Chapter 2: Chapter 2: The God from the Storm
Tormund
Tormund Giantsbane didn't consider himself a coward. He'd faced giants, shadowcats, and the biting maw of winter's rage more times than he could count. He'd earned his name, not just for the beasts he'd slain but for the fearlessness that carried him through the Frozen Shore and beyond. But as he stared at the man standing before him—if he was a man—he felt something he hadn't known in years.
He felt small.
The stranger didn't look like much at first glance. His clothing was thin, strange, with no furs or leathers to guard against the Frostfangs' wrath. His face was clean-shaven, unscarred, and his dark hair wasn't matted with snow or grease. A southerner, perhaps—a deserter from the Night's Watch? No, the crows wouldn't abandon their Wall without good reason, and this man didn't wear black.
Then the fire had come.
Tormund had seen the man's eyes glow red, a searing light brighter than dragonfire, and then the creatures—the wights—had been turned to ash. Just like that.
Now, Tormund stood frozen, his axe still clutched tightly in his hands, though he wasn't sure if it would do any good. His men shifted uneasily behind him, whispering to each other. He didn't have to hear the words to know what they were saying.
"Magic."
"Not a man, a demon."
"A god."
"Aye," Tormund muttered under his breath, "but whose god?"
The man—if he was a man—looked back at them, his expression calm and steady. He didn't hold a weapon. Didn't seem to need one. His voice, when he spoke, was strange. Deep and smooth, clearer than the winds that tore through the mountains.
"I'm here to help," he said.
Tormund's grip on his axe tightened. "Help, is it? Burning the dead with yer eyes is what you call help, eh?"
The stranger didn't flinch. "Those creatures weren't alive. They were... something else. Dangerous." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "I couldn't let them hurt anyone."
Tormund snorted. "And why would ye care if they did? What are ye? A crow? A sorcerer? Some shadow sent by the crows' gods?"
The man hesitated, and for a moment, Tormund thought he might actually answer. Then the wind howled again, cutting between them like a blade, and the man turned his gaze to the horizon.
"I'm not from here," he said finally.
The words hung in the air, strange and hollow. Tormund barked a laugh, though it sounded weak even to his own ears. "Aye, I'd figured as much. Ye don't talk like anyone I've ever met, and ye sure as hell don't burn wights like anyone I've ever seen." He stepped closer, his boots crunching in the snow. "But that don't answer my question, does it? What are ye?"
The man met his gaze, his blue eyes calm but piercing. "My name is Clark. I'm... just someone trying to do the right thing."
Tormund frowned. Clark. It was a strange name. Too soft. Too southern. The kind of name that would've gotten a boy killed north of the Wall before he'd even grown his first beard.
"Clark, is it?" Tormund said, tasting the word. It didn't fit in his mouth. "Well, Clark, you've got a lot of explaining to do. Where'd ye come from? And don't give me that 'not from here' nonsense. We all know that." He gestured at the smoldering pile of ash where the wights had been. "What was that? And why shouldn't I gut ye here and now, eh?"
The others murmured their agreement, though none of them moved. Even the archer, Ygritte, kept her bow at her side, her sharp eyes flicking between Tormund and the stranger.
"I can't explain it," Clark said, his voice steady but quiet. "Not in a way that would make sense to you."
Tormund's frown deepened. "Try me."
Clark sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked up at the sky, as if searching for something in the endless gray. "I'm not from this place," he said finally. "Not just from north or south of this Wall you keep talking about. I'm from... somewhere far away. Another world."
Tormund blinked. The others fell silent. Even the wind seemed to quiet for a moment, as if the Frostfangs themselves were listening.
"Another world," Tormund repeated slowly. "Ye mean across the Narrow Sea? Or past Asshai?"
Clark shook his head. "No. Farther than that. Farther than anything you've ever seen or imagined." He paused, then added, "I didn't mean to come here. I don't even know how I got here."
Tormund studied him, his eyes narrowing. The words were madness. Another world? It couldn't be true. And yet... there was something about the way the man spoke, the calm certainty in his voice, that made it hard to dismiss.
