The story of the founder of House Redsnow, Ser Raymun, the Bastard of Locke, is a known tale among the men of the Wintertown Officer's School. Starting as a lowly warrior during the days of the failed Greyjoys Rebellion of 289AC, to the campaigns in the south following the lead of King Alaric II as the Captain of the 1st Company of Greycloaks. His tale is not one of glamor or mythic heroics, but a man who came from nothing, and rose to prominence through sheer martial skill and tactical wit.
An excerpt from Chapter 3, The Greycloak's Establishment, taken from the Text of: Alaric II: The King who revitalized the North, Published 741AC.
[The Riverlands, Lychester, 4th moon, 299AC]
Rain began sometime during the deepest part of the night and showed no sign of stopping by dawn.
Outside Lychester, Five thousand men sat beneath soaked canvas and dripping pine trees while muddy roads slowly dissolved into rivers of filth beneath thousands of boots, wagon wheels, and horse hooves. The entire camp smelled of wet wool, smoke, leather, and horse shit. Men cursed while trying to keep cookfires alive, squires and attendants stumbled through the mud, carrying bundles of spears and shields, and somewhere farther off a mule screamed after breaking a leg in one of the flooded wagon trenches.
Ser Raymun Snow woke before first light.
He always did during his times out on campaigns, marches or field drills.
War trained men into habits that never quite left them. Some men drank harder after battle. Some prayed. Some stopped sleeping properly altogether. Raymun simply woke early now whether he wanted to or not.
For several moments he sat silently on the edge of his cot listening to the rain hammer against the command tent overhead while a young squire half-asleep beside the brazier tried coaxing flame from damp coals.
The boy finally looked over.
"Water's hot enough for washing, Ser-Captain."
Raymun grunted softly. "Good."
His shoulder already ached before he even stood up.
Years ago, during Balon Greyjoy's ill-begot rebellion, an Ironborn axe had split boiled leather near the joint and nearly taken the arm with it. The wound healed well enough, but now, years later, every cold rain reminded him of it.
He pulled on his undertunic slowly before beginning the process of strapping himself into armor piece by piece. Nothing about him looked lordly. His mail and the plate he had been issued as a Captain, was old in places and patched in others. The leather near his left hip still bore cuts from earlier engagements, and his cloak, the signature grey of his unit, had become so stained from mud and smoke over the years that its original color barely mattered anymore.
Raymun preferred it that way.
Soldiers who cared too much about appearances usually died early.
By the time he stepped outside, the camp had fully awakened.
Men moved between tents carrying shields over their heads against the rain while mounted outriders prepared horses near the edge of camp. A group of Greycloaks sat beneath a stretched awning sharpening axes while arguing over whether Tywin Lannister would attempt the crossing at dawn or wait until later in the day.
"He'll strike early," one man insisted. "The Old Lion's desperate now."
Another snorted. "Tywin Lannister ain't desperate. Men like him don't survive this long by being desperate."
Raymun heard that and said nothing while passing them.
The second man understood the truth better than most.
Tywin frightened him more than men like Gregor Clegane ever had.
Gregor was a beast. Brutal and predictable. You knew what the Mountain would do because the answer was always violence.
Tywin was worse.
Tywin made clever men act stupid around him.
A mounted rider approached through the rain moments later.
"Lord Hornwood's waiting for you, Ser-Captain."
Raymun nodded once and followed him through the mud.
The command tent stood near the center of camp beneath several tall pine trees, their branches heavy with rainwater that dripped constantly onto the canvas roof overhead. Inside, the air smelled of wet wool and lamp oil while Lord Halys Hornwood stood over a large map table beside Ser Oswell Lychester, son of Lord Lymond, along with several other more minor Riverlords.
A lantern burned weakly near the edge of the table.
Hornwood looked up first.
"You're late."
"I was dressing, my lord."
"You've had 30 years to practice." he japed with a lighthearted grin
That pulled a quiet laugh from him as Raymun moved beside the table and studied the maps.
Everything centered around the crossings.
Sherrer Village sat near the river crossing Brynden Tully currently held with roughly two thousand men. The Blackfish had spent days preparing the defenses there. Stakes hidden beneath muddy water. Trenches dug along the banks. Archer nests concealed behind collapsed stone walls. Reserve cavalry waiting beyond wooded ridges.
Raymun and Lord Hornwood's force from Lychester would descend once the westermen committed themselves fully at the ford, crushing them between both armies.
On paper it looked excellent.
Hornwood tapped the map.
"If they cross here, they die."
"That assumes they commit fully," Ser Oswell replied.
"They'll have to," one Riverlord answered confidently. "The northern roads are blocked by Riverrun, and the other roads are useless mud, and from our scouts last report, they're too far from Mummer's Ford to attempt a change of direction, especially with that many untested and green boys they have in their ramshackle host."
Raymun studied the markers silently.
Everything made sense.
Which worried him.
Easy victories rarely stayed easy where Tywin Lannister was concerned.
