wear Ned’s skin. Daryn flits about his corner of the North, sacking small towns and moving on. I set Hornwood itself as my prize, and install my troops around the castle walls, starving Daryn’s pals out.

"A fight! It’s only a small one, but it’s a fight."

It’s not long before the upstart himself appears; he approaches me on the field of battle and I batter him around the head. My army takes him prisoner, I take his town, and before he can say anything seditious to his cellmate I chop off his head with my super-sword, Ice. His baby son comes to me, asking for his rightful land – at least I think that’s what he was asking, he’s two years old and there’s a lot of raspberry blowing – and I deny him outright. Hornwood is now mine. Shortly afterwards, it becomes Robb’s. My firstborn is happy, and at the cost of just one rebel head.

This is a great success for Ned: spotting a plot and stopping it in his tracks shows how he’s grown as a duplicitous, cynical sneak – exactly how I wanted to play him. I’m proud. Proud until I come home to Winterfell, and find Mya putting something strange in my wine glass. Mya likes me 100, and I like her 97: as close to a perfect match as possible. But, as I check the plot menu to confirm my fears, I see that Mya Stone – my new bride and the mother of my youngest baby – wants me dead.

So I married a murderer. Now what?

Can Ned survive his wife? Find out next Sunday in PART FIVE of the Game of Thrones diary.

Rich's rules: 1. Play as ruler of the North, Ned Stark. 2. Don't die. 3. No honour, only backstabbing. 4. I'd really like not to die, please.

Welcome to the Game of Thrones diary, in which Rich plays as Ned Stark and tries to stay alive in the excellent Game of Thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. The diary may contain spoilers for Game of Thrones book one and season one of the TV show. Missed the start? Here's part one, and part two.

For the Old Gods’ sake Robert, can you please let someone else have some fun? No sooner have I re-rallied my northern forces (for the second time in as many months) with the express intention of crushing Mace Tyrell’s bid for kingship (also the second in as many months), than Robert beats him up in battle and puts him in his castle. The last time Robert did this, he let Mace go after a stern telling off, patting him on the Tyrell posterior and asking him nicely not to rebel again. Mace, being head of one of Westeros’s most powerful families and ‘Ambitious’ by nature – by character sheet anyway – immediately made another bid for the kingship.

Robert isn’t going to make the same mistake again. Out comes old headlopper, and Mace is no more, executed on Baratheon turf for his repeated treasons. My armies, raised from local peasantry and armed with northern steel – and some sticks and pitchforks – have to once again lay down arms and go back to their respective villages, their swords and pointy objects boringly blood-free. I feel bad. I promised these guys a war – several, really – but my remoteness in comparison to the rest of Westeros means I’m always the warmaid, never the warbastard.

I’m back at Winterfell a few days later when I get a notification that Jeor the Old Bear has been killed. Jeor wasn’t an actual old bear – at least I hope he wasn’t. Instead, he was my Master at Arms, the man (or bear?) responsible for maintaining my armies and garrisons. I would be OK with his death, he was old after all (and also maybe a bear), but the tooltip mentions he died in a suspicious accident. That’s Crusader Kings-ese for ‘someone’s done a plot’. I wonder if it’s one of my bloodthirsty peasants, annoyed at me for making him dress up in all his armour and then take it off again before he got to stab anything. Time to make shifty eyes at everyone in Winterfell’s streets and to swing my sword arm around menacingly, just in case anyone else has plotty plans.



The Old Bear’s death (seriously, I would’ve noticed if he was a bear) seems to have awakened strong feelings in Ned: suddenly I realise – by means of popup window - that I love my wife Catelyn. It’s probably for the best, given that I’ve had four children by her already and have been married for years, but it also helps give my relationship some spice and buffs to fertility. Those buffs manifest themselves quickly: Catelyn is impregnated by my now-loving Ned.

"Bolton’s people are being terrorised by something called an ‘Army of Pate’."

While I’m revelling in my newfound adoration for the woman I’ve been sleeping next to for the past ten years, the north is going a bit wrong. Peasants on Bear Island have started revolting against my rule. The problem is, I don’t really know how to stop them. I stroke my chin and consider their motivations for kicking off, coming to the conclusion that they’re probably angry because of all the bears. I know how you feel, Bear Islanders, I had one working for me until recently! Those duplicitous eight-foot killing machines. I resolve to help my people, and click around my council menu until I find the option for ‘subdue revolt’, sending one of my closest men over to pacify my peasants.

I’m getting more worrying news from the lands of Roose Bolton, lord of the Dreadfort and my Spymaster. Bolton’s people are being terrorised by something called an ‘Army of Pate’. Bears I can handle, but an enemy made entirely of coarse meaty paste is scarier than anything that could come over the Wall. I decide to leave this one to Bolton and co, and resolve to stay away from the Dreadfort. It doesn’t take long before the clinical Roose smashes the army apart, imprisons their leader, and, presumably, spreads his remains on toast.





Back in Winterfell, my son Robb has come of age. He’s got a real face now – Crusader Kings II has a marked distinction between its child and adult portraits – which means it’s time for him to get a wife. As his dad, I’m chief wifepicker, and get to travel the continent asking women if they fancy my 16- year-old boy. Fortunately, as lord of the north, that question isn’t as creepy to Westerosi women as you might think, and most jump at the chance. The best option would be to marry Robb off to the daughter of one of the continent’s lords, but they all seem to be either married or dead. Neither is ideal. I widen my net and idly follow a few potential leads through to the “eh, how about it?” screen. They’re nice girls, but they’re all from lower families than Ned’s, and the wedding would cost me a good chunk of prestige (the closest thing CKII has to a score).

