Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark Kent's POV

The Gift had started to feel like home in the strangest way. The people, the land, the endless stretch of snow-covered ground. It wasn't where I came from, but it was where I needed to be.

The harsh winds of the Gift bit through my cloak as I worked. The Free Folk were settling in, with the Watch and the Wildlings trying to find a balance. Some days I helped with shelter, moving massive logs or stones that would have taken days to move by human hands. The Watchmen watched me, uneasy but unable to deny the utility of my help.

It was difficult to ignore the growing whispers. Some thought I was a god—perhaps a messenger from the Old Gods themselves. Others said I was a sorcerer, a man who wielded unnatural power. It wasn't flattering, but I could see why they thought that. They had never encountered someone like me before. My powers, while not fully realized, were enough to leave an impression.

The Night's Watch had begun to feel the weight of my presence. They weren't sure how to react. Some of them were in awe, while others were more suspicious, but all of them were watching. I helped them with their work too—lifting heavy loads, digging trenches, setting up defenses around the settlement.

I had not expected them to take to me so easily, yet I found myself working alongside them, making their tasks easier, reducing their burden. Even the Watch, a group that had long been skeptical of anything that might break tradition, could not ignore the usefulness of my powers.

I had come to the Watch not as a member but as a silent observer. It wasn't my place to tell them what to do or how to lead. But I did what I could to help. One of the Watchmen, a tall man with a rough face and a heavy frown, called out to me while I was moving a large pile of snow away from a shelter.

"Don't get too used to it, stranger," he grunted, his voice thick with suspicion. "We don't trust magic here, even if it helps us."

I looked at him, pausing for a moment. His eyes were wary, but I could tell there was more to his words than simple caution.

"You think I'm magic?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

He grunted. "You're strong, stronger than any man I've seen. But we've heard tales. We've seen people come to the Wall with powers. Doesn't end well."

I nodded slowly. "I'm not here to cause trouble," I said, and then without thinking, I let out a breath, and the ice and snow piled up before me shifted with ease. It wasn't much—just a few dozen tons of snow—but it was enough to prove a point.

The Watchman's eyes widened. "What are you?"

"I told you. Just a man trying to help."

He didn't speak again, but his unease was palpable.

Over the days that followed, I noticed something strange in the way the Free Folk treated the trees that dotted the landscape. They often passed by them with a reverence that seemed almost... sacred. It was a quiet reverence, not something loud or overt, but I could feel it. They touched the trunks as if in prayer, their heads bowed for a moment, and their eyes closed as if seeking something from the trees.

I asked Tormund about it one day as we worked together.

"They've been acting strangely around those trees," I said, watching him closely. "What's the deal with them?"

Tormund looked up at me, his brows furrowed in thought, as if trying to decide how much to reveal. After a long pause, he sighed.

"They're weirwoods," he said simply, as if that explained everything.

"Weirwoods?" I repeated. "What do you mean?"

"They're old, Clark. Ancient. The Free Folk believe that the weirwoods have eyes that can see beyond what's in front of them. Eyes that can look into the past and the future. They're not just trees—they're sacred. Connected to the gods, to the spirits of the world."

I couldn't help but shake my head. "Eyes that can see beyond time?"

Tormund nodded, his expression growing serious. "Aye. Some say they can hear your thoughts, if you listen close enough. They're not like any tree you'll see in the South. They hold power. Power that comes from the very heart of the world."

I stared at the nearest weirwood, its twisted branches reaching up to the sky like a hand frozen in time. I hadn't given them much thought until now, but Tormund's words rang in my ears. Power. Eyes. Time.

It made no sense to me, but in a place like this, with everything that had already happened, nothing seemed impossible.

Tormund clapped me on the back, his grin returning. "Don't worry, Clark. They won't hurt you. But they'll be watching."

I turned back to the trees, suddenly feeling their presence more keenly than before.

Robert Baratheon's POV

The walls of Winterfell loomed tall and unyielding against the cold northern sky, their ancient stones a testament to the endurance of the Stark line. Robert Baratheon rode through the gates, flanked by his retinue. His horse's breath misted in the frosty air, the sound of hooves echoing on the cobblestones.