"Another world," Tormund muttered again. He rubbed his beard, his mind racing. "Ye sound like some fool maester trying to make sense of the stars."
"It's the truth," Clark said simply.
Tormund scowled. He didn't like this. He didn't like the way this man spoke, the way he looked at them like he wasn't afraid of their blades or their numbers. But most of all, he didn't like the way his men were looking at Clark now—with awe, with fear, with something dangerously close to worship.
Clark
"This ain't your place," Tormund growled, stepping closer, his massive frame casting a shadow over the stranger. "These are our lands, and we don't take kindly to... outsiders. Especially ones with fire in their eyes and words of madness on their tongues."
Clark didn't flinch. He met Tormund's glare with a calm, unyielding gaze that made Tormund's stomach churn. There was no fear in this man—not the kind that other men showed, at least.
"I didn't choose to be here," Clark said evenly. "But I am here now. And whatever those things were—those creatures—I can stop them."
Tormund barked a short laugh, though it was more bark than mirth. "Oh, can ye now? Ye think you're some savior, eh? A hero come to save us poor, savage wildlings from the dark?"
The word hung in the air—wildlings. Clark frowned slightly, filing it away. It seemed important, but now wasn't the time to ask.
"I don't think I'm a savior," Clark said. "But I can help. And if those creatures come back, you're going to need me."
Ygritte stepped forward then, her bow still at her side but her sharp eyes fixed on Clark. "He's not wrong, Tormund," she said, her voice low but clear. "You saw what he did. Those wights..." She hesitated, glancing at the pile of ash. "We've seen 'em cut through entire villages. He stopped them like they were nothing."
Tormund rounded on her, his face twisted in frustration. "And what if he's worse than the wights, eh? What if he's some southern sorcerer here to turn us all to dust? Or a demon sent by the old gods to punish us for defying the crows?"
Ygritte didn't back down. "And what if he's not?" she shot back. "What if he's the only thing standing between us and them?"
The others murmured again, louder this time. Tormund could see it in their faces, the way their eyes darted to Clark with a mixture of fear and hope. He cursed under his breath.
He hated this. Hated not knowing what to do. If it were a simple fight, he'd already have buried his axe in this Clark's chest, magic fire eyes be damned. But this wasn't simple. And Tormund Giantsbane hadn't survived this long by being a fool.
Finally, he turned back to Clark, his jaw clenched. "Alright, Clark," he said, spitting the name like it tasted foul. "You want to help? Prove it. Show us you're not here to burn us all to ash or sell us out to the crows. Show us you're worth keeping alive."
Clark nodded. "What do you need me to do?"
Tormund barked another laugh, this one bitter. "Survive," he said simply. "We're heading back to the village. If ye can keep up, maybe we'll talk more. If not, well..." He hefted his axe onto his shoulder. "The snow'll bury ye soon enough."
The red-bearded wildling turned and started walking, his men falling into step behind him. Clark hesitated for a moment, then followed, his long strides easily keeping pace.
As they trudged through the snow, Ygritte fell into step beside him. She glanced up at him, her expression guarded but curious.
"You don't look like much," she said after a moment.
Clark glanced at her, surprised by the remark. "And what do I look like?"
She smirked. "A southron. Or a crow that lost his feathers. Not like someone who can burn wights to ash with his eyes."
Clark didn't respond immediately. He wasn't sure how to explain himself to these people, how to make them understand who—or what—he was. Instead, he looked ahead, where Tormund was leading the group through the storm.
"What did he mean?" Clark asked finally. "About the crows?"
Ygritte snorted. "The Night's Watch. Men who guard the Wall."
Clark frowned. "The Wall?"
She gave him a sideways glance, her smirk fading slightly. "You really don't know anything, do you?"
"No," Clark admitted.
Ygritte studied him for a moment, then shook her head. "You've got a lot to learn, southron. But if you're lucky, maybe you'll live long enough to learn it."
Clark didn't reply. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for answers in the endless expanse of white. Whatever this place was—this world—he could feel its weight pressing down on him, heavy and cold.
For the first time in years, Clark felt truly lost.