"It’s not a boy. It’s a girl. I decide to name her Batman."

Then a familiar name catches my eye. She’s not a landed lady any more, but Daenerys Targaryen’s family is one of the most prestigious in Westeros. Sure, her dad was famously insane and her brother got killed by having molten gold poured onto his head by a horse-obsessed guy in eyeliner, but Dany’s got her head screwed on straight, and – at least in the fiction – comes with three dragony bonuses. Excited, I pause time so no one else can snap her up, and suggest a marriage to Robb. She accepts, and I make preparations for welcoming one of A Song of Ice and Fire’s most important characters into my home. I had been worried about Robb: unlike the canonical Stark son, my Robb is cowardly and a bit rubbish at commanding troops. Marrying Dany is a great move. She’s ‘Attractive’, ‘Quick’, and a ‘Genius’. Ned’s positive traits may have missed Robb’s generation, but I’ve now got a good chance of producing a strong grandson to carry on the Stark line.

Ned’s doing a good job of carrying on that line himself. Catelyn pops out her fifth baby shortly after Robb’s betrothal. I’ve already had Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran. Were I to continue my slavishness to ASoIaF’s canon, this one should be a boy, and I should name it Rickon. It’s not a boy. It’s a girl. I decide to name her Batman.



Meanwhile, more trouble is brewing. For all the Game of Thrones mod’s brilliance, it can be a little unrealistic, nobles rising up against people who they’re a tiny bit miffed at, no matter their chances of success.

"I decide to accept the invitation to a tournament."

Sweetsister is the tiniest of the Sisters: a group of tiny, windswept islands nestled off Westeros’s eastern seaboard. Its leader has just declared war on Robert, king of all Westeros and a man who’s really keen on not only killing challengers, but mounting their heads on things. It takes the poor idiots of Sweetsister a fair while to actually make landfall with their miniscule army, all the while Robert’s troops are stood at the shore, idly planning all the interesting ways they’ll get to stab the rebels. I half-heartedly try and join in, aiming to get to Sweetsister itself before they land on the continent, but I can’t figure out how to do boats, and my expeditionary force gets stuck at the coast before being disbanded.

Sick of failing to get into fights, I decide to accept the invitation to a tournament. This one’s taking place on the newly subdued Bear Island, and isn’t organised by bears in a sneaky attempt to kill me when I’m not expecting it. I checked. Crusader Kings II’s tournaments offer the chance to earn prestige for your family, and Ned’s combat character bonuses always come in handy. I win the melee, and come home covered in glory. And blood.



I’m fresh from the festivities when I learn Daenerys and Robb are to be married in a few days. I opt for a wedding feast: I don’t need to show off for the in-laws as they’re inbred, insane and dead, but a lord of the north should never turn down the chance for a capon or two. I invite all my favourite people of the north, and devise a seating plan that puts me as far away from Roose Bolton as possible. The wedding itself is beautiful. Probably. Crusader Kings II doesn’t model it beyond informing me that it happened. Dany moves into my castle. She doesn’t have direct access to her dragons in the mod, but then I can’t help but feel that having three fire-breathing monsters in my castle mainly made of wood is a bad idea in any case. Still, at least my first-born son is married, and my line will continue. Now I just need to find him some land.

"Jon Snow is my bastard, and a total wuss."

All this attention on Robb is getting my second-born’s back up. Jon Snow is my bastard, and a total wuss. My attendance at the Bear Island tournament prompts him to ask me to stop risking my life so often. I give him a noogie and punch him in the arm, taking the time to suggest he is a capon. We in the north practise the old ways.

Beyond Jon’s bleating, all is fairly quiet at home in Winterfell – at least until I get the notification that Jorah Mormont has been captured and killed by peasants. Jorah is Jeor’s son – Dany’s protector in the fiction– and as good a soldier as you’d expect someone who may or may not have had a bear for a dad to be. To have him lynched by peasants is unlucky: one of CKII’s lower probability events that can topple a wobbly regime without proper preparation. Fortunately, my court’s big enough that I’m able to appoint another skilled Master at Arms: my third in a year.





Another council spot is quickly vacated as Maester Luwin snuffs it. There’s no foul play or peasant murdering here: Luwin was just really old, and the north’s continuing winter finished him off. Maesters are ASoIaF’s scientists and teachers, and are trained down in Oldtown in the extreme southwest of Westeros. When one dies, the lord can send for a replacement. Mine doesn’t take too long to turn up.

"I find Tyrion Lannister not only married, but married to Asha Greyjoy"

I get lucky: he’s a ‘Mastermind Scholar’. He’s also ‘Shy’, and ‘Rude’. Nevertheless, I ask him to start teaching my kids how to do stuff, and with a muttered “fuck off” and a red face, he goes about his duties.

Westeros remains peaceful for a spell, and I spend my time looking for the series’ major characters, using the map like a fantasy medieval version of Facebook. I find Tyrion Lannister not only married, but married to Asha Greyjoy, daughter of Balon, lord of the Iron Islands. I can’t think of a more mismatched pair, and imagine bounding up the Winterfell stairs to tell my lady love Catelyn the news when a popup appears.