A horn sounded faintly somewhere outside before another rider entered the tent, soaked nearly to the skin.
"Refugees from the south," the man reported. "They claim Westermen are marching hard toward Sherrer."
"How many?" Hornwood asked.
The rider shook his head. "Couldn't say for certain. Thousands."
That drew grim smiles around the table.
Exactly what they expected.
Too exact.
Raymun frowned slightly.
Hornwood noticed immediately.
"Is something the matter Ser Raymun?"
"I don't trust battles that look this clean." He relied after taking a moment to think, looking over the last known locations of Tywins men on the map.
One of the Riverlords laughed quietly. "Nothing clean about fighting Lannisters."
"No," Raymun agreed in a low tone, still studying the map. "There isn't."
The march south began before midday.
Five thousand men moving through rain and mud was an ugly thing to watch. Roads collapsed beneath wagon wheels while infantry struggled knee-deep through sludge in places where fields had flooded beside the roads. Horses snorted steam into the cold air while mounted outriders disappeared constantly into nearby forests checking roads and ridges ahead.
Raymun rode near the front beside Ser Yorwyck Woods while drums beat slowly through the rain to maintain marching pace.
"You think this ploy will finally corner him?" Yorwyck asked after a time.
"Mayhaps."
"That didn't sound too convincing, Snow."
Raymun adjusted one glove carefully before answering.
"Men like Tywin don't corner easy."
Yorwyck grinned crookedly. "Neither do northmen."
That earned the faintest smile.
The sounds of battle reached them sometime around midday.
Distant horns first.
Then the roar of thousands fighting carried faintly through rain and forest alike.
One outrider came galloping back through the mud.
"They've struck the ford hard!" the man shouted. "Blackfish holds the center, but they're pressing the crossing!"
Raymun immediately raised his hand. "Double time lads, we have some lions to kill!"
The column surged forward.
Men cursed as they forced themselves through worsening roads while officers shouted constantly to maintain formation. Mud splashed up against shields and cloaks alike as they descended through the final wooded ridge overlooking Sherrer.
Then the battle came fully into view.
The ford had become a slaughterhouse.
Westermen surged repeatedly through muddy shallows beneath crimson banners while Riverlander archers filled the sky with arrows from behind barricades and broken walls. Bodies floated downstream already while wounded men screamed beneath trampled mud near the crossings.
Yet something about it felt wrong immediately.
The westermen fought fiercely.
But their numbers didnt quite add up, along with their almost calm demeanor.
There was no desperation in their attacks, no chaotic frenzy expected of a last ditch attempt to cross. Assaults came in disciplined waves with reserves rotating strangely cleanly for a supposedly trapped host.
Raymun narrowed his eyes.
"Signal Hornwood," he ordered. "We collapse their eastern flank now."
Horns answered moments later.
Northern banners emerged from the ridges while Greycloak companies advanced steadily through the rain toward the exposed enemy lines.
It should have broken them.
Instead the westermen held harder than expected.
Not because they were winning, quite frankly the result had already been decided by the first charge into their flank.
Instead, it seem as if they were buying time.
Then Raymun finally saw the knight leading much of the fighting near the center.
Boar banners snapped violently through the rain while a massive armored man crashed through the melee with terrifying force.
Ser Lyle Crakehall, he had seen the man across the lines during the Battle on the Green Fork.
The man looked to be built more like a siege engine than a knight. Broad shoulders wrapped in heavy plate. Thick arms powerful enough to wield a longsword like a woodsman's axe. Everywhere he struck, men fell.
A Greycloak lost half his face beneath one swing. Another crumpled screaming after Lyle smashed his shield apart and drove him into the mud beneath armored boots.
"He's cutting through the center!" Ser Oswell shouted.
"No, this is cordinated," Raymun muttered quietly.
He studied the knight more carefully.
Lyle was not fighting wildly.
He was hunting officers and men who looked to be of importance.
And moments later the Crakehall knight turned directly toward him through the chaos.
"Northman!" Lyle roared through the rain. "Come, try your might against the Strongboar!"
Raymun spurred forward immediately, men of the 1st Company falling in place around him.
Their first clash nearly knocked him from the saddle.
Lyle's sword hammered against Raymun's shield with enough force to numb his arm entirely while both horses slammed shoulder-first together through churned mud. Raymun countered quickly, slashing toward the knight's throat, but Lyle twisted aside with surprising speed before smashing his shield into Raymun's chest hard enough to stagger him backward.
Gods, the man was strong.
They circled once through screaming horses and dying men before crashing together again.
Steel rang sharply through the rain.
Lyle fought like a man raised for war from childhood. His movements were disciplined and efficient despite his size. There was no wasted motion in him.
"You fight better than most northern bastards!" Lyle barked between strikes.
"You talk too much for a dead man!" he growled as his braced himself for another clash
Raymun slashed low suddenly, trying for the horse, but Lyle yanked the mount aside before bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead strike.
The blow shattered Raymun's shield completely.
Wood exploded apart.
His horse screamed and reared sideways.
