Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark's POV

The journey south had begun. The Wildlings, once scattered across the lands beyond the Wall, now moved as one—united under Mance Rayder's banner. For the first time in Clark's brief life among them, he saw the magnitude of the situation they were in. The forces at play were far beyond mere survival now.

Mance Rayder was leading the charge, his ambition to unite the Free Folk not for glory but for necessity. The threat of the White Walkers loomed, and no one knew how long they had before the Others would arrive in full force.

Clark had stood at the edge of the camp just before the march began, watching the men, women, and children prepare to move. They'd all been through so much—hunger, hardship, and constant fear—but now, a strange kind of resolve seemed to settle over them. They were heading south, leaving the Wall behind, to seek refuge in the warmer lands. But Clark's mind was on something else entirely.

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Clark's Reluctance

As he walked alongside Tormund, Ygritte, and the rest of their group, Clark couldn't shake the feeling that something was different today. The familiar chill in the air no longer felt like just another bitter reminder of the cold. It felt like a sign—a sign of something growing inside him.

His powers were getting stronger. Every day he could hear more—more than he wanted to. Every step he took felt lighter, faster. It had started small. First, it was a flicker of sound, a whispered word from a mile away. Then, his hearing became sharper—clearer. He could hear the beating hearts of the people around him, their breath in the cold air. He could hear the far-off calls of birds, the rustle of the wind through the trees, and, most unsettling of all, the distant thrum of the earth beneath him.

Then there was the flight. It wasn't much yet, but sometimes—when he let his mind wander, when his feet left the ground just enough to hover above it—he could feel the pull of the sky, as if the weight of the world no longer held him down. But he dared not go further. Not yet.

His strength had grown as well. He could feel it in his bones, in his every movement. It was as if the power of a hundred men surged through him, and yet it terrified him. Every time he used it—whether to lift something heavy or stop a falling tree—it felt like he was losing control of something much bigger than himself.

He didn't want to be that person. He didn't want to be the one to rely on these powers, to become something more than human. He'd seen what people did to those who were different. He didn't want to be that kind of target. And yet, there was no denying it. His powers were a part of him now.

"Clark," Tormund's voice broke him from his thoughts. "You look like a man lost in his own head. You need to shake off that look. We're heading south, and things won't get easier. Keep your wits about you."

Clark nodded absently. "I know. It's just... this place. It feels like it's closing in on me."

Tormund gave him a wry smile. "The Wall has a way of making men feel small. But we're not running from it. We're going south to live, to fight. That's what matters now."

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The March South

The group trudged through the snow as the landscape shifted around them. The jagged peaks of the Frostfangs loomed in the distance, their sharp, frosted edges seeming to pierce the sky. The wind howled, but for the most part, the Wildlings kept moving.

Mance Rayder's camp was now a moving mass of people and animals, traveling together in uneasy unity. Skor, the leader of the Ice River Clan, walked nearby, his grizzled face set in a permanent frown. Magnar Styr of the Thenns moved with them, his stiff posture giving him an air of command. Clark overheard snatches of their conversations, mostly concerning the growing fear of the White Walkers.

As they continued, Clark found himself observing the Free Folk, noting their different ways of surviving. The Thenns, disciplined and hardened, carried themselves with a certain pride. The Ice River Clan, by contrast, was more reserved and stoic, the weight of their history and loyalty to the land clear in their eyes.

They all shared the same goal now, but the tension was palpable. Among the Free Folk, trust was a hard thing to come by, especially with new faces like Clark's. Though Tormund had vouched for him, many still regarded him with suspicion, not fully understanding who he was or what he could do.

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The Growing Power

That night, as the group set camp near a frozen stream, Clark sat by the fire, his thoughts turning inward again. His strength had only increased over the past weeks, and now, there were moments where he felt like he could do more. Lift more. Hear more. And yet, every time he pushed himself—every time he tested the limits of his powers—he felt that familiar fear creeping in.

He closed his eyes, trying to center himself. He could hear the wind whistling through the trees, the soft murmur of voices from the camp, the crackling of the fire. But then, there was something else. Something distant. A thumping sound. Slow. Steady.

He blinked, realizing that it was coming from the ground beneath him. The thrum of the earth, the pulse of life—or death. He could hear the movement of creatures far below the surface, something ancient stirring beneath the snow. But just as quickly, it faded away, leaving Clark more unsettled than ever.

It wasn't just the land beneath his feet. He could feel the growing weight in his chest—the knowledge that his powers were not just a gift. They were a responsibility. The Free Folk needed him, whether they knew it or not. The Others were coming, and Clark had a role to play. But what role could a boy like him truly play in a world that was growing darker by the day?

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A Quiet Conversation with Tormund

That evening, as the fires burned low and the others settled for rest, Clark sat beside Tormund. The older Wildling had been unusually quiet that day, and Clark could tell something was weighing on him.

"You're different," Tormund said, his voice low but firm. "Something's changing in you. I've seen it. You don't want to admit it, but you're not the same as you were when we first met."

Clark didn't look at him. "I don't want to be something I'm not. These powers... they're dangerous."

Tormund let out a short laugh, the kind that felt more like a bark. "Dangerous? Aye, they are. But sometimes, that's what you need to survive. You can't fight what you are. I've known men who tried. They died. You want to live? Use what you've got."

"I don't know if I can," Clark muttered, his fists tightening at his sides.

Tormund slapped him on the back, hard enough to send a jolt through him. "You will, lad. You'll find your place. Just don't forget what brought you here. You've got more inside you than you know. And that's what'll keep you alive."

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The Path Ahead

As the night deepened and the fire's warmth began to fade, Clark stared into the flames. The tension of the journey southward, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, gnawed at him. His powers were only growing, and with them, his fears. He wasn't sure if he was ready for what was coming—but he knew one thing for sure: there was no turning back now.

The path southward was fraught with danger, but Clark would walk it. The Wildlings were depending on him, whether they realized it or not. And if he could keep them alive long enough, maybe—just maybe—he would find a way to make sense of the strange powers inside him.

For now, though, he would take it one step at a time.