‘Catelyn Stark has died.’



I’m stunned. I – not Ned, me – sit in silence for a while. I pause the flow of time and Alt-Tab out from Crusader Kings II, rocked by the news. I flit back to the game and confirm her death. She died of natural causes at age 34. Her face on her character sheet – the mother of Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, and little Batman – is tarnished by a little skull symbol in the corner, her braided red hair only just starting to fade with age. Ned had only come to love her this year, but she was a constant companion for my time in Westeros. She’d helped me avoid narrative determinism, avoid the blade that should’ve canonically chopped Ned’s head off. Survival was hard enough when we were in this together, and now I was in this alone.

"The light in Ned’s eyes grows dim."

The light in Ned’s eyes grows dim. The game puts him in mourning and lumbers him with depressive, widower traits. A short time afterwards, Ned becomes ‘Chaste’. I ‘don’t feel comfortable touching other human beings’ with my wife gone.

For a time I embrace Ned’s sadness and toy with the idea of reloading an old save when Catelyn was still alive. It’s a bastard that snaps me out of my funk. One of my illegitimate children – I swear I don’t remember anything your honour – comes to me and asks to be legitimised. With Catelyn gone I incur no spousal wrath for my infidelity, so I accept the claim. I realise that although Ned might have lost his wife, he hasn’t yet lost his life: he’s still a virile young man at 38, and – more pragmatically – my two oldest sons are massive nerds blessed with some of life’s most useless traits. It’s time to put myself back on the market.

Return next Sunday for PART FOUR of the Game of Thrones diary.

Rich's rules: 1. Play as ruler of the North, Ned Stark. 2. Don't die. 3. No honour, only backstabbing. 4. I'd really like not to die, please.

Welcome to the Game of Thrones diary, in which Rich plays as Ned Stark and tries to stay alive in the excellent Game of Thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. Missed the start? Here's part one.

Ned Stark has killed hundreds of people – including, last week, one of his best mates for a minor transgression. But Ned always stared in their faces as he lopped their heads off, never breaking eye contact as their heads bounced around on the floor like bony footballs. I’m about to make him take a life by nefarious, sneaky means, and I feel bad.

Ned is boss of Westeros’s North, and looks after a vast swathe of land. But I wasn’t happy with the size of his territory. I wanted more for Ned. Last week, I decided he would do whatever it took to increase his holdings – even if that meant taking a life to get at that land.

That land was to be the Twins, the fortified stronghold directly south of Ned’s southernmost territory, and that life was to be Stevron Frey’s. Stevron is Lord of the Twins, and the head of a gigantic family several hundred cousins deep. The downside: there are so many Freys milling about that killing one would just see another step into its place like a many-headed hydra. The upside: being forced to live in a castle alongside your 40-odd siblings puts stresses on familial bonds.



Crusader Kings II’s plots need backers to work. After opening CKII’s Intrigue menu and selecting a bid to kill Stevron, I waded through a list of 30 members of his own family that were not only keen to see him dead, they were also happy to help me kill him. I bet Christmas was great fun at the Frey household. I selected ten of them and fired off requests to formally join my plot. “Dear sir/madam: would you like to help me kill your dad? Please RSVP, yes/no/maybe to This Guy Up North as soon as possible.” I got ten positive replies within a few days. The plot was on – and, thanks to the plotters’ power, it had a 107 per cent chance of succeeding! I was expecting old Stevvers to meet with an unfortunate accident later that afternoon, as his kids queued up to push him down the stairs.

But that afternoon turned to days, and days turned to in-game weeks. Still Stevron clung on in the face of multiple patricide attempts. I wondered if part of the problem was Ned himself: great at war, boss Stark isn’t the sneakiest tool in the shed, and has an innately sucky Intrigue score. I considered calling off the plot, but without a claim on the Twins – a reasonable justification for war in CKII’s robo-eyes – I had no way of hurting the Freys. And for many reasons, I really want to hurt the Freys. I’ll just have to bide my time.

My attention is quickly snaffled by another family: the Tullys. Eighteen-year-old Edmure Tully, natural heir to Westeros’s central Riverlands lordship, has declared war on King Robert and marched on King’s Landing. Robert, in turn, has raised his allies in the south, west, and east to rebuff the invaders, and presumably do things to Edmure that involve disengaging his head from his neck and mounting it on something pointy. Robert has also asked for my assistance in bashing down the young upstart, but there’s one problem: Edmure is my brother-in-law.



Ned’s wife Catelyn is a Tully, and Edmure is her younger brother. So when Robert – Ned’s best pal, commander of by far the largest fighting force in Westeros, and temperamental shit at the best of times – comes a-knocking to secure the support of the North’s armies, I’m forced to stall for time. I open my hands, shuffle my feet around, and select the ‘maybe I’ll wait a little bit before deciding’ option in the prompt that pops up. Robert immediately loses ten ‘fondness’ for me, but at least I’ve not pissed off the bearer of (most) of my children. I hope Edmure sorts himself out before Robert’s army crashes down around him, for both our sakes.

