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.

Just as promised, Steam Trading Cards is now live. The virtual cards can be earned by playing participating games on Steam, trading with other users, or buying on the Steam Marketplace. Complete a set to create a badge, earn rewards and XP, and level up. The user with the highest Steam level at the end of the year gets to high five Gabe Newell while announcing Half-Life 3. In space.

In other true facts, I'm already hearing from users playing the Steam marketplace to profit off the cards' initial popularity. One user I spoke to has been buying low and selling high to pad his Steam wallet, even creating scarcity by buying up low-value cards in quantity. I'll keep an eye on marketplace prices as more users start trading the collectibles.

I was hoping to find a good deal on a 1952 Mickey Mantle card, but unfortunately, baseball isn't a participating game. You can see which of the games you own are participating here.

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, I threw off the chains of the oppressive Haraldr Fairhair, derailing Norwegian history irreparably and setting up the House of Stórr to one day rule the entire country. Then, out of nowhere, the Swedish king Björn Ironside, son of Ragnarr Loðbrok, declared a subjugation war on me and my people. We take up our swords for freedom once again! Onward!

Get caught up: Chapter 1, Chapter 2.

Missed the original Crusader Kings Chronicle? Have a read!





On July 11, 884, the ailing Chief Þórólfr climbed the steps to the high table at his hall, where all the lords of the West had gathered. His body was weak, but his voice was still strong. Rumbling like thunder, he proclaimed his kingship over all the lands he had subjugated, and called upon all able men within his new kingdom to rise up and join his newly-returned warband in defending their homes from the Son of Loðbrok. Many answered, and by the fall, 2000 of Þórólfr's men were bound by ship for Sweden with oiled mail and sharp axes.

I've made myself a Petty King, a Norse rank equal to a duke in other realms, and a step below a proper King. This has allowed me to parcel out my land to vassal chieftains, so I don't have to try to administrate it all myself. For the time being, they are content with my rule and eager to send their men to fight for me. Björn's army is formidable, however, and we'll have to be smart to repel his invasion.



On the April 22, 885, Þórólf and his eldest son Ragnarr, newly come of age, received word that King Björn was on his way with swift ships to relieve their siege of the Swedish capital of Håtuna. Ragnarr, though only 16, was already showing great prowess in battle, and was given the command of 600 men who would hold the line at the shore, while Þórólfr's own detachment flanked from the East and drove them into a grove of trees that would be lit ablaze with oil and flaming arrows. Father and son were outnumbered by almost 700 men, but the plan worked, and three of Björn's men died that day for each of their own.



Håtuna fell not long after, but not before Þórólfr succumbed to a dreamlike state. The priestess attending him proclaimed that his mind had been taken from him, and he may never awaken again. Sorrowfully, the young Ragnarr took up his father´s banner and rode out to accept Björn's surrender.

My Infirm trait has escalated to Incapable, meaning death is near, and my son will take over as my regent. I had hoped for a more glorious death for such a glorious leader, but as all Norsemen know, fate is often not so kind.





As the year 888 dawned, Ragnarr had been ruling as regent for over a year. At the urging of his mother, queen Rikissa, he proclaimed right of conquest on all the lands of the Ynglings, his father's old enemies and former liege lords. While the Yngling line was said to be descended from the god Frey, whispers began to circulate that the mighty Ragnarr's blood was that of the god Thor, and that his line was destined to rule all the North.



Not long into his campaign against the struggling Haraldr Fairhair, King Þórólfr passed in the night. Ragnarr was named King, and his younger brother Sveinn was given dominion as Jarl of Nordland over their ancestral realm in the far North. Taking the throne at 20, Ragnarr had gained a reputation as a brilliant strategist, quick-witted as his father had been in his prime, proud, just, charitable, honest, and kind. On the battlefield, he excelled on the defense, having held the line against Björn's advance with only a handful of troops. The new king was married not long after to High Chieftess Freyja of Austergotland, a vassal of Björn Ironside.



My current succession law is called Gavelkind, which means that my holdings will always be divided evenly among my sons. It's not an ideal set-up, but I need to either convert to a monotheistic faith or reform the Norse religion to adopt a different means of succession. I'm aiming to do the latter, as it will also give me protection from foreign missionaries. I will need to hold three of the designated Norse holy sites, which will be no easy task.

The war to subjugate the Ynglings raged for the first three years of King Ragnarr's reign, but his victory came as inevitably as he proclaimed that it would. With Haraldr Fairhair's defeat, Ragnarr held dominion over all Norway, and the Ynglings were relegated to a backwater mountain hold, far from the coasts and the glory of raiding the open seas. Meanwhile, however, another son of Loðbrok was building his power. The jarl called Sigurð Snake-in-the-Eye had proclaimed himself King of Denmark, meaning Loðbrok's sons now held two thrones, forming a potentially dangerous alliance.





Two years had passed since Fairhair bowed, and Ragnarr had made a name for himself as a famous Viking raider, burning and looting towns and monasteries along the coast of Frisia. He even managed to capture a Frankish princess, Judith Karling of the line of Emperor Charlemagne. Back home, however, trouble brewed. Haraldr Fairhair was not content to owe fealty to another, and had been plotting with his brother, Jarl Bersi, to overthrow the Stórrs.

