Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark

The air in Hardhome was heavy with smoke and suspicion. Clark stood near the central fire, his presence a spark of tension in an already strained camp. Children peeked at him from behind their mothers' furs, while men cast sidelong glances, hands never far from their weapons.

Clark didn't blame them. He was an outsider, a stranger with powers he didn't fully understand in a world he barely recognized. Trust was hard-earned, and he'd done little to deserve it. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was meant to be here, that his presence served a purpose.

Ygritte sat cross-legged near the fire, her bow resting across her knees. She watched him with a sharp, measuring gaze, her lips curled in a faint smirk.

"You're not like the crows," she said, breaking the silence.

Clark turned to her. "I told you, I'm not from the south."

"Aye," she said, tilting her head. "But you've got the look of someone used to rules, to cities and kings. This place..." She gestured to the crude huts around them. "It doesn't suit you."

Clark considered her words. She wasn't wrong. He was a man out of place—both in this world and among these people. But that didn't mean he couldn't help.

"I don't need to fit in to make a difference," he said.

Ygritte chuckled, the sound low and rough. "Difference, eh? You sound like you've got a hero's heart. Dangerous thing, that. People like you always end up dead."

Before Clark could respond, a shout echoed through the camp.

"Fire! Fire in the food hut!"

---

Tormund

Tormund was in the middle of an argument with one of his men when the cry reached him. His head snapped toward the source of the commotion—a thin trail of smoke rising from the largest hut near the center of the camp.

"Bloody hells," he muttered, grabbing his axe as if the flames themselves were an enemy to be fought.

He sprinted toward the hut, his men close behind. Ygritte and Clark arrived a moment later, the stranger's expression tightening as he took in the scene.

The food hut was ablaze, the flames licking hungrily at the wooden beams. Inside, the faint sound of coughing could be heard.

"There's someone in there!" Ygritte shouted.

Tormund cursed. The food stores were vital, but a life was worth more. The fire was spreading fast, the heat forcing the gathered wildlings to back away. None dared enter.

"Damn it!" Tormund growled. He started forward, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

It was Clark.

"I'll go," he said simply.

Tormund hesitated. The flames were roaring now, thick smoke billowing into the freezing air. No man could survive that inferno—not even this strange southron.

"You'll die," Tormund said.

Clark's eyes met his, calm and unyielding. "Trust me."

Before Tormund could argue, Clark moved.

---

Clark

The heat hit him like a wall as he stepped into the burning hut. Flames roared around him, the air thick with smoke and ash. But Clark barely felt it. His Kryptonian physiology rendered the fire little more than a nuisance, though he knew it wouldn't appear that way to the people outside.

He found the source of the coughing quickly—a young boy, no older than ten, trapped beneath a fallen beam. The child's face was pale, his breaths shallow.

Clark knelt and lifted the beam effortlessly, tossing it aside as though it weighed nothing. He scooped the boy into his arms, shielding him from the worst of the smoke as he turned back toward the entrance.

The flames parted before him as he walked, the heat rolling off his skin.

---

Tormund

Tormund watched in stunned silence as Clark emerged from the hut, the boy cradled in his arms. The flames still raged behind him, but the man looked untouched—no burns, no singed hair, not even a sheen of sweat.

The wildlings fell silent, their eyes wide with disbelief.

Clark knelt and laid the boy gently on the snow. The child's mother rushed forward, pulling him into a tight embrace, her sobs breaking the stillness.

"He walked through fire," one man whispered, his voice trembling.

Another murmured, "He's not a man. He's something else."

Tormund felt a chill crawl up his spine, colder than the northern wind. He had suspected Clark was different, but this? This was something beyond understanding.

"Bloody gods," Tormund muttered under his breath.

Ygritte stepped closer, her sharp eyes fixed on Clark. "How?" she demanded, her voice low but intense. "No one walks through fire like that. Not even crows with their magic."

Clark met her gaze, his expression calm. "I told you—I'm not from here."

Ygritte scoffed, though there was no humor in the sound. "Aye, that much is clear. But what are you?"

Before Clark could answer, the older woman with the staff—the one who had spoken against him earlier—stepped forward. Her weathered face was grim, her eyes filled with suspicion.

"You're not a man," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You're a demon, or a spirit. The old gods don't favor us with gifts like you."

"I'm neither," Clark said firmly. "I'm just someone trying to do the right thing."

The crowd murmured again, their fear mingling with awe.

Tormund shook his head, stepping forward to place himself between Clark and the others. "Enough!" he bellowed. "The boy's alive, ain't he? The hut's burnt, but we'll rebuild. Right now, we've got bigger problems than deciding whether Clark's a demon or a damned hero."

His words cut through the tension, and the crowd began to disperse, though their wary glances lingered.

Tormund turned to Clark, his expression unreadable. "You've got a way of making things complicated, don't ye?"

Clark offered a faint smile. "I'm used to it."

Ygritte crossed her arms, her gaze still piercing. "You're hiding something. But we'll find out what it is. Sooner or later."

Clark didn't reply. He knew the questions would only grow from here.

---

That night, as the fires died down and the stars emerged, Clark sat alone on the outskirts of the camp. He stared at the horizon, his thoughts a tangle of uncertainty.

Somewhere out there, the world he knew still existed. But for now, his place was here. And if these people were to trust him, he would have to prove himself—not just as a man of strength, but as someone who could stand against the darkness.