The Hammer of Westeros

Once in the realm of the Vale in Westeros young man named Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storms End bedded a young tavern maid. Nine months later a young girl was born from that dalliance, yet the Gods have a strange way of interfering in the strangest of ways. For shortly after Robert bedded the young woman, in another realm a mighty warrior named Harald Hammerstorm breathed his last.

Harald had grown up in the chaos wastes even further north than what was named in the Old World as Norscha. As a young man, himself and his tribe had sought shelter in an underground city where they had hoped for treasure, unaware of the silent guardians who resided there. In the middle of the night, corpses long dead had come to life and fallen upon young Harry as his men called him and his fellow warriors. One by one they fell as the undead kept coming in what seemed like a never ending wave. Fear gripped their hearts as no matter how many of the abominations they felled three took their place, and their courage hung by a thread before Harry had enough.

Screaming in fury at the senseless slaughter of his men Harry raised his hammer and dove headfirst into the shambling horde. Such was his fury as his hammer rose and fell, each swing of his chosen weapons reducing rotten flesh to mush and bones to splinters, and as the gods gave him their favour unholy light shone from beneath his helmet and his roars of fury seemed to thunder through the underground city and for the first time in their (un)life the dead felt fear. His men rallied to Harry as he drove deeper and deeper into the giant tomb, and zombies, skeletons and all manner of holy beasts were pushed back and trampled underfoot through judicious use of cold hard steel until even the fearless undead broke as their nerve failed at last.

Ever since Harald Hammerstorm was known to the world as Harry the Hammer. Unlike most champions of the Dark Gods of Chaos Harry was not intent of bloody conquest or demonhood. For the near death of him and his men had awoken an unholy fury and hatred for all things undead and Harry swore to himself that night that he would see the undead scourge removed from the world. For decades himself and his ever increasing warband travelled across the realms of the world, visiting dark crypts, ancient forests and forgotten castles in search of the restless dead.

Eventually came the day of the End Times, where the forces of Chaos clashed against the forces of life and death alike, one final battle to determine the survivors of the apocalypse, a final battle that Harry intended to fight. The fight was long, for hours Harry waded through waves of undead, striking down mighty vampires, hordes of ghouls to unnatural necromantic constructs until he stood face to face with the Great Necromancer himself. The grand duel he fought against Nagash would be spoken of in awe by surviving witnesses and go down though folklore for millennia afterwards. Seven times he struck the giant monster, seven times the Great Necromancer screamed in pain before Harry stumbled on a loose rock. Nagash drove his giant foot on top of Harry, crushing his chest and rupturing organs, yet even as he lay mortally wounded Harry summoned the strength to strike one last time on Nagash's leg, a strike so mighty the necromancer was forever forced to walk with a limp forever after and Harry breathed his last with a smile on his face.

As his soul flew towards the Great Beyond where dark evil gods waited to fight over his soul like a tasty morsel, the Old Gods of another world entirely interfered. The Great Other's time of reappearance beyond Brandon's wall was coming and with them would come the army of the dead and to fight them more than one champion would be needed. The Prince Who Was Promised was one such champion, yet as Harry The Hammer died the Old Gods knew him to be as good if not better an option for fighting the walkers, so they reached out and snatched his soul from the eternal torment of the Gods of Chaos, almost smiling at their howl of rage and pushed him into creation.

Nine months after Robert Baratheon bedded the young vale maid, Mya and Harry Stone were born, blue eyes and black of hair. Walkers beware, Harald Hammerstorm is here.

Right, I just had to get this off my chest. I've always wondered how a bona fide 'almost' good chaos champion could do in the ASOIAF verse. Don't get me wrong, He is still a chaos warrior, but hardly as diehard murder/slaughter everyone and everything as most of them are. Do tell me what you think of the idea. Also I would welcome ideas for pairing/pairings, whether it is marriage or casual flings...and do you think he should father a few bastards of his own just like bobby b?

Cheers

Tellie571