25

Winter was finally setting in, and Ian had to go check over his lands… well lands maybe a bit of an exaggeration.

You see, his family had an insignificant strip of land that he, along with his father and 6 brothers farmed and occasionally looked after the few sheeps they owned, while his mother and two sisters took care of the small house they owned and lived in right beside the mighty castle of Winterfell.

Actually scratch that, that insignificant strip of land belonged to Lord Stark and they only farmed it.

Ian sighed heavily, he couldn't even boast to the poorer men and children about his family's land. The new boy lord might just decide that he took insult in a dirty peasant claiming the Stark's land as his own, never mind that they have lived and farmed in it for 5 generations.

It was hard to live in such a big family as smallfolk. Oh, nobles could afford as many kids as they want but smallfolk? Most kids died in their first 6 moons. His parents, Old Gods bless em, managed to pop 10 children and would've kept going on if it wasn't getting so damn crowded.

It was unfair, he thought. A boy of five ruling from a castle that could comfortably hold all of Wintertown citizen's inside its warm walls, while he and the other hardworking men who busted their asses off every day at the fields had to stay in shanty wooden houses that only barely staved off the winds and did nothing to ease the sharp bite of the cold.

"Oy! Malcolm!" Ian called out to a red haired lanky boy, "Where the fuck are you going?"

"Town Center," Malcolm called back without stopping, "Lord Stark is back and the men say there are new orders and jobs!"

"We just fuckin' finished repairing and expanding the fucking castle. They want us in new jobs already?" Ian asked incredulously.

"Maybe they'll give away the new lands we plowed," A man answered Ian's rhetorical question.

"Stop fuckin' guessin' and get your asses to the town center," the rider sent out by House Stark called from his horse.

"Ayy, m'lord," They grumbled under their breaths.

As they neared the center they could see that the traditional elevated stand was occupied by a man reading from a scroll and announcing loudly the new orders by Lord Stark. Ian wished he could read. Perhaps he might be able to live inside the castle and be more useful if he was literate, something that no one else in their town was.

"First order of business," The man yelled as everybody quieted down, "By orders of Lord Brandon Stark, Lord of the North and Winterfell and Warden of the North, each farmland is to be divided into 3 fields, 2 fields would be sown with crops using the new seed drills the castle would provide, and pipes of clay would be installed to help drain the fields. That means no fallowing half the fuckin' land."

The herald apparently noticed the blank looks at the men's face and sighed, "Be at the largest field east the castle tomorrow and one of Lord Stark's men would show you."

He coughed and looked nervous for a moment before adding, "Every family with three or more male children would have to enlist one of them in a new building project…"

Whatever he was going to say was drowned by the yells of the men and women. Building projects meant easy money in the winter when the land was almost impossible to farm, but in the first few moons of summer? It was almost impossible for some families to handle their lands without their children. It already took a huge amount of time to tend to the lands and produce a harvest that, after the tax taken by the lord, would leave them some to eat until the next one.

"… To be trained and apprentice as new builders, with 3 meals a day and a roof over their fuckin' heads!"

All the men gaped in silence and the man added, "I heard some of the men at the tavern say that Lord Stark made a new steel plow and would be rented to you cunts. Old Greg swears that Lord Stark promised that it'd cut through the soil like a knife through hot butter."

"Every man, woman and child should register their names and pick a fucking last name for their families if they want to keep livin' on their lands." The herald continued, covering over the excited chatter, "Waste of ink and parchment, if you ask me."

And so the Colberts were born.

His father sent his younger brother Nate to the Builders academy as it was called and they got one less mouth to feed and his brother got to learn a new craft, and soon after his brother Edgar followed.

With two less mouths to feed, and more time to

Soon enough it was time for a draft, as it got to be called, once again.

His sister Gilly was next, to the fabrics factory. Then two of his brothers to the breeding facility and took their sheeps, which Lord Stark compensated us for them. And the last two brothers to leave were to become a sailor in the new fleet Lord Stark was building, and the other to become a clerk at the citadel.

If this wasn't enough, they were getting relocated from their home. Apparently, Lord Stark has declared that shanty houses and buildings had no place in the North. New towns and houses would be built in an organized way.

His father and mother were living comfortably. They could probably manage to farm the whole fucking land with no help now. Lord Stark would rent a small army of oxens and cattle from the Breeding facility to plough the fields in exchange for a small tax of each land to feed them. Seed was no longer scattered but distributed using machine drills.