But Edmure doesn’t. The war rages on, the land south of the Neck tumultuous with military movements. The Riverlands can call on many vassals, and have fielded a large army. Robert’s is bigger, but has to stream over slowly from all corners of Westeros. Small scraps chip away at both sides’ resolve, and Robert is forced to come back to the North, begging for an army. With a mouthed “sorry” to Catelyn, I decide to acquiesce: Robert’s opinion of me is waning, and I’d rather be best friends with the continent’s ruler than have to hang around with the in-laws.

Characters in Crusader Kings II don’t get standing armies; instead they have levies, fighting men who can be raised come wartime, and sunk back into the general populace in times of peace. To join Robert’s war, I need to raise all my levies from my many different vassals, and then join them into a collective force. I start to mass them in the Neck, just north of the Twins. I’m wondering if they can maybe sneak into Stevron Frey’s bedroom and give him a good scare on the way down south, when I spy a little notifier in the top right of the screen: “Stevron Frey has died.”





My plot was a success! I dig deeper into the menus. “Stevron Frey has died of natural causes. He was 78.”

Great plotting, idiots. Together, 11 of us couldn’t kill a frail old man when most of the plotters live in the same house as him. In an impotent rage, I dial up another plot against the new head of the Frey family – Ryman – and send plot party invites to another ten people. They accept within days, and I close the menu in disgust. Ryman’s young and crafty; my gang of plotters couldn’t murder a roast capon.

I need to take my frustration out on something. Luckily, by now I have 40,000 men armed with various killing devices stationed a few miles north of Edmure’s belligerent armies. I select them all and aim them south, marching them into the Riverlands. Northmen, to war! My brave men are crossing the Twins when I am notified that the war’s off. Edmure’s team lost, Robert’s won. Robert was fine dealing with Edmure solo, he just thought I might fancy the fight.

Edmure’s taken captive, sits in a dungeon for a few days, and then gets his head chopped off for his rebellion, dead at 18. I sheepishly disband my levies and make the trek back to Winterfell. I think Catelyn and I will be sleeping in separate beds tonight.



I’m laying on Winterfell’s version of a couch – probably made of straw or something – when my spymaster tells me that Ryman Frey has been successfully assassinated. This is brilliant news, made only better by the manner in which he was killed: my plotters filled a room directly beneath his seat with manure, and lit it when the methane built up. I have literally shit a man up. This is Ned’s first sniff of subterfuge and – despite the poo – it smells good.

It looks like Ned won’t be able to wash the stink of intrigue off before people come nosing, though. The farmer that sold my plotters the barrels of dung has dobbed me in, I’ve lost 100 piety (one of the ways CKII tots up your score at the end of your reign) and now the rest of the Freys are demanding vengeance – wrong one of Crusader Kings II’s families, and their other members will carry a grudge in their character sheets. You can be as friendly, as kind as you like to them in an effort to raise their opinion of you, but if they find out you blew up their grandad with liquid shit, then their disposition toward you is forever tainted.

It’s the same problem I had with Meera Reed last week, after I killed her dad. But Meera was one eight-year-old girl, the last of her line; she would have a hard time gaining enough support to bump me off. The Freys are a more worrying proposition. There are more Freys knocking about than capons at a wedding feast, and a good proportion of them hate me. There’s only one thing I can rely on – and that’s that the only people the Freys hate more than me is other Freys. I hatch another plot to kill the newest boss Frey, and invite another dozen of his family members to help out.





Meanwhile, Edmure Tully’s rebellion seems to have energised the populace into tantrum-throwing. Scores of tiny provinces rebel – not only against their local lord, but against Robert in particular. I watch from the peaceful North as the miniature province of Brownhollow tries to take Robert’s armies down singlehandedly, before being effectively wiped from Westeros’s map, its lordship given to one of Robert’s own children as punishment. The Lannisters, in particular, are suffering from ornery locals. Familial head Tywin died a year back of “extreme stress” and the lordship went to Tyrion, who’s a shrewd and cunning manipulator but also “ugly” and mistrusted by a good number of the people he has to deal with daily. Rebellions spring up regularly, turning Westeros’s West into a constant battleground.

Things are more peaceful in the North. I while away my time watching the affairs of the southron lords and accepting my spymaster Roose Bolton’s requests to go and watch executions. The guy is totally mad for them, and has asked me at least three times if he can stand in the front row as some poor bread thief gets hanged. He’s probably not the kind of guy I want near my kids, but fortunately I’ve got him further south, sowing seeds of malcontent in and around the Twins. Two Freys down, about a million to go.

Edmure might’ve been a hot-headed whelp, but it seems his insurrection has galvanised some of the bigger political players down south. Mace Tyrell – Lord of the Reach, one of Westeros’s biggest regions – suddenly decides to usurp Robert’s authority altogether and declare himself king. This conflict will be more difficult to resolve than the Tully tussle: the Tyrell family is stacked with impressive individuals, from duplicitous Margaery to super-knight Loras. Even Mace himself ain’t too bad in a fight, even if he is overly proud of it.



Fortunately I have no direct ties with the Tyrells, so there’s no dilemma about supporting Robert when he comes asking for my armies. I knock on the doors of 40,000 men and rustle up an army in no time. I decide to mass north of the Twins again, but this time I move my forces in small clumps so I don’t have to wait for the northernmost men to finish the week-long trek south. This time I’m not going to be left out of the fighting, especially when CKII’s rulers take note of how effectively you’ve helped them, and will sometimes issue territory as a reward.

