Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

Clark

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Clark found himself drawn to a grove of weirwoods near an abandoned village. Their ancient faces, carved into the pale bark, seemed to stare at him with a quiet intensity. The air grew colder as he stepped closer.

He knelt before the largest tree, its red sap like blood in the fading light. Something in him stirred, a deep resonance he couldn't quite place. Closing his eyes, he rested a hand on the tree, its bark cool and strangely comforting.

Suddenly, his mind was pulled into a whirlwind of images. He stood in a vast, icy wasteland under a sky that churned with storm clouds. Shapes moved in the distance—figures of ice and shadow, their eyes glowing an unnatural blue.

A voice echoed in his mind, deep and ancient, as if the land itself were speaking: "You are not of this world, yet you are bound to it now. The war comes for all—fire and ice will clash. Choose your path, for it will shape the fate of many."

The vision shifted. He saw the Wall, its immense height dwarfed by a shadowy figure that loomed behind it—a dark king crowned with ice, leading an army of the dead. The Wall cracked, and a flood of darkness poured southward, consuming everything in its path.

Then, a final image: a blazing sun breaking through the storm, its warmth melting the ice and scattering the darkness. Clark stood at its center, radiating light. Around him, people of all banners and blood knelt, their faces turned toward him in awe and fear.

Clark jolted awake, gasping for air. The grove was silent, but the weight of the vision lingered. He turned to see Tormund Giantsbane and Magnar Styr approaching, their faces concerned.

"You've been here a while," Tormund said. "Thought the tree swallowed you up."

Clark hesitated, then asked, "These trees... the weirwoods. What do they mean to you?"

Tormund glanced at Styr, then back to Clark. "The Old Gods, lad. They watch through the trees. Some say they whisper truths to those who listen. Why? Did they speak to you?"

Clark nodded slowly. "I saw... something. A warning, maybe. A war is coming."

Styr's expression hardened. "We've known that for years, stranger. The dead are stirring beyond the Wall, and they'll come for us all."

Clark stood, his resolve hardening. He didn't know how or why, but the vision felt like a call—a purpose greater than himself. Whatever was coming, he would stand against it.

As they left the grove, Clark glanced back at the weirwood tree. Its carved face seemed almost alive, its crimson eyes watching him as if to say, "Remember what you've seen."

Jaime Lannister

Jaime Lannister adjusted his saddle as the northern wind bit through his cloak. The snow-covered road stretched endlessly ahead, the Wall drawing closer with every mile. Behind him rode Robert Baratheon, his booming laughter occasionally breaking the cold silence.

The small force was handpicked for speed: a mix of kingsguard, northern riders, and trusted bannermen. Robert had insisted on reaching the Wall quickly, leaving the bulk of the host to follow at a slower pace. Jaime understood the logic—speed and caution, after all, often went hand in hand.

The knowledge of wights and the threat beyond the Wall had cast a shadow over their journey. The men rode in grim silence, their eyes darting toward the treeline as though expecting the dead to come shambling from the woods.

At the front of the group, Robert Baratheon thrived. He was in his element, far from the suffocating weight of courtly politics.

"I've missed this," Robert said, his voice loud enough for Jaime to hear even from a few paces back. "The open road, the cold wind, and the promise of battle. Not squabbling with lords or listening to Cersei's complaints."

"You thrive in chaos, Your Grace," Eddard Stark replied evenly, riding beside him.

"I thrive in war, Ned," Robert corrected, a smile tugging at his lips. "Politics, peace—they're not meant for men like us."

Jaime watched the exchange with amusement. It was no secret Robert despised ruling, and Jaime had seen firsthand how the king's frustrations with court had festered over the years. Here, riding toward danger, Robert seemed alive in a way Jaime had not seen since the Greyjoy Rebellion.

"What about you, Kingslayer?" Robert turned suddenly, his blue eyes gleaming with the fire of anticipation. "Do you feel it? The thrill of it all?"

Jaime smirked. "I feel the cold, Your Grace."

Robert barked a laugh, clapping his gloved hands together. "That's because you're soft. All that gold has spoiled you."

"Perhaps," Jaime replied, his tone light. "But I doubt any of us will feel spoiled when we see what's waiting at the Wall."

The laughter faded, and a silence settled over the group. The dead were no longer just legends; they were real. The proof had been undeniable in Winterfell's dungeons. Jaime had seen it himself—the corpse that refused to stay dead, its lifeless eyes and clawing hands.

The party camped that night beneath snow-laden pines. Fires blazed brightly, but the cold was relentless. Jaime wrapped himself in his cloak, watching the northern men huddle in small groups. They seemed more accustomed to the harshness of the North, though even their faces were grim.

Near the largest fire, Robert held court, regaling the group with tales of his youth. "We'll hold the Wall," he declared, his voice carrying over the crackling flames. "And when the rest of the host arrives, we'll march beyond it if we must. Dead or alive, nothing gets past us. Not while I'm king."

The northerners murmured in agreement, their eyes flickering toward Eddard Stark, who stood slightly apart from the gathering.

Jaime lingered at the edges of the camp, observing. His gaze fell on Ser Barristan Selmy, who sat sharpening his blade, as composed as ever. Jaime approached, his boots crunching on the frozen ground.

"You've seen more battles than I can count, Ser Barristan," Jaime said, lowering his voice. "What do you make of all this?"

Barristan paused, his hands steady on the whetstone. "It's no ordinary war we ride to, Ser Jaime. The enemy is not flesh and blood. Steel alone may not be enough."

Jaime arched a brow. "You're saying the dead can't be killed?"

"I'm saying we must be ready for anything," Barristan replied. "We've entered a realm where old stories carry weight. Dismiss them at your peril."

Jaime leaned back, his expression thoughtful. Barristan rarely indulged in speculation, which made his words carry more weight.

The next morning, Robert was the first to mount his horse. His voice boomed as he addressed the riders. "Two more days, lads! Two more days, and we'll see this cursed Wall for ourselves. The main host will catch up in time, but we will not wait idly. The North stands, and so shall the realm!"

The men cheered, though their voices lacked the usual fervor. The thought of the dead walking sapped much of the usual bravado.

As the column resumed its march, Jaime fell into step beside Robert. "You seem eager, Your Grace," Jaime remarked.

"Of course I am," Robert replied, his tone almost boyish. "Do you know what this is, Kingslayer? It's a chance to prove myself again. No throne, no crown—just sword and shield. The dead can't scheme or conspire. They just need killing."

Jaime chuckled. "And you think that's enough?"

Robert grinned. "It's more than enough. You should try it sometime, Jaime. You might even enjoy it."

Jaime didn't respond. Instead, he let his gaze drift toward the horizon, where the Wall loomed ever closer. Whatever awaited them there, it would not be as simple as Robert made it seem.

For the first time in years, Jaime felt a flicker of unease. The Wall was no longer a distant myth—it was real. And so, too, were the terrors that lay beyond it.