Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark

The snow was relentless, falling in thick sheets, blanketing the ground and obscuring the horizon. Every step Clark took was met with the crunch of frozen earth beneath him. The temperature had dropped even further, and the icy winds whipped through the trees, howling as though in mourning. The air felt different—unnatural, oppressive. There was an impending sense of doom in the atmosphere, as if the land itself knew that something terrible was coming.

Clark's cape billowed behind him as he adjusted his furs against the biting cold. He could feel the tension in the air, the way the wildlings moved with an almost synchronized anxiety, their eyes darting around nervously. He couldn't blame them. Even the strongest men, the fiercest warriors, would feel the weight of what was happening. The White Walkers weren't like anything they had faced before. And it wasn't just the Walkers themselves that were terrifying. It was the wights, the countless reanimated corpses that followed in their wake. They were endless, relentless.

"Clark," Ygritte's voice broke through his thoughts. She walked beside him, her eyes narrowing against the storm, her lips set in a grim line. "What are we walking into?"

Clark didn't answer immediately. He didn't have to. They both knew what was coming. The White Walkers, with their deathly presence, the cold that seemed to creep into the bones of everything it touched. And the wights, their endless ranks of the dead, rising from the frozen earth, their limbs jerking in unnatural, horrifying movements.

"We're walking into the heart of the storm," Clark said quietly, his voice barely audible above the wind. "We fight now, or we die."

Ygritte looked at him, her eyes meeting his with a deep understanding. She wasn't afraid. She was the kind of woman who had known fear but learned how to push through it. Her focus was sharp, the fire in her eyes undiminished by the cold. But even she couldn't deny the enormity of what they were about to face.

"How long until they reach us?" she asked, her voice low.

"Not long," Clark replied. His enhanced hearing had picked up the distant sound of something moving through the snow—a slow, deliberate advance that made his skin crawl. "They're closing in faster than I expected."

Ygritte nodded and glanced back at the group of wildlings following behind them. Tormund was giving orders, keeping the wildlings moving swiftly despite the snow and the storm. Clark could see the worry etched on his face as he barked instructions, urging everyone to keep moving.

The wildlings were used to surviving in harsh conditions, but this... this was different. This wasn't just about enduring the cold. This was about something much darker.

Clark's thoughts flashed to the White Walkers—their cold, piercing eyes that glowed like embers in a dead fire, their skin pale and lifeless, their very presence draining the warmth from the world around them. They had no mercy, no fear. They didn't retreat. They didn't stop.

And the wights—they were worse.

"Clark," Ygritte said, her voice a little more urgent now. "What if we're not strong enough to stop them? What if there's too many of them?"

Clark met her gaze, his face hardening. "We will be. We just have to stay together, fight as one."

She gave a small, understanding nod. "Then let's make sure the wildlings are ready."

---

Tormund

Tormund's heart raced as he moved between the wildlings, his mind working quickly. The snow was falling harder now, a steady wall of white obscuring everything around them. But it wasn't the snow that had him on edge. It was the feeling in the air. The unnatural quiet that had settled over them. The deep sense of foreboding that had grown stronger as the hours passed.

The wildlings had fought many battles, seen countless enemies, and faced death more times than any of them cared to admit. But nothing could have prepared them for what was coming.

"Get into formation!" Tormund roared over the howling wind, his voice rough but commanding. "We need to stay together!"

He watched as the wildlings gathered into tight clusters, their axes, bows, and spears ready. The air was thick with tension, the kind of tension that could break even the strongest warrior. Tormund's eyes flicked over to Clark, who was standing at the edge of the group, his face set in grim determination. The man wasn't just standing with them—he was leading them.

Clark had proven himself time and time again. His strength, his ability to endure the cold, his courage—it had earned him the wildlings' respect. But respect wasn't enough. What they needed now was a leader, someone who could hold them together when the ground began to tremble beneath their feet.