I’m moving my first force across the Twins when I get another notifier. Mace Tyrell has been captured, and the war’s off. For the Old Gods’ sake Robert, do you want to leave some for the rest of us? I wearily wave off my troops and trudge back to Winterfell.

I’m expecting Robert to snick Mace’s head off, but he lets the usurper rot in jail. While dungeon-bound, Mace takes the chance to create a new faction: it’s called ‘Mace Tyrell for the Reach’. That’s wishful thinking, Mace, but bless you for trying.



Robert must’ve found it cute, too, because he inexplicably lets Mace go – and gives him a pat on the bum and seats him back in his previous position, as Lord of the Reach. Good move, Robert. Surely this grasping opportunist with vast armies at his disposal won’t try anything rebellious again. I’m starting to understand how Robert has earned himself the suffix ‘the Rash’ from his few years in charge of Westeros.

I’m nervy about the situation, and my men – who’ve been north and south of the Twins like pike-armed yo-yos – are spoiling for a real fight. My ‘raise levy’ trigger finger is itching, and it doesn’t take a month to find the source. Mace once more declares himself king and marches on King’s Landing, this time with half of the Riverlands in tow. Time to finally get Ned’s sword mucky.

Return next Sunday for PART THREE of the Game of Thrones diary.

Victory or Valhall! With the release of Crusader Kings II: The Old Gods, the time has come once again to weave a stirring saga of war, love, betrayal, and adventure. This is the Crusader Kings Chronicle: Lords of the North.

Last week, after weathering attempt after attempt to bring it to heel, the House of Stórr forged a throne, and Ragnarr Þórólfrsson became King Ragnarr I of Norway. Claiming descent from the Norse thunder god, Thor, he proclaimed his blood-right to rule over all the North, and began mustering his forces to attack and subjugate King Björn Ironside of Sweden, son of legendary viking Ragnarr Loðbrok.



Thunder's sons are rising! Onward!

Get caught up: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3.

Missed the original Crusader Kings Chronicle? Have a read!





The red and black banner of Stórr flew from dozens of ships as the spring of 898 rose. 5000 men had taken oar, eager to fight for the Wolf in the West, the scion of Thor, the new King of Norway. They came ashore in the lands of Björn Ragnarsson and marched from the sea with a terrible purpose, believing the gods were on their side, and wishing to see their leader crowned as liege lord to all Norsemen. By the 19th of July, King Björn's hall at Håtuna in Uppland had fallen. But the Son of Loðbrok was swift and clever, maneuvering his armies through the forests of Sweden and evading capture. He remembered well his defeat to Ragnarr under King Þórólfr's reign, and was not eager to make the same mistakes again.

It wasn't until January 899, in the heart of winter, that Ragnarr finally lured Björn into a trap with what was meant to look like a small, vulnerable scouting force. In reality, the bulk of his army had been hiding in a blizzard, where their fires could not be seen, and their icy jaws closed around their bold opponents. 2100 of Björn's men were slain at Borgnäs, to only 850 of Ragnarr's. The Swedish king's hopes were crushed, but still he fell back with his remaining men and melted into the countryside.



In late March of 900, the arrival of a new century brought sorrowful news for Ragnarr: His younger and only brother, Jarl Sveinn of Nordland, had died under suspicious circumstances, childless, at 22. Ragnarr grieved, and swore that if the killer was ever found, they would be punished. As his son Rikulfr was too young to govern, Ragnarr reluctantly gave his house's ancient homelands to Hroðulfr Einarsson, a Shetlander known to be wise with finances... though he kept Tröndelag for himself.



My dynasty is currently still small, meaning a few turns of bad luck could leave me with no heirs—and that's Game Over in Crusader Kings II. Losing a brother before he could add to our line is unfortunate, especially having only one son myself. It may soon be time to take advantage of the Norse religion's allowance for concubines, to make sure the bloodline survives.





As the summer of 900 drew on, the situation was becoming more complicated. Ragnarr had taken the hall of Jarl Vagn of Smáland, Björn's most powerful vassal. Ragnarr's wife, High Chieftess Freyja of Austergautland, had successfully brought her jarldom (once owing fealty to Sweden) into the fold. In the far North of Sweden, the Sami chieftains who had once followed Björn were rebelling for independence, knowing the Swedish King no longer had the men to keep them in line. And yet, the Son of Loðbrok still refused surrender.

It soon became clear why Björn was holding out hope. The landless son of the notorious Haraldr Fairhair, Halfdan Yngling, was raising a company of adventurers to take Norway from the Stórrs, believing the crown still the birth-right of his line. Björn, it seemed, had encouraged the young rebel, hoping that internal pressure could distract Ragnarr long enough to lose him the war. Ragnarr deliberated for some time about what should be done. It was ultimately on the counsel of his mother, Rikissa, that he elected to have Halfdan killed in secret.



I knew it was only a matter of time before some descendant of the Ynglings became an adventurer (a new mechanic in the Old Gods expansion) and pressed a claim on my titles. The quickest way to kill such a snake is to cut off the head. And luckily, it seems there are plenty of able conspirators around who also want Halfdan dead. Murder was considered very dishonorable in medieval Norse culture, but it was also fairly common—especially in matters of blood feuds and family disputes.





