CARPE NOCTEM, jon snow

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀two

two. the sparrow

loc. castle black, the wall. 298AC

⠀⠀⠀Ceria Sargen. Carsen Sage. Sparrow.

⠀⠀⠀Ceria had acquired three names in the space of an hour.

⠀⠀⠀She was Ceria Sargen as she stood before the Wall. She had conceived of it before, of course— examined sketches of it under the direction of academics—but nothing could compare to seeing it true. Seven hundred feet high, it loomed above her, a bleak slab of ice glittering in the silver sun. Nothing could compare to seeing her breath, milk-white in the frigid air, ghosting over the rough, cold surface and dissipating into nothingness. When she reached out, trembling, she felt it like diamond under her fingertips, cold and hard and sure. 

⠀⠀⠀Ceria was grateful to be off horseback. The ride to the Wall had chafed her thighs to redness and cramped her lower back muscles into a heavy knot inside her. She was led by a grim-looking man of fortyish through what felt like endless draughty corridors until they stood before a door of dark oak and latched with black metal. Inside this room, which her guide did not enter, a man sat behind a desk, and when the door closed behind her, his ice-pale eyes flicked up. His years of wariness and labour were tucked in the hard lines of his face, and his hair and beard were the soft, wispy white of the snow outside the windows - but that was the only thing soft about Jeor Mormont.

⠀⠀⠀She became Carsen Sage when she stood before him in the cold, stone room. The chair she sat in bit into her back, and she felt the cold of it seep through her leathers to latch onto her skin as she wrung her hands under the desk. For several moments, the older man said nothing, merely swept her up and down several times with a cold, calculating gaze. It was then when it struck Ceria as suddenly as lightning might strike a tree - she must not talk. Her tongue could not draw a single word into the air, or she would risk being discovered. She had a soft, lilting voice that carried summer and honey in its wake, and all her work at obfuscating her true sex would be for nought.

⠀⠀⠀So when Mormont did begin talking, Ceria was frozen. Slowly, she reached her hand up and tapped her lips twice, then shook her head. She wasn't sure how else she could convey that she couldn't speak. She couldn't speak. The thought made her want to cry, but she swallowed hard. The serpent does not weep.

⠀⠀⠀Mormont frowned deeply. "Can't you speak, boy?"

⠀⠀⠀Ceria shook her head, hoping he didn't notice her wince. The word boy was thrown so harshly at her, as though it were an arrow rather than a name.

⠀⠀⠀"Did they cut out your tongue?"

⠀⠀⠀Ceria shook her head again.

⠀⠀⠀"So you're a born mute, then?"

⠀⠀⠀Ceria hesitated briefly, then nodded.

⠀⠀⠀Mormont leant forward. His eyes lingered on Ceria's slender neck and bony wrists peeking out from the depths of leather and wool. "How old are you, boy?"

⠀⠀⠀Ceria held up seven fingers.

⠀⠀⠀"Seventeen, eh? You don't look it," Mormont told her bluntly. "You've about as much meat on your bones as a sparrow - easy to snap. Sparrows never last long in the winter, boy. Tell me, are you a sparrow?"

⠀⠀⠀The serpent does not weep. After a few seconds, Ceria shook her head for the third time.

⠀⠀⠀Mormont scoffed with laughter. "If we had the luxury to refuse men to the Wall, I'd send you back to where you came from. Your kind are the ones that cling to whatever warmth they can find rather than using the cold as armour, but when the white winds rise, the cold'll be all you have. You have a good heart, no doubt. But there is no place for good hearts on the Wall. This is cold, gruelling work - so I'm going to ask you once, boy, and mind you answer true, because I'll not ask you again; is this what you want?"

⠀⠀⠀ Ceria realised she was feeling nauseous. She swallowed the feeling of illness that seemed to rise up her throat at that second. Mormont's words were not honeyed; he was blunt as forged steel. The Wall was one of the loneliest places in the Seven Kingdoms - and yet that was exactly what Ceria wanted.

⠀⠀⠀She nodded.

⠀⠀⠀Mormont sighed. "Can you write?" When she nodded, he drew a piece of parchment and an inkwell from his desk and pushed them toward her. "Then write your name here, sparrow."

⠀⠀⠀Ceria flinched at the nickname. She supposed it was a reasonable choice, given her rounded eyes and slender bones, but it stung all the same. She picked up the quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and then hesitated. A black drop of ink fell onto the cracked sheet of parchment.

⠀⠀⠀Slowly, Ceria started to write, and when she placed the quill back down on the desk and slid the parchment back over to Mormont, she felt new.

⠀⠀⠀Carsen Sage. The black words shone up from the paper, scrawled in her untidy hand. Jeor Mormont read it and sighed.

          "Carsen Sage," he murmured, and put his hand out for her to shake. "May the gods have mercy on you."

༆

⠀⠀⠀Ceria's euphoria dwindled quickly, evaporating into the frozen air quicker than boiling water.

⠀⠀⠀By the time she had left Mormont's quarters, night had fallen. Castle Black seemed completely deserted—a dark, winding labyrinth with not a hot breath to warm it's frigid corridors. Ceria had to find her own way to the quarters where all the brothers retired after a day of training.

⠀⠀⠀The air was filled with snores and breathing and the creaking of pallets as she gently wedged open the door. The room was an articulate maze of cots and strewn armour and shoes littered on the floor like flower heads. Carefully, Ceria picked her way through the stacks and found an empty pallet in the corner. Its grey sheets were stained, the wood frame was soft and rotting and she had never seen a less-inviting-looking place to rest, but her tired bones collapsed upon it gladly.

⠀⠀⠀She was still fully clothed, but the room felt far too cold to even think of getting undressed. So instead, Ceria lay back on a pillow as uncomfortable as if it had been stuffed with rocks and stared up at the crisscrossing beams of dark wood below the ceiling, before closing her eyes properly for the first time in weeks.

⠀⠀⠀Tomorrow, she would wake. She would train until her muscles were sore and she was more bruises and grazes than skin. She would ache. She would fight. She would forget.

⠀⠀⠀Tomorrow, Carsen Sage would be born.