Lynn felt a little ashamed he hadn't thought of it. The clans simply didn't trust one another.
To them the living were every bit as dangerous as the dead.
He had to call another full council of every chief. They sacrificed ten sheep to the gods, then made every leader swear by the gods and their ancestors that while the army marched on the Wall, no clan would turn on another.
Once morale was settled, he still had to leave enough men behind to guard against wight attacks. No one knew how large the Others' army of the dead really was, and the old legends gave almost no useful details.
Finally he had to plan the migration of the follow-on columns.
He had no choice. He'd already seen the chaos a thousand wildlings could cause on the march. Ten times that number would be a nightmare.
Mance had no better ideas; he'd always let the Free Folk move in whatever small bands they pleased. So Lynn took charge himself.
He quickly learned his efforts were pointless.
Without an equal number of Thenn warriors to enforce order, he couldn't budge the stubborn Free Folk.
His plan had been simple: women and children first, old people in the middle, fighting-age men handling baggage and rear guard. That would have sped everything up.
But every single wildling refused to leave their family. They wanted to stay with their few possessions and their kin.
Yet ten thousand people moving at once with no order was already a catastrophe. North of the Wall there were no roads. A single small jam could stop the entire column for hours.
The huge host would be slowed by livestock, old folk, children, and every cart and sled. Fresh snow would slow them even more.
With no better option, Lynn organized extra work crews to follow the main army, building bridges and clearing paths wherever possible so the later columns could move faster.
The measure was expected to double the speed of the follow-on groups—assuming they actually did the work.
Once that was settled, Lynn mounted up and rode along the Milkwater to catch the Thenns who had left early.
Compared with the old scattered wildling columns, the trained Thenn warriors now marched in proper formation and moved much faster.
Every man wore leather scaled with bronze plates, distinctive bronze helmets, and carried square shields covered in hide and painted with simple star patterns. They already looked like elite heavy infantry.
Leading the Thenns were the giants. The clan fighters handling baggage had left a full day earlier. By distance and speed they should already be nearing the Fist of the First Men.
The giants swayed along on the backs of their woolly mammoths, riding single file. Some carried enormous wooden bows, others stone-headed mauls made from whole tree trunks. They looked terrifying.
When Lynn rode past, a few giants let out a string of low grunts in their own tongue.
Giant speech was different from ordinary Old Tongue—older, simpler, and much harder to understand. Only a handful of Free Folk could talk to them.
Lynn didn't bother trying to decipher it. He spurred his horse and caught up with the head of the column.
At the very front rode Harma Dogshead's cavalry and the raiders. They would reach the Wall first and start harassing the Night's Watch to split their forces. Kuna and Lyanna were with them.
The mother and daughter weren't there to fight. Once the Wall fell they would ride south immediately to Last Hearth with Lynn's offer of friendship and terms.
Last Hearth was the castle closest to the Wall—and Kuna's childhood home. Raiders had recently brought word that the current castellan was none other than Kuna's father, "Crowfood" Mors Umber.
When Lynn rejoined the column he was relieved to see Qhorin Halfhand still alive.
The ranger hadn't been torn apart by the raiders. He rode a small, shaggy donkey at the very edge of the column. How he'd gotten the stubborn animal to behave was anyone's guess; donkeys usually only pulled carts or sleds.
Qhorin still wore his bloodstained black clothes. His face was pale and drawn, the wound on his neck had reopened from the jolting and was seeping again. His remaining leg sometimes dragged uselessly on the ground. He looked miserable.
But he was tough. Lynn doubted he himself could have left bed in a year after wounds like that, yet Qhorin had dragged himself onto the donkey and come anyway.
He showed neither submission to Lynn nor open hostility to the wildlings. He simply rode in silence, watching the column.
The raiders gave him a wide berth.
Taunting him was pointless; Halfhand ignored them. Killing him was out of the question—he was the prize the Son of the Stars had bought with forty merit points. So they pretended he wasn't there.
Jon Snow rode on the opposite side of the column. He clearly wanted to talk to Qhorin but was afraid of giving himself away. He still didn't know his disguise had already been seen through.
After making sure Halfhand was all right, Lynn rode up beside Tormund. Only Tormund and Mance could speak with the giants, and Mance was out ahead scouting with a small party—he'd fallen back into his old Shadow Tower ranger habits.
Lynn repeated the low grunts he'd heard from the giants and asked Tormund what they meant.
Tormund threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"They want to see your 'Lightbringer'!"
He took a long pull from his wineskin and went on.
"You put on that burning-sword show the night the giants weren't there. Mance's tent was too small for them. We should have built the Guardian Hall sooner. Shame to tear down a fine building like that—almost as good as my Red Hall—and we've barely used it."
Tormund shook his head, half regretting the hall, half missing his own.
"Oh, and the giants spoke to you and you ignored them. They'll be hurt!"
Lynn was surprised. He hadn't expected the famously savage giants to be so sensitive.
He asked Tormund to explain that he hadn't understood them and had been in a hurry.
Tormund did.
A little later he rode back grinning, mission accomplished.
Lynn and Tormund fell into easy conversation. They soon got onto the subject of nicknames.
"You've almost got more titles than I do," Tormund said, counting on his fingers and muttering.
"Still a few short of catching me."
Lynn gave him a sideways look.
"Tormund Giantsbane—did you really kill a giant?"
"Oh, you doubt a big strong man like me?"
Tormund sounded offended, but his face showed he wasn't really mad.
"It was winter. I was just a boy—boys are stupid. I wandered too far, my horse died, and a real blizzard caught me. Not this sprinkle of flour we get now—a proper storm.
I knew I'd freeze before it passed, so I found a sleeping giantess, cut open her belly, and crawled inside. It was warm in there, but the stink nearly killed me.
Worst part? When spring came she woke up and decided I was her baby. She nursed me for three whole months before I could get away.
Ha! Sometimes I still miss the taste of giant's milk."
"If she nursed you, how could you kill her?"
"I didn't kill her—don't you go spreading that. Giantsbane sounds a lot better than Giant's Baby Tormund, right?"
Lynn couldn't help laughing.