With Halfdan Haraldrsson's mysterious death, all risk of rebellion in Norway was crushed. Many suspected King Ragnarr's involvement, but nothing could be proven before an assembly. Later that year, on September 26, 901, Ragnarr met with King Eirikr Björnsson of Sweden at Sudermanland. The war had outlasted the new Swedish ruler's father, and he wanted no further part of it. He surrendered to Ragnarr and offered him fealty. With a pledge of friendship, the two now turned to their shared problem: the Sami rebels to the North. Sweden was now part of King Ragnarr's realm, and thus, their bid for independence was in opposition to him.

In the summer of 902, Ragnarr's men marched and put the Sami rebellion down with brutal efficiency. It was in the ruins of one of their camps that Ragnarr came across a chained slave taken from one of the Sami border raids. She was a sickly, haggard young woman, eyes aged beyond her years, who claimed to have the gift of foresight. Intrigued, Ragnarr brought her back to his hall, where she soon began to give him counsel and look after his newborn daughter, Holmfrid. In her dreams, she claimed, she saw a flaming, golden cross sweeping across all of Scandinavia, swaying the hearts and minds of Ragnarr's people and making them forget their ancestral ways.



The only way to prevent this, so she foretold, was for a Son of Thor to travel to distant Sjóland, where he would find a forgotten cave with a spring born from the Well of Mimir, from which Odin drank to gain ultimate wisdom. Sjóland, called Zeeland by the Frisians who now ruled it, was part of the Frankish kingdom of Lotharingia. Ragnarr endeavored to take the coastal province by force, allowing him to search for this cave.



Now that my secular power base is consolidated, I need to work on reforming the Norse religion. Failing to do so will make it much more difficult to hold my realm together without converting to Christianity, which I'm looking to avoid at all costs. I hold two of the three required Holy Sites—one in Sweden and one in Norway. There is another nearby in Denmark, but as a fellow follower of the Norse religion, I currently don't have a justification for war against the Danish king. Thus, I'll be pitting myself against Queen Irmengarde Karling, a descendant of Charlemagne, whose dynasty still rules most of continental Europe. This will be my first major conflict against a Christian monarch, and she has many familial allies to potentially call to her aid.





August 12, 903. 8000 Norsemen embarked on hundreds of ships, launching the largest invasion since the Sons of Loðbrok descended on England some 36 years earlier. They came aground in Holland, daring the armies of Queen Irmengarde to meet them on even ground. Like thunder, the hooves of the Frankish knights bore down on Ragnarr's men. They had never seen a true, united, Southern army such as this, always having raided and been away before forces could muster. A devastating charge of the Karling vanguard forced them to abandon the center, falling back to the sea.



The battle of Dorestad was the bloodiest the Northmen had ever seen, and while they managed to seize victory with a series of clever, last-minute maneuvers, it came a the cost of nearly 3000 men—over a third of their host, whisked away to Valhall over several days of fighting. Ragnarr acknowledged that these Franks were true warriors, and he would not underestimate them again. Yet still, the Franks had lost just as many, and fled the field as the ground drank the blood of both sides.

As the Norsemen regrouped to take the nearby islands, intriguing news arose. With Queen Irmengarde's armies shattered, the ambitious Duchess Agaete of Holland had forced her liege's hand, winning Holland's independence from Lotharingia. Ragnarr grinned wickedly. He now longer had to deal with the armies of a vast, Karling kingdom. Only a single Frisian noblewoman, and whatever peasant army she could muster.



Inevitably, the Frisians rose to defend their home, and were set upon by Ragnarr's remaining forces. Whereas Dorestad had been the closest confrontation they ever faced, The Battle of Haarlem in November of 904 was the most lopsided. Without the Frankish knights to support them, 3300 of the enemy fell to the fierce, northern host. Only some 500 of Ragnarr's men were lost. King Ragnarr found the wounded, Frisian commander on the battlefield afterward to accept his surrender.

"You are brave, Frisian," he is said to have told his enemy, "And your people followed the True Gods of the North once. Follow me, and help me find this cave of wisdom, and you may yet earn a chair in Valhall."





The Norse king, the seeress, and the Frisian general searched the isles of Sjóland for the cave of wisdom for nearly a year. During that time, Ragnarr's second son, Strybjörn, was born. As the months wore on, his men grew restless, and there was no sign of an end to their quest. To clear his mind, Ragnarr abandoned the search and took his men raiding in Iberia, sacking holds of both the Castillian Christians in Asturias and the Andalusian Muslims of the Umayyad Sultanate. His ships finally returned in the late winter of 907, whereupon he immediately called another Great Blot to Odin, in the hope that his sacrifice would clear the way to his destination.

Having taken Zeeland, the only thing I am missing to reform the Norse faith is the hefty 750 Piety. The temples I've burned and the captives I've brought back should fix that.



Many Iberian captives were given up in sacrifice at the blot, and the sagas tell that a great snake of mist came in from the sea as it ended. Ragnarr readied his fastest ship, and followed the trail of fog. On an islet mostly hidden from view, Ragnarr finally found the fabled cave, which he descended into for nine days and nights. It is said that he had no food nor drink, just as Odin had not when he hung from the World Tree to gain the wisdom of the runes.

Finally, the king emerged into the frigid air before his trusted companions. One of his eyes appeared milk white and blinded, while the other shone brighter than before.

"Come with me to the assembly," he commanded. "I now know the way forward."

