Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Mance's POV

The battle had left its mark on the Free Folk. The field was littered with the bodies of the dead—wights, men, and even a few of the White Walkers who had fallen to Clark's flames. The cold night air was thick with the stench of burning flesh, of death. Mance Rayder stood near the remnants of the battlefield, his fur-lined cloak heavy with the weight of exhaustion.

The ground was still frozen beneath his boots, but Mance felt no chill. Not from the cold, at least. His thoughts were consumed with the events of the night—the sight of Clark's power. The stranger had proven himself in ways that no one had anticipated, even if they had heard rumors of his strength.

Clark had been the unexpected factor in the battle, the one who turned the tide when it seemed like all was lost. His ability to destroy the White Walkers with just a glance, the heat emanating from him like a weapon of destruction—Mance still struggled to comprehend it.

But the battle was won. For now.

Mance glanced over to where Tormund, Skor, and Weeper were gathering the survivors. The Free Folk were preparing to continue their journey south, but there was little joy in their steps. They were tired, wounded, and the uncertainty of the future hung heavy in the air. They were heading toward the Wall, but even that felt distant, uncertain.

Tormund approached, his face grim but resolute. "We lost many last night. But we would have lost more if it weren't for him."

Mance nodded, his eyes lingering on Clark. The young man stood slightly apart from the rest of the group, his expression unreadable. He had saved them, but Mance didn't fully understand why he had chosen to do so. Why help the Free Folk? He hadn't spoken much, and Mance had yet to learn his true motives.

"I've never seen anything like that," Mance murmured. "What kind of man—what kind of power—does he have?"

Tormund hesitated, glancing toward Clark. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it's beyond anything we've seen. He didn't just fight with strength—he burned them. The White Walkers. With his eyes."

"Impossible," Mance muttered, shaking his head. "The tales speak of fire killing wights, but that… That was something else."

"It's true, though," Tormund said, his voice low. "I saw it. All of us did."

Mance rubbed his forehead, his thoughts racing. He couldn't deny it. He had seen it with his own eyes. The fire, the destruction. The Walkers had crumbled before it. But even if Clark had the power to fight the Others, there was still the question of why he hadn't done more. Why had he kept his distance from the Free Folk? Why hadn't he taken charge of the battle?

"There's something about him," Mance said, almost to himself. "Something we don't know. And I don't trust it."

Tormund shot him a hard look. "He saved us, Mance. That's what matters now."

"But for how long?" Mance replied, his voice harsh. "What if he's hiding something from us? What if this power of his comes at a cost? We can't let our guard down. Not with the Others coming."

Tormund's gaze softened. "We'll deal with that later. For now, we need to keep moving. The Wall's still a long way off."

Mance nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. They had lost good men and women during the ambush. Their chances of survival seemed slim, even with Clark's power on their side. The Wall might offer some protection, but Mance knew better than to place his trust in any stone structure. The real threat was what was beyond the Wall—and now, he had another worry: the young man with the fire in his eyes.

Clark stood to the side, watching the preparations for the journey south. His expression was distant, almost as if he didn't quite belong in this world. He had shown them a glimpse of power that defied explanation, and yet he was still a mystery. A riddle that Mance was unsure he wanted to solve.

But for now, there was no choice. They had to continue. The Others were closing in, and there was no room for hesitation.

Weeper's POV

Weeper trudged forward, his axe dragging along the snow-covered ground. He had fought in many battles, seen many enemies fall before him, but last night… last night had been different. The sheer power that Clark had unleashed—it had burned away the doubts in Weeper's mind.

Before, the rumors had been just that—rumors. Tormund had spoken of Clark's strength, but Weeper had been skeptical. He had seen strong men before, but no one had ever come close to what Clark had done. To burn the White Walkers, to melt them with his eyes as if they were nothing more than ice—Weeper had to admit, the man was something beyond mortal.

It had taken him a moment to realize the full extent of Clark's power. The fire, the heat—it had been like a weapon forged by the gods themselves. Weeper wasn't sure whether to be afraid or in awe.

He glanced over at Clark, who was walking ahead of the group, his posture stiff, his expression distant. Clark hadn't said much since the battle. In fact, he hadn't said much at all since joining them. And now, after everything that had happened, Weeper couldn't help but wonder: who was this man really?