Eddard Stark stood waiting in the courtyard, his gray eyes steady. The man had always carried the North in his bearing—stoic, unshakable. But there was something else now, Robert thought. Time had worn down his old friend, etching lines of worry into his face.

"Ned!" Robert bellowed as he dismounted, his voice booming across the yard.

"Your Grace," Ned replied, bowing slightly.

"None of that." Robert crossed the distance between them and pulled him into a bear hug. "You've gotten old."

Ned stepped back, his gaze drifting briefly to Robert's belly. "You've gotten fat."

Robert roared with laughter, slapping his stomach. "Too much feasting, not enough fighting! But gods, it's good to see you."

"It's been too long," Ned agreed.

They exchanged pleasantries as Robert greeted the rest of the Stark family. His gaze lingered briefly on Jon Snow, standing apart from the others. He felt no resentment toward the boy. Bastardy was a fact of life. He'd fathered his share, after all.

---

Later, when the courtesies were done, Robert turned to Ned. "Take me to her," he said, his voice low.

Behind him, Cersei's voice broke the conversation, sharp and cutting. "The dead can wait, Robert."

Robert turned slowly, his face darkening with anger. "Ned"

Ned hesitated, then nodded. "This way."

The air in the crypt was cold, the only sound the faint echo of their footsteps. The statues of long-dead Stark lords stood sentinel, their stony faces shrouded in shadow. At the end of the row, they stopped before her tomb.

Lyanna Stark.

Robert knelt, his knees protesting. "She should have been queen," he murmured, his voice cracking.

"She's at peace now," Ned said quietly.

"Peace," Robert scoffed bitterly. "She wanted none of this. She deserved better than Rhaegar, better than... this."

He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold stone. Her face had faded from his memory over the years, but her absence remained an open wound.

Robert stood there for a moment longer, feeling melancholic. Then he turned to Ned. "Take me back up," he said hoarsely.

---

The feast was loud and boisterous, but Robert felt no joy in it. He drank deeply, laughed loudly, and tried to drown his melancholy in wine and roasted meat. Cersei sat beside him, silent and cold, her presence a constant irritation.

After the feast, Ned approached him. "There's something you need to see," he said quietly.

---

They descended into the dungeons, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. A Kingsguard knight followed them, his white cloak stark against the darkness.

"What is this about, Ned?" Robert asked, his mood souring.

Ned's expression was grim. "A warning. Proof."

When they reached the bottom, Robert froze. In the dim light, he saw a heavy iron cage reinforced with chains. Inside was something that should not exist—a creature of nightmares.

Its pallid skin stretched tightly over its bones, and its glowing blue eyes pierced the darkness. Its movements were jerky and unnatural, as though it were a puppet on invisible strings.

"What in the name of the Seven is that?" Robert demanded, his voice trembling.

"A Wight," Ned said. "The Night's Watch brought it south. They found it beyond the Wall."

Robert stepped closer, his heart pounding. The creature let out a low, guttural sound, its bony fingers clawing at the bars.

"And you've kept this thing alive?" Robert asked, incredulous.

"They called it proof," Ned said. "Of what's coming."

Robert turned to his friend, his face pale. "What's coming, Ned?"

"The Others," Ned replied. "The Watch believes they're returning."

The Kingsguard knight stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Your Grace, should I—"

"No," Robert said sharply. He turned back to the creature, a sense of foreboding gripping him. "This... this is proof, you say?"

Ned nodded. "The Lords of Westeros won't believe us without it."

Robert stared at the Wight, his mind racing. This was no legend, no tale of the North meant to scare children. This was real.

"Send ravens," Robert said at last, his voice hardening. "Call the banners. If this is what lies beyond the Wall, we'll need every sword in the realm to stop it."

He turned and began to climb back toward the surface, his thoughts a turbulent storm. For the first time in years, Robert Baratheon felt the weight of the crown settle heavy on his head.