Come back next week to see the continuing saga unfold!

Rich's rules: 1. Play as ruler of the North, Ned Stark. 2. Don't die. 3. No honour, only backstabbing. 4. I'd really like not to die, please.

Crusader Kings II is a game about scheming, plotting and advanced nefariousness in a medieval setting. It has a cast of hundreds of characters with observable traits, from tactical geniuses to lackwit blunderers, via lustful philanderers and chaste holy men.

George R R Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire books are about scheming, plotting and advanced nefariousness in a medieval setting. You can probably work out the rest. The two sync up so well, it only was a matter of time before Martin’s low-fantasy setting was ported into Paradox’s strategy game. Pleasingly, that time wasn’t very long: the Game of Thrones mod was released in beta by a group of industrious CKII fans just eight months after the main game. It’s now stable, comprehensive and easy to install. It’s what I’ll be using in this diary, and I heartily recommend you pop over to www.ck2agot.wordpress.com if you’re interested.

A quick note: this series will contain spoilers for the Game of Thrones’ TV series and books. I’ll keep major revelations from the first book onwards under my helm, but if you’ve somehow managed to avoid the novels (first released in 1996, you layabout), and also the HBO series, then pick them up and gobble them down like a juicy capon leg before reading on.

Valar Morghulis. All men must die. I’m OK with that, but do all men have to die right now? There’s a whole world to be seen, the continent of Westeros rendered in beautiful patchwork colours on Crusader Kings II’s map screen. There’s Dorne, jutting out into the sea in the south: sandy and warm, and split by culture – Dornishmen of sand, stone and salt. There’s the greenery of the Reach and the Riverlands, filling the heart of the country. Highgarden’s vineyards and Riverrun’s, um, rivers, which one day I’d like to visit, be welcomed as a guest and a friend. To the west, Casterly Rock and Lannisport; to the east, the imposing crags of the Vale. I roll my mousewheel down and zoom in on the highest peak: the Eyrie, home of house Arryn. It’s dusted white, like one of George’s laboriously described cakes.

And then there’s my (pretend) home: Winterfell. Westeros’s north is big, more expansive but more empty than the continent’s other regions. I’m expected to govern it alone, to manage a host of squabbling vassals and underlings, all while dealing with the seemingly inevitable: my own death.

I’m playing Crusader Kings II as Ned Stark, head of the Stark household, and boss of the north. The aGoT mod gives players a choice of starting period, and thus, their cast of characters. I chose to climb into Ned’s armoured boots just after famous fatty – and Ned’s best pal – Robert Baratheon has claimed the throne. It’s supposed to be a time of peace after the loopy rule of mad King Aerys II, but George R R Martin doesn’t make things easy for his characters

Ah, Winterfell, home sweet home to the Stark family. But for how long?

There’s that morghulis thing, for one. Robert, after successfully rebelling against an incumbent king, loses a fight with a boar and unceremoniously dies in bed with his guts falling out. Ned doesn’t even make it through one book before he has his head lopped off by his pal’s son and kingly replacement: Joffrey Baratheon.

"Ned is naïve and unflinchingly honourable – to his own detriment."

In the books, Ned is naïve and unflinchingly honourable – to his own detriment. It’s what gets him killed, and it’s a trait I don’t intend to take on myself. Crusader Kings II simulates all the intrigue of thousands of power-plays moving and interlocking across a vast political landscape. It lets you start plots against people, build spy networks, even kill your own wife. I’m not going to be like Ned. I’m going to scheme and sneak, backstab and betray. I’m going to take in the big picture, and play the pawns against each other.

One small problem: bar some minor dabbling, I’ve not played much of Crusader Kings. Its game mechanics are to me as courtly deceit and diplomacy were to Ned.

I must start small. Objective #1: not to die.

I spend the first year of Robert’s reign jumpy. I’m not sure quite how much of aGoT’s fiction is hardcoded into the mod, and I’m expecting Robert to die at any moment. If CKII had a letter-writing feature, I’d be sending him constant telegrams saying “FOR GOD’S SAKE STAY AWAY FROM PIGS” like a porcophobic weirdo.

I want to keep Robert on-side. He is, as king, the biggest presence in all Westeros. He’s also got some seriously impressive claims. Claims are your ticket to more land in CKII: get a claim, and you can invade a territory without some higher power smiting you for your insolence. As Ned, I’ve got lordship of Winterfell – and therefore, the north – but nothing else. Robert has dibs on the southeastern Storm’s End, as well as another four territories.

Fortunately, Robert likes me. Each CKII character – from king down to courtier – has two numbers on their character sheet. The first details how much they like you, the second how much you like them, dictated by a set of variables. Robert wishes Ned was a bit more hedonistic, knocking ten points off the score, but their shared bravery, battle history, and affinity for stabbing the shit out of things makes them fast friends. I could call Rob a fat bastard and he’d still share his capon with me.





I’m easing up as we hit the six month mark, when my spymaster brings me news of a plot. Shit! A plot! After so long spent mentally willing Ned to spend more of his time dressed in full plate armour and hiding in bushes, the p-word is enough to send me over the edge. I click on the plotter’s tiny face and bring up the diplomacy menu. I have a set of options: I can revoke his land and claim it for my own. I can arrange a marriage to bring him to heel. Or I can imprison him.