The Yngling rebellion raged from the spring of 895 until the late winter of 896. Bersi was brought to heel first, with Haraldr soon to follow. The two traitors were stripped of all titles, leaving the Yngling dynasty landless throughout Norway. The following Midsummer's Day, Ragnarr raised a runestone in the memory of his father, Þórólfr, and invited all his vassals to look upon it. Afterward, he stood before the great memorial and spoke in a booming tone that echoed his departed sire. The speech is recalled by the skalds in Ragnarr Þórólfsson's Saga:



“I have cast down the House of Yngling, who claimed to be descended from the god, Frey," he proclaimed. "If this were true, would they not be standing before you today, rather than me? I have scorched the temples of the White God of the South, and brought great wealth back to share with all of you. If their god were mightier than I am, would I not be struck dead, or stand before you empty handed? We gather today in prosperity and peace because my house is strong! Ours is the blood of Thor, son of Odin Allfather! And from this day forward, the Sons of Þórólfr shall rule as kings of all Norsemen, as is our birth-right!"

A thunderous cheer arose, as axes of warriors and tools of farmers and craftsmen alike were raised high in praise of the new King of Norway.



I have now named myself true King of Norway, putting me at a rank equal to Björn of Sweden and Sigurð of Denmark. Many new lords have sworn fealty to me peacefully, as I am now seen as their rightful liege: Iceland, Shetland, Vermaland, Medelpad, and Angermanland now eagerly follow the House of Stórr, making me the mightiest king in Scandinavia.





In the summer of 897, a son was finally born to King Ragnarr and Queen Freyja, named Rikulfr after his maternal grandfather. With a crown and an heir, Ragnarr turned his eyes eastward. The sons of Loðbrok had heard of his intentions to rule all Norsemen, and he didn't intend to give them the chance to strike at him first. He sent word to all of his vassals to prepare for a Great Blot—a grand sacrifice to the gods to bring good fortune in war.

A Great Blot can be held once every nine years. It will allow me to gain prestige, piety, good will with my Norse pagan vassals, and a small bonus to the morale of my armies for a limited time. It also includes an optional human sacrifice, which is handy for disposing of key prisoners...



The King's Blot was held on the last day of October. Many head of livestock were offered up in sacrifice, as well as the captive Christian princess Judith Karling. The traitor Haraldr Fairhair was given release from his disgrace, beheaded in the sight of his king to join his divine ancestors in the halls of Asgard. There was much feasting, and all the while, the hammers of smiths and boat-builders rang out in the cold, short daylight hours.

The end of the year and the festival of Yule were approaching. Come the first snowmelt, Ragnarr's men were going to war.

Come back next week to see the continuing saga unfold!

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 time, I set sail as Chief Þórólfr of Nordland to raid the Baltic coasts. The plunder I brought back would allow me to hire mercenaries, and begin my bid to become King of Norway. My plans had to change, however, when Haraldr Fairhair dishonorably attacked my lands while my men were away, forcing me to swear fealty to him. The House of Stórr will not bow for long, however, and already the flame of freedom smolders. Onward!

Missed the original Crusader Kings Chronicle? Have a read!





On the 30th of August, 870, Þórólfr's daughter Alfrið was born while he was off raiding in Ireland. The emerald isle had become a popular destination for his rowdy warband, with its poorly-defended monasteries and weak local nobility.

Two years later, after five years of profitable plundering, Þórólfr contracted 1800 Lithuanian mercenaries and set his sights to his immediate south, on Chief Hakon of Naumdal. With a host numbering over 2100, Þórólfr crashed upon the territories of Hålogaland and Naumdal, demanding their fealty and naming himself the rightful king. On November 23, 872, Chief Hakon surrendered with winter fast approaching.



In a single war, I've gained the counties of Hålogaland, Naumdal, and Finnmark (the last of which Hakon conquered while I was attacking him). This has quadrupled the size of my realm, and my number of holdings has gone from one to six. Soon enough, I will be able to raise enough men from my own lands that I won't have to rely on foreign mercenaries to anchor my armies.

Before I run out of cash to pay my mercs, I'm immediately declaring a second subjugation war on Tröndelag, to the south of my new holdings. Controlling it would give me the entire Petty Kingdom of Tröndelag, though I still can´t form it as long as I'm Fairhair's vassal.





With the growing host of Norsemen sworn to Þórólfr's banner and their hardened mercenary allies, the chieftain's southward conquests continued. Rögnvaldr of Tröndelag surrendered his holdings in October of 874. In June of the following year, the besieged Chief Heljarskinn of Rogaland died of an illness while trapped in his own hold. Succeeded by his six-year-old son Haraldr, the thanes of Rogaland quickly decided to give up their resistance.

On the shores of Rogaland, Þórólfr distributed the loot of the siege and finally parted ways with the Lithuanian mercenaries who had helped him build his power base in Western Norway. The Wolf of the West now held far more territory, and the allegiance of far more holds, than his purported liege. The time for his revenge, leading a true, Norse army, was near at hand.