Nearby Greycloaks tried pushing toward him only to become bogged down fighting Westermen infantry near the ford.
No one could help him now.
Lyle grinned through rainwater.
"Seems I have you now, bastard."
Then he charged again.
The next several moments became nothing but mud, steel, and exhaustion.
Lyle battered him backward repeatedly through the chaos while rain streamed down both their helms and armor. Raymun blocked one strike, then another, but every impact jarred his bones harder than the last.
The Crakehall knight was simply stronger.
Raised in a castle, trained by a masters-at-arms, forged for war since boyhood.
Raymun learned fighting in Mole's Town alleys and Ironborn landings, the bastard son of Ser Mallador Locke, a man of the Nights Watch, whelped upon some whore of Mole's Town.
Lyle drove him backward again.
And again.
Then finally the Crakehall knight caught him clean.
A crushing shield blow smashed into Raymun's horse while Lyle's sword slashed low simultaneously.
The horse collapsed immediately.
Raymun hit the mud hard enough to nearly black out.
Lyle dismounted without hesitation.
The giant knight advanced through the rain like a headsman approaching the block.
"You fought well enough," he admitted. "For a Snow."
Raymun forced himself upright despite the pain tearing through his shoulder.
Then Lyle attacked again.
Their swords crashed together while men died all around them. Arrows hissed overhead. Horses screamed nearby. Mud and blood soaked everything beneath their feet.
Lyle pressed relentlessly, steel met steel, sparks, mud and even some blood flew everywhere as the clash continued.
Raymun gave ground step by step while trying desperately to avoid being cornered in deeper mud near the ford itself.
Then Lyle nearly killed him.
Raymun slipped slightly, and the Crakehall knight drove his sword straight through the upper mail near his shoulder, knocking him flat into shallow, bloody water beside the crossing.
The world blurred.
Lyle raised his sword overhead.
Raymun rolled barely in time.
The blade buried itself into the mud where his head had been moments earlier.
Desperate now, Raymun kicked muddy water upward into Lyle's face before surging forward inside the man's reach.
Lyle reacted instantly, grabbing him by the throat with one gauntleted hand and nearly throwing him backward again.
But the mud betrayed him.
One heavy boot slipped.
Only slightly, but just slightly enough.
Raymun slammed his dagger upward beneath the gorget.
The blade punched deep.
For several seconds neither man moved.
Then blood spilled from Lyle Crakehall's mouth.
The massive knight staggered backward before collapsing heavily into the mud.
Sputtering blood and curses as his body covulsed, then in just a few moments, nothing, the knight of House Crakehall lay dead in the mud, surrounded by churned earth and his own blood.
Raymun stood over him, breathing hard, while rain washed blood from his face and hair alike.
Around him, the westermen began withdrawing.
Not routing.
But a coordinate withdrawel.
Despite the order, they still limped away, their token force of some three-four thousand decimated to mere hundreds.
And suddenly the entire battle made terrible sense.
A rider burst through the chaos moments later, screaming for Brynden Tully.
The Blackfish rode over immediately.
"What is it?"
"The main host has been spotted!" the rider gasped. "Mummer's Ford! Lord Tywin struck south with everything, all of their veterans and more trained men!"
Silence hit harder than the battle itself.
Brynden's face darkened instantly.
"How many?"
"Thousands, over ten thousand at least!"
Raymun looked toward the retreating Westerlands and understood it all at once.
The controlled assaults, the steady reserves, and even the strangely disciplined pressure.
This had never been the real crossing attempt.
Tywin sacrificed thousands of men here simply to divert northern attention while his true army struck farther south.
Brynden cursed quietly beneath his breath.
"Gods damn that bastard."
For the first time in months, the North had been outplayed.
Not defeated, but out maneuvered nonetheless.
"Sound the march," Brynden ordered immediately. "We move south now."
The exhausted northern-riverland host began reforming almost instantly despite the dead still littering the ford.
No victory songs followed them from Sherrer.
Because this no longer felt like victory.
Night had fallen fully by the time Raymun's column finally reached the ridges overlooking the distant fires around Mummer's Ford.
The rain still fell steadily.
Far south, orange glows flickered against low clouds while distant horns echoed faintly through the darkness.
The real battle had already begun.
Raymun sat silently atop his exhausted horse while men marched past through mud and darkness alike.
One younger Greycloak eventually rode beside him.
"Ser-Captain."
"What is it man?"
"The men have started calling you something."
Raymun frowned slightly. "That sounds dangerous."
The younger man grinned despite exhaustion.
"They've taken to calling you Raymun Redsnow."
Raymun snorted tiredly. "That's a stupid name."
"Mayhaps," the man admitted. "But after the battle earlier, I don't think it's leaving."
Only then did Raymun glance down at himself properly.
Blood covered nearly everything, his armor, gloves, cloak, even his sword, which he had yet to clean due to the hasty march.
Some of it belonged to him.
Most of it did not.
And beneath the rain, his strawberry blond hair had turned dark red