Well, Ian had to admit, the land looked beautiful and organized at harvest time now.

It just wasn't theirs anymore. It's not so special.

The whole farmers union, or guild as father liked to call it, owned the tools, the cattle and the seed. They organized everything, collected taxes, and told you what to plant this year and how to plant it, sold fertilizers.

They were basically servants who had nothing to do but just follow the instructions from the guilds and wait for their approval for every single action.

Even their bloody harvest wasn't stored at their barn or house anymore.

Instead, huge fucking "Silos" housed the entire land harvest and was divided accordingly.

Instead of a house on their land with their cattle growing among them, they now had an Guild Identification Card and Number to access the amount of stored bushels they have inside the silos, and they get the wool and milk from whatever cattle is to their name, which is also stored in their "account"

While Ian once hated the fact that his house was so small and crowded, he loathed going back to that spacious warm house. Once, his brothers and sisters could keep each other warm. But now, it just wasn't home.

He even had to shower. Every fucking week, or his mother would have his hide.

Oh and don't let him get started on this school, as they called it. Every hour a day, they would meet in the town hall to learn their words and arithmetic. He doubted any fucking man in this fucking town couldn't read by now. Bad hygiene and illiteracy were heavily punished, but most men were in it for the new jobs that you couldn't apply for unless you could read and write.

His brothers were in the Naval Guild, two were in the Breeders Guild, the other two in the Builders Guild, and the last was in the fucking Citadel now.

Last he heard, his youngest brother Jon wanted to go the Healers academy and become a healer himself. Fucking cunt.

And Ian?

Well, Ian couldn't fucking join the farmers guild until his father has passed and he became the head of his family, nor could he get that fancy tattoo that identified their Identification Number and guild.

Not that he wanted it anyway.

"Get out of the fucking way!" A man dressed in black shouted and snapped Ian out of his grumbling thoughts.

The change was immediate. It was as though the Others' came and sucked whatever warmth was in Wintertown at this time of the summer. There was not a single man or woman speaking in the entire street. Merchants and shops that lined the boulevards stopped their interactions and silently gazed at them.

Down King Harlon Stark's street they came, advancing in the boulevard. At the front a man walked in his pitch black armor that seemed to suck the light around it. The only identifying badge on him was the large sigil painted on his breast plate; a skull with a wolf jumping outside its mouth.

A general, he thought, given that the color of the wolf on him was gold and surrounded by 5 stars.

Eight commanders followed him; the only difference was that their sigil was that of a silver wolf with four stars surrounding it, and then came the Captains and their officers, followed by the legion that they commanded.

They all wore the exact same armor, fitted by the same weapons. The only difference was their sigils, or as he learned in school, their ranks. Their faces obscured although the hollow eyes inside the skull unnerved everyone enough that they thanked god they couldn't see the Death Eater's cold eyes.

Regardless of the monotony and nothing exciting was happening. No one moved an inch. Because everyone could see, no longer was it regiments of men marching, but something uncanny, inhuman, a force of nature, unstoppable. It was not of this earth, but mysterious, ghostlike. The feeling of dread and coldness that just accompanied their presence, it unnerved me deeply, even though I knew these men were the ones that would protect me and my home should a war start.

The Death Eaters moved throughout the boulevard as smoothly as a train to Azkaban. There were no halts, no open places, and no stragglers. For the line was completely straight and so compact was the column, so rigid the vigilance of the file-closers, that not a single arm or sword swayed out of its course. No further orders were given, beyond the first march from the general. Ian had no doubt that they would walk until they dropped dead or their commanding officer told them to stop.

As Ian gazed around him, he compared the sound of a river from the view times he went fishing with his Pa, when a river raced between the cliffs of a canyon, to the stamp of iron-shod boots against the cobblestone echoing throughout the alleys.

And suddenly, they were gone. It was as if a spell was lifted. With the last of the Death Eaters disappearing to the next boulevard, excited chatter broke out. Children followed and admired the men. The unbearable silence took its toll.

And that's when Ian decided to become a Death Eater.

"I want to sign up," Ian said to the recruitment officer.

"Which division?" The officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

"The Death Eaters," Ian said resolutely.

The officer chuckled mockingly, "Training season starts in a week."

Training?

Well, it wasn't like he could expect to just jump in and drill with the Death Eaters any time he wanted.

"That's alright," Ian said, "How long is it?"

