Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark

The Thenns. Tormund had spoken of them with grudging respect and open irritation—a mix of admiration for their discipline and disdain for their ruthlessness. Clark understood why the moment their group crested the hill overlooking the Thenn encampment.

Unlike the Ice River folk, whose camps were scattered and shrouded in chaotic unpredictability, the Thenns' settlement was a model of order. Huts were arranged in precise rows, their roofs covered with tightly packed snow to insulate against the biting cold. The entire camp was surrounded by a tall palisade, reinforced with iron spikes that gleamed ominously in the pale light of dawn.

The smoke from their forges curled skyward, black and dense. The rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils echoed across the snowy valley, a testament to their mastery of metallurgy—a rarity among the free folk.

"They're not like the others," Tormund muttered, spitting into the snow. "They think they're better than us because they can march in lines and swing steel instead of bone. Cold lot, the Thenns—colder than the bloody frost itself."

Ygritte snorted. "And smarter than you lot, too. They've survived this long, haven't they?"

"Survival ain't everything," Tormund grumbled. "They've lost what makes us free. Discipline's one thing, but they've turned it into chains."

Clark tuned out their bickering, focusing instead on the camp below. He could see sentries patrolling the perimeter, their movements efficient and practiced. The Thenns were more than just survivors—they were warriors forged in the harsh crucible of the North. Winning them over would be no small feat.

"How do we approach this?" Clark asked.

"Carefully," Tormund replied. "The Magnar of Thenn doesn't trust outsiders. Hell, he barely trusts anyone who isn't a Thenn. But he respects strength, and he respects results. If we show him we've got both, he might listen."

"Might," Ygritte echoed, her tone skeptical.

---

Magnar Styr

The Magnar's hall was a stark contrast to the lively chaos of Tormund's camp or the primal austerity of the Ice River folk. The room was dark and cold, lit only by a central fire pit. Iron weapons and tools lined the walls, a testament to the Thenns' craftsmanship.

Styr himself sat on a carved wooden throne, his bald head gleaming in the firelight. He was a massive man, his muscular frame encased in steel armor that looked both functional and intimidating. A long-handled axe rested within arm's reach, its blade honed to a razor's edge.

Clark stood before him, flanked by Tormund and Ygritte. The rest of their party waited outside, their unease palpable.

"You're the one they've been whispering about," Styr said, his voice a deep rumble. His eyes, pale as the frost, fixed on Clark with a piercing intensity. "The outsider who killed a Walker. The one who thinks he can unite the free folk."

Clark met his gaze without flinching. "I don't think I can. I know I have to."

Styr leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "Bold words. But words are wind. What makes you think the Thenns need an outsider to lead them?"

"I'm not asking to lead you," Clark replied. "I'm asking you to fight alongside us. The Walkers are coming, and they won't stop until there's nothing left—no Thenns, no free folk, no Wall."

Styr chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "You think you can frighten me with stories? The Thenns have faced worse than Walkers and lived to tell of it."

Clark stepped closer, his voice firm. "Have you faced an army of the dead? Have you seen what they can do? I have. And I'm telling you—if we don't unite, we'll all die."

For a moment, Styr said nothing. The firelight flickered in his pale eyes, casting shadows that made his face look even more severe. Finally, he spoke.

"You speak of unity," he said, his tone measured. "But unity is earned, not given. If you want the Thenns to stand with you, prove that you're worthy of it."

---

Tormund

"Prove that you're worthy," Tormund muttered as they left the hall. "Bloody Magnar. Always playing his games."

"What did you expect?" Ygritte shot back. "You think he'd just hand over his warriors because you asked nicely?"

Tormund grunted, clearly annoyed. "He's testing us. Wants to see if we're strong enough to be worth his time."

Clark looked thoughtful. "What kind of test are we talking about?"

"Depends on his mood," Tormund replied. "Could be anything from a fistfight to a bloody raid on a rival clan. Whatever it is, you can bet it won't be easy."

Clark nodded, his expression determined. "Then we'll face it. Whatever it takes."

---

The Trials Begin

The next morning, Styr laid out the terms of his challenge: a series of trials designed to test Clark's strength, endurance, and cunning.

The first trial was a feat of strength. Styr led them to the edge of the camp, where a massive boulder sat half-buried in the snow.

"If you want to prove your worth," Styr said, his voice cold, "move that stone to the top of the hill."

Clark stepped forward, his expression calm. The Thenns gathered to watch, their skepticism clear.

To them, the boulder was an impossible obstacle. But for Clark, it was little more than a large rock. He crouched beside it, gripping its edges firmly. With a grunt of effort—more for show than necessity—he heaved the boulder from the ground and began carrying it uphill.

The Thenns watched in stunned silence as Clark reached the summit and set the boulder down with a heavy thud.

"Not bad," Styr admitted, though his tone remained icy.

---

The second trial was a test of endurance: a race through the frozen wilderness surrounding the camp. Clark, Ygritte, and Tormund were pitted against a group of Thenn warriors, the course winding through snowdrifts, icy streams, and treacherous ravines.

Clark held back, matching the Thenns' pace to avoid drawing suspicion. He could have finished the race in moments, but that would have raised questions he wasn't ready to answer. Instead, he stayed with the lead group, his breathing steady even as the icy wind cut through his cloak.

By the time they returned to the camp, Clark was barely winded. Tormund, on the other hand, collapsed into the snow with a theatrical groan.

"Bloody hell," he gasped. "You've got lungs of iron, boy."

---

The final trial was one of strategy: a mock battle using wooden weapons. Clark was pitted against three of Styr's best warriors, their movements coordinated and precise.

Clark fought defensively at first, gauging their tactics. The Thenns were disciplined, their strikes calculated and their teamwork seamless. But Clark had faced worse.

One by one, he disarmed them, his movements swift and efficient. When the last warrior fell, the onlookers erupted into murmurs of surprise and approval.

---

The Verdict

That evening, Clark stood before Styr once more. The Magnar studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"You've proven your strength, endurance, and skill," Styr said finally. "But that doesn't make you a leader."

"I'm not asking to lead," Clark replied. "I'm asking you to fight for your people. For all the free folk."

Styr was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "You've earned my respect, outsider. The Thenns will stand with you."

---

Ygritte

As they left the Thenn camp, Ygritte walked beside Clark, her expression thoughtful.

"You surprised me back there," she admitted. "Didn't think you'd pull it off."

Clark smiled faintly. "I didn't do it alone."

Ygritte glanced at him, her gaze softening. "Maybe not. But you're the reason we're still standing. The Thenns were a hard win. The next clans might be even harder."

Clark nodded, his jaw set. "Then we'll win them over too. Whatever it takes."