Man Of Steel, Shield Of Ice

The Wall loomed high, a colossal barrier of ice separating the realms of men from the wilderness beyond. Its towering presence was a stark reminder of what was at stake. Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, stood at the head of a small group of Free Folk leaders. Tormund, Val, and Rattleshirt flanked him, their expressions a mix of defiance and wary determination. Behind them, a vast camp of nearly one hundred thousand Wildlings stirred, their hope hanging by a thread.

The air was thick with tension as Mance approached the Wall under a flag of truce. Above, the Night's Watch observed them. Black-clad figures manned the battlements, bows drawn, their faces grim. Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander, stood at the forefront, his weathered features betraying no emotion.

Clark Kent observed the scene from a distance, standing near the edge of the Wildling camp. His enhanced senses picked up the whispered conversations among the Watch, the creak of drawn bows, and the rapid heartbeats of nervous men. He stayed out of sight, unwilling to draw attention. Though his powers had grown, so too had his fear of what they might bring.

---

Mance stepped forward, his voice steady as he addressed the men atop the Wall. "We come under a flag of truce, Lord Commander. Not as invaders, but as survivors."

Mormont's eyes narrowed. "Survivors? You bring an army to our doorstep, Rayder. What am I to make of that?"

"An army that flees a greater threat," Mance replied. "The Others are real, Lord Commander. You've heard the tales, even if you refuse to believe them. We've seen them. Fought them. And we know what's coming."

Mance gestured to the Wildlings behind him. "We're not here to conquer. We're here to live. Let us pass through the Wall, settle in the Gift, and we'll trouble you no further."

Mormont's jaw tightened. "And if we refuse?"

Rattleshirt, ever the provocateur, barked a harsh laugh. "Then you'll have a hundred thousand Free Folk tearing down your precious Wall. Think you can stop us, crow?"

"Enough," Mance said sharply, silencing the Lord of Bones. He turned back to Mormont. "You've seen our numbers. You know you can't hold us back forever. Work with us, or face the consequences."

---

On the Wall, the tension was palpable. Alliser Thorne's scornful voice cut through the cold air. "Savages and liars, every one of them. Letting them through would be the end of us."

"And keeping them out might be the end of them," Maester Aemon's calm voice carried weight. "If the Others are indeed a threat, we must prepare. Allowing the Wildlings through could strengthen our defenses. A controlled passage, perhaps."

Thorne sneered. "Controlled? They'll slit our throats the moment we look away."

Mormont raised a hand, silencing the argument. "Enough. We'll consider their proposal. In the meantime, send word to the lords of the North. Maester Aemon, dispatch ravens to the other keeps and nearby lords. If this parley turns to war, we'll need all the help we can get."

---

Clark's POV

Clark stood on the edge of the gathering, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. He had heard Mance's words, felt the sincerity in his voice. The Free Folk didn't want war; they wanted survival. But Clark knew that fear and mistrust could twist even the noblest intentions.

His enhanced hearing picked up snippets of conversation from the Watch. Suspicion, anger, and disbelief rippled through their ranks. He felt the weight of his powers pressing down on him. He could end this standoff in an instant, force both sides to see reason, but at what cost? His powers had brought devastation before. Could he risk using them again?

The memory of Smallville flashed in his mind—the burden of his past, the lessons learned. Clark clenched his fists, forcing the thoughts away. This wasn't about him. It was about the thousands of lives hanging in the balance.

He watched as the parley unfolded, his senses attuned to every shift in tone, every unspoken threat. If the situation escalated, he would act. But for now, he waited, a silent guardian in the shadows.

...

The meeting ended in stalemate. Mance promised to wait for the Watch's decision but made it clear that his people wouldn't wait indefinitely. The Free Folk retreated to their camp, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.

As the Wildlings regrouped, Clark lingered on the outskirts, his gaze fixed on the Wall. He could hear the faint caws of ravens as they were dispatched. The storm was coming, and he could feel it in his bones.

For now, the Wall still stood. But Clark knew it wouldn't hold forever. And when it fell, he would have to decide where he stood—as an outsider, a savior, or something in between.