They had been traveling south for a while now, the landscape growing more desolate with each passing mile. The group was quiet, somber, their thoughts consumed by the battle they had just fought and the dangers still ahead. The wall loomed in the distance, but it didn't feel like a safe haven. Not with the Others still lurking, and not with Clark's power hanging over them.

Weeper couldn't shake the thought that they were heading straight into the unknown. The Wall might protect them from some of the dangers, but there was something more out there. Something even more dangerous. And Clark—Clark might be their key to survival, but at what cost?

He wasn't sure if he could trust Clark. Not yet. But he couldn't deny the truth of what he had seen last night. Clark was powerful—too powerful. And that was a dangerous thing, no matter how you looked at it.

As they pressed on, the wind howling around them, Weeper couldn't help but wonder if they were all walking into a trap. A trap set by the man who had saved them all.

But for now, there was no turning back. They had to survive. And Clark—whether they trusted him or not—was their best chance at making it through.

Got it! Here's the revision with Tormund's POV corrected to reflect his knowledge of Clark's strength:

Tormund's POV

The battle had ended in a brutal silence, the lingering smell of burning flesh and the stench of the dead heavy in the air. I stood at the edge of the camp, watching as the last of the wights and White Walkers were dragged away by the survivors, their bodies disintegrating into nothingness under the cruel grip of Clark's heat vision. The boy... no, the man... had been more than I had ever expected. His strength, his power—it was unnatural, and in all the years I had lived, I had never seen anything like it.

I had seen Clark rip through the wights like they were nothing, tossing them aside with ease. When the White Walkers had come, he didn't hesitate. He unleashed a blast from his eyes—heat so intense it incinerated them in seconds. I had heard stories, tales from other lands of people with powers, but I had never seen one firsthand. Not until that night.

He had barely said a word about it. But when the others came at us, their cold eyes glimmering with death, Clark had stepped forward. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and unshaken by the chaos around him. Then, he did something that shook the very earth. I could still feel the heat in my bones. The sky had lit up as though the sun had decided to rise in the middle of the night, and I knew then, we were no longer dealing with a man, but something far beyond.

I had to admit it—I was glad he was on our side. No one else could've done what he did. The White Walkers had fallen, and the wights were little more than ash. But the fight had cost us. The Free Folk were still in shock, but that was nothing compared to the terror they had felt in the face of the Others.

The firelight flickered, casting long shadows on the faces of the survivors. We were heading south, but that battle had shown me one thing: the danger we faced was far greater than I had ever imagined. We needed more than just strength to survive—we needed more than Clark's unnatural gifts. We needed unity, and we needed to be ready.

But one thing was certain. With Clark by our side, we had a chance.

Mance's POV

The aftermath of the battle was quieter than I had expected. The camp was a ruin, yet there was a strange sense of relief. The Others had come for us, but they had been driven back. Not by steel, but by something I could barely comprehend.

I had been watching Clark from a distance when he first unleashed that blast. His eyes, burning with an intensity that matched the sun itself, had turned the battlefield into a furnace. I had seen men die in fire, but this... this was something else entirely. The wights and White Walkers had been reduced to ash before they could even react. And the look in Clark's eyes—it was as if he wasn't just fighting to survive. He was fighting because he had to.

I couldn't fathom it. Tormund had told me of the boy's strength, but this... this was beyond anything I had prepared myself for. A man who could fight the dead with such power could very well be the key to our survival. But I couldn't allow myself to think too much on it. Clark was still an unknown, and if there was one thing I had learned over the years, it was that power was a double-edged sword. People like him could be the saviors of the Free Folk, or they could bring about our doom.

Weeper came to stand beside me, his eyes narrowed in thought. He had seen what Clark was capable of. "Doesn't sit right with me," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "A man like him, with power like that. What does he want from us?"

"I don't know," I said, my eyes still fixed on Clark as he spoke quietly with Tormund. "But he saved us last night. And for that, I'll owe him. For now, that's enough."

Weeper snorted, looking towards the distant horizon where the Wall loomed in the distance. "I'd say you'd better hope we can trust him, Mance. If he's got a god's power, he may be the last thing we need."

I frowned at Weeper's words but didn't reply. We had bigger concerns now. The Free Folk needed to reach the Wall, and fast. The Others were still out there, and they wouldn't stop until we were all dead.

We had to get south. We had to find a way to survive.

And Clark, whatever he was, would be part of that survival.