Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Tormund

The storm had softened to a biting wind by the time they neared Hardhome, but Tormund's thoughts churned like a river breaking through ice. His instincts screamed to leave Clark behind, yet the stranger kept pace with unsettling ease.

He glanced back, his breath a mist in the frigid air. Clark walked among them, his strange, clean garments a stark contrast to the patched furs and leather of the Free Folk. Ygritte, ever the bold one, stuck to his side, her questions falling like arrows in the snow. Tormund couldn't hear the words over the howling wind, but her body language told him everything: curiosity, respect—dangerous seeds among a people who didn't trust easily.

Tormund ground his teeth and turned forward. This wasn't what he'd wanted. The stranger—Clark, he'd called himself—wasn't just a mystery. He was a rift waiting to happen.

Behind him, the others whispered in uneasy tones.

"Did you see it?" one muttered. "He burned 'em with his bloody eyes."

"Aye," another replied. "Never seen the like. No torch, no fire—but they were gone."

"Think he's one of the crows' gods?"

"Crows don't have gods. Maybe he's one o' the old ones."

Tormund felt his stomach twist. The Free Folk were stubborn, skeptical—survivors in a land where trust could kill as easily as the cold. Yet Clark had done something no wildling had seen before, and that made him dangerous in a way even the wights weren't.

"You lot!" Tormund barked over his shoulder. "Save yer breath! Or let the cold take it if you're daft enough to waste it."

The murmurs ceased, but the tension didn't.

---

Clark

Clark wasn't used to silence.

In Metropolis, the city hummed with life—chatter, engines, the occasional blare of a horn. Even Smallville had its rhythms: the rustle of cornfields in the wind, the lowing of cattle. But here, north of whatever Wall these people kept mentioning, the world was eerily still.

Still, except for the whispers.

He heard them, though he pretended not to. Words like demon and god floated through the icy air. The red-haired woman—Ygritte—was the only one who spoke to him directly.

"Another world, you said," she pressed, her breath misting as she walked beside him. "What kind of world?"

Clark hesitated. How could he explain? Metropolis, the Daily Planet, Krypton... None of it would make sense to her.

"Not like this one," he said at last. "It's warmer. Brighter."

Her eyes narrowed. "Warmer, eh? Sounds like a soft place. You'd not last long here if you weren't... whatever you are."

He offered a small, awkward smile. "I'm learning."

Ygritte studied him for a moment longer before falling silent. The group pressed on, the cold gnawing at their heels.

By the time the smoke of Hardhome's fires appeared on the horizon, Clark felt the weight of their stares pressing harder than the snow. He didn't belong here—he knew that. But these people needed him, even if they didn't realize it yet.

---

Hardhome

The village was less a settlement and more a sprawl of crude huts and shelters, built from driftwood and stone, all huddled together against the harsh wind. Smoke curled from the fires, mingling with the ever-present gray of the sky.

As they approached, children darted out of sight, their wide eyes peeking from behind worn furs. Women and older men gathered near the central fire, their faces wary.

Tormund raised a hand, his booming voice cutting through the chill. "It's me, ye scared little shits. Quit cowering like rabbits!"

The tension eased slightly as villagers recognized him. A few men stepped forward, their stances cautious but not hostile.

"Who's this?" one asked, nodding toward Clark.

"A question I've been asking meself," Tormund muttered. Louder, he said, "He calls himself Clark. Found him out in the snow, killing wights like it was nothing. Says he wants to help."

The man frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Help? We don't need his kind of help."

"Ye didn't see what he did," Ygritte interjected, her tone sharp. "He burned the dead. No sword, no torch—just him."

The villagers murmured, their gazes flicking between Clark and the ash still clinging to Tormund's boots.

Clark stepped forward, his movements careful, deliberate. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I only want to help."

The man scoffed. "Help, eh? And what are ye? A crow's trick? A shadow? We've got no use for southern magic here."

Clark met his gaze evenly. "I'm not from the south."

"Then where?"

Clark hesitated, searching for the words. He glanced at Tormund, who was watching him closely, and then back at the gathered villagers. "Someplace far from here. I don't know how I got here, but I do know this: those creatures—wights—are a threat to all of us. I can stop them."

A heavy silence followed his words.

Finally, an older woman stepped forward, her face lined with years of hardship. She carried a staff, its top adorned with feathers and bone charms that rattled softly in the wind.

"We've seen men like you before," she said, her voice low and gravelly. "Men with power. They always come with promises, but they leave death behind."

Clark shook his head. "I'm not like them. I don't want anything from you. I just want to protect the innocent."

"Innocent?" the woman repeated, her tone laced with skepticism. She pointed her staff at him. "There's no such thing north of the Wall."

Tormund stepped forward then, his voice cutting through the growing tension. "Enough! If he's lying, the cold'll take him soon enough. But if he's telling the truth..." He let the words hang, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "We've lost too many to those dead bastards. If this Clark can stop them, then we'd be fools not to use him."

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances.

Finally, the older woman nodded, though her expression remained wary. "He can stay—for now. But mark my words: if he brings trouble, it'll be your head, Tormund."

Tormund snorted. "Aye, wouldn't be the first time."

He turned to Clark, his expression unreadable. "Welcome to Hardhome, stranger. Don't make me regret it."

Clark nodded, his blue eyes steady. "I won't."

---

As night fell over Hardhome, Clark stood by the central fire, watching the villagers go about their routines. They kept their distance, their eyes darting toward him with a mix of fear and curiosity.

Tormund sat nearby, sharpening his axe. "Ye're not what I expected," he muttered without looking up.

Clark glanced at him. "What did you expect?"

Tormund's lips curled into a wry smile. "Something easier to kill."

Clark didn't reply. Instead, he looked out at the horizon, where the first stars were beginning to emerge. Somewhere beyond that frozen expanse, he knew, was his home.

But for now, this was where he needed to be.