Ser Ottyn would strike south for the Shadow Tower, the shortest way to the Wall. He won’t bother with us, not Wythers, all he’ll want is to get back whole. Thoren Smallwood now, he’d want to press on with the attack, but Ser Ottyn’s caution ran too deep, and he was senior. It won’t matter anyhow once we’re gone, Smallwood can attack anyone he likes. What do we care? If none of them ever returns to the Wall, no one will ever come looking for us, they’ll think we died with the rest. That was a new thought, and for a moment it tempted him .
But they would need to kill Ser Ottyn and Ser Mallador Locke as well to give Smallwood the command, and both of them were well-attended day and night... no, the risk was too great.  “Chett,” said Small Paul as they trudged along a stony game trail through sentinels and soldier pines, “what about the bird?”  “What bloody bird?” The last thing he needed now was some muttonhead going on about a bird.  “The Old Bear’s raven,” Small Paul said. “if we kill him, who’s going to feed his bird?”  “Who bloody well cares? Kill the bird too if you like.”  “I don’t want to hurt no bird,” the big man said. “But that’s a talking bird. What if it tells what we did?”  Lark the Sisterman laughed. “Small Paul, thick as a castle wall,” he mocked.  “You shut up with that,” said Small Paul dangerously.  “Paul,” said Chett, before the big man got too angry, “when they find the old man lying in a pool of blood with his throat slit, they won’t need no bird to tell them someone killed him.”  Small Paul chewed on that a moment .
“That’s true,” he allowed. “Can I keep the bird, then? I like that bird.”  “He’s yours,” said Chett, just to shut him up.  “We can always eat him if we get hungry,” offered Lark.  Small Paul clouded up again. “Best not try and eat my bird, Lark. Best not.”  Chett could hear voices drifting through the trees. “Close your bloody mouths, both of you. We’re almost to the Fist.”  They emerged near the west face of the hill, and walked around south where the slope was gentler. Near the edge of the forest a dozen men were taking archery practice. They had carved outlines on the trunks of trees, and were loosing shafts at them. “Look,” said Lark. “A pig with a bow.”  Sure enough, the  was Ser Piggy himself, the fat boy who had stolen his place with Maester Aemon. Just the sight of Samwell Tarly filled him with anger. Stewarding for Maester Aemon had been as good a life as he’d ever known. The old blind man was undemanding, and Clydas had taken care of most of his wants anyway. Chett’s duties were easy: cleaning the rookery ,