The man smirked, "Two years."

Ian's face fell at that.

Two years was a bit too much, wasn't it?

But being a Death Eater would mean that he would have the respect of everyone in his family. Not being the son of a farmer anymore. No more would his brothers come bragging about their new promotions while he sulked in the fields.

Ian nodded one again, a little more uncertain than the last time, "Okay then, sign me up."

The man sighed, and shook his head, "You'll quit in the second week. Name?"

"Ian Colbert."

"Age?"

"Three and Twenty."

"Residence?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry?" The officer looked at him confusedly.

Ian repeated, "Yes."

The man closed his eyes tiredly, "Where the fuck do you live, you bloody idiot?"

"Oh!" Ian exclaimed, "78th building, Alley Number 6, Dorren Stark's Boulevard."

The officer scribbled his signature on a piece of paper and gave it to Ian, "Be at the training base at four in the morning, a week from now. If the clock tower finishes ringing its fourth bell, you can forget about coming and come back after two years, you got it?"

"Yes ser! If you don't mind me asking, how many have enlisted?"

"Four thousand, and only 500 qualify for Death Eater training, and only 15 graduate. Do you want to know how many teeth you'll lose if you bother me again?"

"No! No, Ser. Thank you for all your help," said Ian as he took off from the recruitment office.

A week later, at the third bell of three in the morning, Ian was off to start Basic training.

The men gathered in the Training Base courtyard as the Training Commander gave his welcoming speech, well… welcoming was a bit generous.

"From now on, you fucking cunts are under my command. My name is Commander Travis, although you'll be dealing with your direct officers under the barracks you're assigned. Your Basic Training is what's going to save yours and your families lives if push comes to shove. Some of you enlisted because they want to be fucking soldiers. Well you ain't the first to dream, and you're definitely not the fucking last group of arrogant fuckers that think they could join the Blizzards or the War Hammers or even got their eyes set high on joining the Death Eaters."

The man looked over the recruits, taking in their appearance and silently judging them even before their training, "Your training is going to be brutal and unpleasant. There's no going easy on you. This is made to weed out the weak and keep the strong. Not all of you are going to finish it. Hell, not all of you are going to make it to first week. You have until the second week; that's when the first physical assessment is. If your officer thinks you're a wanker who isn't going to fit, you'll be discharged."

He sneered at them one last time before saying, "Lieutenant Marcus will be giving you the schedules."

Lieutenant Marcus bowed his head at respect at the Commander before stepping on the now empty dias and saying loudly, "First Call is at 4 in the morning, you have 30 minutes to clean your beds, eat your breakfast and shave every fucking day. If I see even a hint of stubble you'll be running 10 miles instead of breakfast. Starting from tomorrow, two of you will hold patrol in the barracks for one hour…"

And thus began Ian's adventure in the Army.

Basic Camp wasn't all that bad. He was assigned to Barrack 8 under command of officer Rickard. A stern man, but much better than the other cruel officers he heard some of the men at the other barracks grumble about.

We slept in the same beds, had the same haircut, wore the same clothes, ate the same food on one long table.

We had to run 2 miles in the second week, then 2 in the third but in a shorter time and so on, until we could run almost effortlessly, long and high jumping, heavy pack running, pushups and pull ups, endurance exercises, swimming, climbing and grappling, drills and marching training.

The Basic Training wasn't all about physical training. Map reading, rudimentary healing or first-aid as the officer called it, rules and regulations to follow, learning of the core values of the soldiers. Everything and anything was assessed and written down by the officers responsible of your platoon.

Wake up calls an hour after we finished training for a surprise obstacle course was the normal. If Ian had to be honest, he almost quitted a dozen times during the first week.

Ten weeks later, battered and bloodied, he graduated from Basic Training Camp and was eligible for joining the most sought after camp in the whole fucking North, the Dark Graveyard.

Ian never really knew why they called it that until he entered it. Rows upon rows of tombstones signifying the men that died during the training were inside the training camp that no man was allowed into a 20 mile radius of. The borders were opened once every two years, to let out the two dozen men that finished the training, and let in the next batch of corpses.

He wondered for the millionth time if the men, the Death Eaters, could truly be called men after what they endured inside?

He gazed at the huge Iron Skull between the two towers at the Gate with a sense of trepidation and a little fear, and looked back towards the green fields of the north.

It would be a long time before Ian saw the green color again.