Tormund approached Clark, his heavy boots crunching in the snow. "Clark," he said, his voice low but urgent, "we need to be ready. The White Walkers are close. We can't afford any mistakes."

"I know," Clark replied, his voice calm but firm. "We won't make any. We stick to the plan."

Tormund grunted, turning back to the wildlings. They were ready, or at least they looked it. The reality, though, was that no one could be truly ready for what was coming. The wights would come first, attacking in waves, trying to overwhelm them with sheer numbers. But it was the White Walkers who were the true threat—their cold, their magic, the eerie power they possessed.

"They're close," Clark said, his voice cutting through the wind. "Stay sharp."

The wildlings muttered among themselves, trying to find comfort in each other's presence. But there was no comfort to be found. Not in the cold, not in the snow, not in the eerie silence that had overtaken the land.

And then, Clark's senses went on high alert. He could hear it now, the unmistakable sound of movement—a slow, deliberate progression through the snow. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't an animal. It was something worse.

Tormund's face turned grim. "They're here."

The Battle Begins

Clark's eyes narrowed as he watched the first of the White Walkers emerge from the snow, their pale, ghostly figures cutting through the storm like spectral hunters. Their skin was as white as the snow around them, their eyes glowing with an eerie blue light. They walked with a slow, deliberate pace, as if the world itself would bend to their will.

Behind them, the wights—countless reanimated corpses—stumbled forward. The dead did not speak. They did not feel. They simply moved, clawing their way through the snow, their eyes hollow, their bodies rotting. There were too many to count, an endless tide of death that could drown them if they weren't careful.

"Get ready!" Tormund shouted, his voice gruff. "Hold the line!"

The wildlings, tense and afraid, raised their weapons, standing their ground. Clark, standing at the front of the group, took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the approaching horde. He could feel the air grow colder still, the chill settling deep into his bones. But he pushed it aside. This was no time for hesitation.

With a powerful leap, Clark surged forward, closing the distance between himself and the first wave of wights. He struck with the force of a comet, his fists smashing into the undead with terrifying precision. Each blow sent wights tumbling to the snow, their limbs twisted and broken. But no matter how many he took down, more took their place. They kept coming, crawling out of the snow, rising from the earth itself.

Ygritte's arrows flew with deadly accuracy, each one finding its mark, but the wights didn't stop. They never stopped. She shot arrow after arrow, her aim unyielding, but even she could see the futility of it. For every wight that fell, two more seemed to take its place.

"Clark!" Ygritte shouted, her voice desperate as she fired another shot. "We can't hold them off forever!"

"We don't have to!" Clark shouted back, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Just keep fighting!"

Tormund's battle cry rang out across the field, his axe cleaving through the dead like a scythe through wheat. He fought with all the fury of a man who had nothing left to lose, each strike pushing the wights back, but they were relentless. The cold around them grew even more intense as the White Walkers advanced, their blue eyes glowing with an unnatural hunger.

Clark's eyes locked onto the White Walkers as they drew closer, their presence more oppressive than the wights. These were no ordinary creatures. They were more than just death—they were the embodiment of it. But Clark was not afraid. He had faced greater dangers than these, but this was different. This was a fight for the soul of the world itself.

He flew into the air, propelling himself toward the nearest White Walker, his fists raised. The creature raised its sword, an icy blade that glimmered with magic, but Clark was faster. With a single, devastating punch, he shattered the Walker's sword and sent it flying backward. But the White Walker didn't fall. It rose again, its glowing eyes locking onto Clark with a deep, unsettling intensity.

"We need to get rid of them!" Clark yelled to Tormund, who was fighting off a group of wights nearby.

"I know!" Tormund roared, his axe cleaving through another wight's skull. "But they keep coming!"

Clark's heart raced as he saw the White Walkers advancing further, their expressions cold and unreadable. They weren't just attacking—they were watching, observing. They were testing them.

And Clark knew that if they didn't act soon, the wildlings would be overwhelmed.