What if the chosen undead was in the midst of his journey when he was transported to the Seige at Pyke at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion and he decided in the heat of battle to fight for the Greyjoys
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The air was heavy with dust and debris as a heavily armored man stood up; screams echoed into his ears.
He stood up dizzy, staring at the chaos enclosing his vision. It was a fierce battle; the defenders were fighting with true souls.
Something he could respect. He shook some sense into himself, grabbing the claymore from off his back, a massive sword meant to be two-handed.
He held it over his shoulder before putting away his Grass crest shield. Taking a deep breath, he ran into the battle. The Dread-like hair of his boar helmet swayed as he swung his sword, slicing through men like a hot knife through warm butter.
The defenders cheered him on. Archers in the background screamed.
"BOAR MAN!!!!"
"BOAR MAN!!!"
"BOAR MMAN!!!!"
The 'boar man' kept swinging like a mad man, until he came to a man with a flaming sword.
They stared each other down, and they clashed. Metal clanged, and the swords rang like bells. Beric Dondarrion was the man welding the flame sword.
They fueled major morale for both sides, like the waves crashing against a boat, the 'boar man' thrashed Beric. Beric spoke in the midst of the battle "Tell me 'Boar man' what is your name"
"You may call me Túr-hirn." He spoke arrogantly; túr-hirn pulled back and let out a deep sigh. "One thing you should know about me is I'm not right-handed." This confused Beric. "You're wielding that sword with both hands, so what do you-" he was cut off by the flat end of a massive blade, hitting him directly in the face and knocking him out cold.
Túr-hirn heard a great cry and saw many more men charging up the long bridge to the courtyard he was in. He had just surveyed his location; behind him were a few sets of large granite blocks, and the only way up was a ladder. Then three towering pillars jutted out high above the ground.
Archers lined the top of the block.
Túr-hirn turned to face his enemies; he looked towards his side at his fellow footmen. He looked back toward the charging men, then back at his allies.
Where were they, only the Archers were left.
He still stood strong, it only reinforced his determination. A massive man, 6'5 or 6'6, with an antler helmet, stared at him. The helmet was much like his own; túr-hirn's helmet had real tusks of a great boar. This helmet had the real antlers of a stag.
It fit the man well because he had a stag cover cloth. He held a giant war hammer, and behind him was a kind of large man, roughly 6'0. He had dark brown hair and a big old great sword. It seemed to be too big for him, but he still held it with grace.
Túr-hirn's thoughts were interrupted by a dagger going into his side. He gasped for air, before turning to face the stabber.
"A dagger is a coward's weapon" The man tried to take out his sword but was quickly strangled by Túr-hirn.
"Jorah!"
The giant great sword of the man earlier swung down, and Túr-hirn rolled with his hands still crushing the man now known to him as Jorah. Blood started leaking from Jorah's mouth. The man with a great sword attempted to hit Túr-hirn but an arrow nearly flew into his eye.
Túr-hirn slammed Jorah down a few times, up and down, until blood was splattered all over. He heard another great cry and saw a war hammer swinging at him. Too busy killing Jorah, he pulled his hands up to block it but took Jorahs limp body with him.
The Warhammer smoked into Jorah nearly taking off an arm. Túr-hirn threw the body straight at the man and ran away from the massive and steaming man.
The Archers had taken the ladder down so he had no way to get up. Or did he? He saw a box. He kicked the box with all the force his right leg could muster.
It flew close enough for him to be able to jump up, he got a running start and jumped up on the box before jumping onto the block with the Archers. He nearly slipped on the wet stone but an archer caught him.
"My lord, what should we do? The king is hiding away, and all of the commanders are dead, missing, or have abandoned the cause," he spoke; túr-hirn could tell these men would break and flee soon.
"FIRE AT WILL!" Túr-hirn bellowed out for the men to hear. He grabbed a bow from off a rack and started firing into the advancing horde of armored men.
A group of men ran towards the block with a ladder, "Take them down," Túr-hirn started firing his arrows at the men holding it.
Túr-hirn threw away his bow and arrows, as well as his claymore. It seemed almost magical as he pulled out an even larger sword, its edge was broken, and the metal seemed about to rust at any moment. Its handle was made of human bones. The dull edge of the blade had a human ribcage seemingly grafted onto it.