I consider taking his land and scolding him for his impudence, but I convince myself he’ll take offence and stab me in the night. To the dungeon with you, plotter.

Immediately, another of my vassals asks for his release. Are you in on it too, you capon-botherer? To prison with you, too!

"I congratulate myself on a guy well killed."

A mild panic grips me: what if they talk of their plan in my cells? I don’t know yet how deep CKII’s simulation runs. I’d better remove one of the problems. Diplomacy menu. Choose option ‘execute’. I bring the interred out into Winterfell’s yard, and as befitting the ruler of the north, chop his head off myself with my sweet Valyrian steel sword. A show of force, to deter future plotters. I congratulate myself on a guy well killed, take off my sword-handling mittens, and remind Ned to stay away from sharp objects.

Who was that guy I killed, anyway? I never checked. I bring up my message menu. ‘Howland Reed’. Hmm, why do I know that name? I Alt-Tab and check the Song of Ice and Fire wiki, search for Howland Reed.

“He is one of Eddard Stark’s closest friends and fought alongside him in many conflicts during Robert’s Rebellion.”

Sending a friend to prison was definitely a bad idea.

Ah. I suppose it’s tough to see who someone is when you’re wearing full plate armour so as not to be stabbed, but I’m feeling a little embarrassed when I get news of yet another plot. I’ve learned my lesson this time, though, and I check to see who it is before clapping them in irons.

It turns out to be some minor vassal from the far northeastern isle of Skagos. I read a little further: his plot involves paying someone a bit so they like him more. Jesus, is that what Howland Reed was doing? Howland, buddy, you didn’t need to pay me, I already liked you. And you could at least have mentioned that you weren’t planning to kill me before I cut your head off.

"Breeding a generation of hyper-angry children: this is not the way to stay alive, old Neddy."

I let the Skagosi man go about his plotting and sadly mouse over Howland Reed’s old land, now ruled by his eight-year-old daughter. She’s called Meera – hang on, I know that name – and she is pissed off. She’s eight, and her disposition toward me is already -100. I dig deeper into CKII’s menus, and see that she has ‘sworn vengeance’ against me. She’s just learning her times tables, and she’s already dead set on killing me as soon as she can.

Killing your best friends and breeding a generation of hyper-angry children: this is not the way to stay alive, old Neddy.

Ned’s particular way of drowning his sorrows at killing his mate does ensure the continuation of his legacy, though. A short while after, my wife Catelyn pops out a baby. I’m a slave to canon, so I name her Sansa. She joins her brother Robb and half-brother Jon in Winterfell’s baby-cage or whatever they have, and I don’t have to worry about her until she’s old enough to need a teacher – or I need to sell her off to some other lord to preserve an alliance.



A baby! Better arrange its marriage.

The introduction of a new child to the family has seemingly upset the existing kids. Jon – my bastard son, already disliked by Catelyn – is begging for more toys in recompense. I have a set of options to quiet his mewling, and I choose to make him play outside. As is perhaps understandable when your back garden is where your dad regularly executes his best friends with a big sword, this choice makes Jon immediately cynical.

To really stick it to Jon and the other kids, I retaliate by having another child. This one’s a boy, and I name it Bran because I am a Game of Thrones nerd. He will, I decree, have cushions strapped to his body until he reaches the age of 18, have his legs massaged by a team of court physiotherapists, and won’t ever be allowed to climb anything on pain of wedgies.

Bran’s birth signals the end of my first year in charge of the north, and I’m finally starting to relax. Robert, too, seems pleased to have seen out the year without being gored to death, and decides to celebrate by holding a massive feast. I attend, and eat so many capons that I’m sick.

"I retaliate by having another child."

Trotting back to Winterfell, I figure it’s time for a new goal. Ned is one of the mod’s better characters, lacking the massive personality flaws Crusader Kings II will often give its denizens. Robert, for example, is a drunkard, while Tyrion Lannister is ugly, reducing some of their stats. Ned is brave and honourable. My ‘accidental’ execution early in the year gave him a tiny bit of ‘tyranny’, but an innate kindness trait balances that out. Ned’s strength, however, lies in war: he’s a superb commander, and great in a scrap. Surviving the year has given me the taste for something more than merely existing. I want a fight.

But who? And how? The north has trouble with boats, the version of the mod I’m playing goes haywire whenever a northerner tries an amphibious landing. That takes an offshore invasion off the table. Going further north is pointless: the Night’s Watch has a gigantic ice wall blocking off the tribal Wildlings up there.

Hmmm, where to strike?

The only way is south, and the only thing blocking my descent is the Twins: two castles across a river held by one of the Song of Ice and Fire books’ most important families – the Freys.

This can’t be a quick strike. The Twins are famously fortified, and notoriously difficult to capture. They’re also the only way to travel between north and south. The Freys are pivotal to Martin’s stories because they control these castles. Anyone who wants to pass has to get pally-pally with them.

I could choose to get pally-pally with them, to marry Sansa off to one of their countless number, but for many reasons, I can’t bear to do it.

Walder Frey is the current lord of the Twins, 78 years of age. I bring up his character pane. Wouldn’t it be terrible if something happened to this poor old man? It’s time to do something Ned never did in the books or on TV. As I select CKII’s ‘intrigue’ menu, I decide to play the game of thrones.

Return next Sunday for PART TWO of the Game of Thrones diary.