Chapter 29: The Last Stand

Mance's POV

The night was cold—colder than it had any right to be—and the air felt charged with a tension that Mance Rayder had never experienced before. The wind howled across the camp, the cold biting into his skin, but it wasn't the chill that made his blood run cold. No, it was the unmistakable feeling of death creeping closer.

The wights had come. He had heard the rumors, felt the icy grip of their existence even before they'd arrived. The Others were real, and now they were here.

Mance's eyes scanned the battlefield as chaos erupted around him. He had always been a leader, a unifier of the Free Folk, but this was something he hadn't prepared for. The wildlings fought valiantly, but it wasn't enough. The wights kept coming. And now, the White Walkers were emerging from the mist, their piercing blue eyes scanning the camp like predators hunting their prey.

Mance gripped his sword tightly, his breath fogging in the frigid air. The battle raged around him, and his warriors fought as best as they could, but Mance knew this wasn't just another skirmish. This was something far worse.

Then, through the din of the fighting, a sudden burst of heat cut through the cold like a beacon. A flash of light erupted from the direction of Clark, the mysterious stranger who had joined them. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Mance's eyes locked onto the strange sight: a White Walker, one of the very creatures he had been told could not be killed, was enveloped in flames, incinerated in an instant.

He blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. What… What was this power? Mance had seen many things in his life, but nothing like this. It was beyond anything the Free Folk could ever imagine, beyond any story or legend.

Before Mance could fully comprehend what had happened, another White Walker emerged from the mist, its spear raised. But before it could strike, there was another burst of heat. This time, it wasn't just a flash. It was as if the very air around them ignited. The creature's frozen skin crackled as it melted under the intense blast, its body burning away into nothing.

Mance's hand trembled on the hilt of his sword. The heat from the blast had been so intense, so unnatural. He could feel the power from here, a power unlike any he had ever seen. It was Clark. But how?

"What in the gods' names…" Mance murmured to himself, his eyes widening as he watched the destruction unfold. It wasn't just strength; it was something more. This man—this stranger—held power that could turn the tide of the battle, perhaps even the war to come.

But Mance was no fool. He had seen the way Clark had avoided conflict, the way he had kept his distance. The wildlings were still too suspicious, too uncertain of this new ally. If they knew the true extent of his abilities… it could break their fragile unity.

But for now, that didn't matter. The wights were dying, the Walkers were burning. Clark's power had given them a chance.

Weeper's POV

Weeper's axe cleaved through a wight's skull with ease, but his mind wasn't on the fight. It was on the man who had just obliterated one of the White Walkers with nothing but a blast of heat from his eyes.

It had happened so fast—one second, they were fighting for their lives, and the next, that fiery flash lit up the whole night. Weeper had seen Clark move in the battle, but he had no idea the stranger could do something like this. The rumors, the talk of his strength, all seemed to fall away in the face of this new power. This wasn't just a warrior. This was something… different. Something that shouldn't be possible.

The White Walkers—creatures of ice and death, born of the ancient cold—were burning. Their flesh evaporated in the intense heat. Weeper could hear the crackling sound of their bones shattering as the fire consumed them, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the destruction.

He had heard the stories about this Clark—the one with the unnatural strength. Tormund had told him about the things he could do. But this? This was something else entirely. The heat from Clark's blast seemed to twist the air itself, making the world feel like it was on fire. And the White Walkers… they were nothing before it. They turned to ash in the blink of an eye.

Weeper's fingers tightened around the handle of his axe. The wildlings around him were still fighting, still dying, but he had to admit—this was a game-changer. Whoever Clark was, he had tipped the balance in their favor. The Others were dangerous, yes, but they were nothing in the face of such raw, destructive power.

Weeper's eyes never left Clark as he continued to fight. There was something almost divine about the way he moved, the way his powers seemed to sweep through the battlefield with a certainty that Weeper hadn't expected. He had no idea where Clark's power came from, but he knew one thing for certain: if this man wasn't with them, they would have been doomed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of more wights advancing. There was no time to think. The battle was still raging. But the image of Clark unleashing his heat vision stayed with him. They had seen the White Walkers fall, but the question now was: could they survive long enough to make it through the night? With Clark on their side, maybe they had a chance.

But Weeper wasn't sure how much longer they could hold on. They needed to move, to fight with everything they had. But the question lingered in his mind: who—or what—was Clark really?