Despite still being a vassal, I directly own seven provinces and fifteen holdings. That's more than twice as many as the Ynglings. There is already an independence faction against King Haraldr led by Chief Sæmundr of the Faeroe Islands, but I'll wait for my manpower to recover before I join it.

On September 7, 877, a second son, named Sveinn, was born to Þórólfr and Rikissa.





It was the third of October, 878. The 46-year-old Þórólfr had sailed long to the remote Faeroe Islands to meet with the reclusive Chief Sæmundr, another subject of Haraldr Fairhair's conquests who desired freedom. Present at this auspicious council as well was Viotto of Kemi, a Finnish chieftain and supposed sorcerer whose lands had come under the Norse petty king's heel. With a pact signed in blood, they arrayed their forces to break the Yngling's grasp on the North. 40 ships set sail at dawn.



The War of Independence was fast and brutal, culminating with the decisive Battle of Iveland on January 20, 879. Haraldr's main host was dealt a crushing blow by Þórólfr, leaving less than 400 Yngling men to retreat to safety, while some 1100 Norldlanders remained to take up the assault on Fairhair's hall at Akershus. Noting his cousin's weakness, Rögnvaldr Yngling raised his own banners in rebellion shortly after the battle to claim Ostlandet as his own. The freedom fighters were unsure whether to consider him friend or foe.



On March 16, 880, the town of Oslo, Haraldr's last bastion, fell to Þórólfr's personal warband. He had the Yngling brought before him and cast to the ground, holding a long, sharp blade to his throat. The victorious chieftain threatened to make him swallow one inch of steel for each of the 13 years that his treacherous oppression bound honorable Norsemen to his unwilling service, but ultimately left him in the mud, disgusted, insisting that death by the sword would be too good a death for such a snake.

At last, I have my independence, and soon (with a bit more gold) will be able to declare myself a Petty King. For now, the conflict with the Ynglings is still on my mind. Haraldr has squashed his cousin's rebellion, and will no doubt be racing me to subjugate the few, remaining independent chieftains in Norway. Only one of us can be the One, True King...





In August of 880, Þórólfr rescued Chief Roald of Telemark from an Yngling invasion, and gained the man's fealty for himself. Þórólfr then set his sights on Chief Olafr of Herjadal... but while preparing his forces to attack, in his 50th year, his health began to fail him. Some among his court saw this as a curse, brought upon him for speaking out against the Yngling for his conquests, but then proceeding to do just the same thing with his own power. They dared not say so in his presence, of course...

I've gained the Infirm trait, which hurts all of my stats—and at a fairly young age, too. It also just so happens that Björn Ironside, son of Ragnar Loðbrok, has gained enough territory to proclaim himself King of Sweden, making him the first proper King in Scandinavia. This will undoubtedly make his house a powerful rival going forward.



In May of 882, Herjadal surrendered to Þórólfr, and the victorious chieftain gathered together 1500 loyal men for what he predicted may be his last voyage. Seeking a glorious death, he would sail for England, land of the stalwart Anglo-Saxons, where great riches were to be had at great risk.





In September of 882, Þórólfr and his viking raiders landed in Dorset, part of the Kingdom of Wessex, led by the Christian Anglo-Saxon, King Æthelred the Careless. The Norsemen knew they would not be fighting bands of forest warriors or fractious Celtic militias here. The Saxons had formidable armies of well-trained troops, hardened by years of fighting Norsemen under the Sons of Loðbrok and the Great Heathen Army.

And yet... his men met no great host of Saxons. First, they sacked the Barony of Wareham. Then, they burned the monastery of Corfe and the town of Dorchester. Daring a response, Þórólfr ordered an attack on the county capital of Winchester. The defenders were easily overwhelmed, but the king was nowhere to be found. As the Norse leader began contemplating a search for his cowardly foe, more bad news arrived...



King Björn Ironside of Sweden had laid claim to all of Þórólfr's lands, waiting until his men were away raiding, just like the Yngling had done all those years ago. Spitting with rage, Þórólfr sent word to raise every man in his realm who could swing a sword, to meet with his main host as they rushed home from England with their plunder. He had refused the yoke of Haraldr Fairhair, and he would just as surely deny the fetters of the Son of Loðbrok. Even if it was the last thing he did...



Björn is a formidable warrior with many, rich lands to draw troops from. This will not be like my independence war against Haraldr, in which I could count on outnumbering him at every turn. It will take ferocity, cleverness, and speed to make sure Nordland is not pressed under the Swedish crown.

Return next week to see the continuing saga unfold!

Fresh meat! This week we introduce the two, new conscripts to the PCG Intern Corps: Ben and Jake. They join veterans Logan, Evan, and T.J. to discuss the looming gorgon of E3, the state of MMOs in the West, and the exact mass of Double Fine's chalice.

You'll laugh! You'll cry! Or maybe, you won't do either of those things! It's PC Gamer Podcast 354 - Uncle Samurai

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