After what Max identified as his first panic attack — out of too many surreal events - a brief and fleeting one — he continued his walk to the massive three-story building.
At first glance, it was made from enormous tree trunks roughly piled atop one another.
But appearances lied. It was a stone building covered in hollow trunks panels.
Aside from several actual coarse logs, such as those that formed the front entrance with a standing nearby guard.
Unwilling to waste a rare opportunity, Max slowly, not to draw the guard’s attention, approached clear 'Myrish glass (C)' window — that conveniently started at his head height — and looked for the first time at his new face in flickering glass.
The face staring back could only be described as a handsome monstrosity.
With his lower face completely overgrown by coal-black facial hair, an ugly cap obscuring much of his forehead, and long hair covering his ears and part of his cheeks, Max looked like a wildling.
And yet… not a feral abomination, but more like Tarzan.
A slightly elongated face balanced by broad cheekbones and a solid jaw. A well-proportioned face, free of any exaggeration, except for large vivid eyes. All of this was... at least good.
Pushing concerns about his appearance to the bottom of a long list of problems, Max quickly stepped away from the window — worth more than all his savings and his rented shack combined — and began circling the inn building, studying the surrounding ones.
Soon he spotted a building with its door colored like a fireplace, large barrels hanging near the entrance, and a sign he could easily read: Smoking Log.
Relieved to discover that such a major issue as reading skill had resolved itself, Max circled this building as he had with the inn. And just as he’d expected, he soon found several empty carts and a massive wooden door reinforced with large iron bands nailed with pinky-sized square nails.
Max knocked the ring knocker and waited.
The door soon opened to reveal a grim, chewing something, gray-haired man who harshly demanded to know what Max wanted.
Having come to his senses after an avalanche of powerful pungent smells assaulted the very inexperienced nose of his new body, Max said: “I need to see Toren Northson.”
The chewing man quickly examined Max again, said “Wait”, and closed the door.
The next ten minutes were spent standing in a windy alley trying to plan for the next possible outcomes. And roughly comparing the size of door's iron bands to the number of cheapest (1-2 silver) kitchen knives that could be made from them; and therefore bands and door estimated costs. For someone from a post‑industrial era, it was just completely ridiculous numbers.
And comparing the door's iron bands to the number of cheapest (1-2 silver) kitchen knives that could be made from them and their, and door, estimated costs. For someone from a post‑industrial era, just completely ridiculous costs.
Finally, the door burst open again, and a chubby, visibly nervous young man in a dark red leather doublet rushed outside. The same orphan whom woodcutters working with Max often called ’the lucky fucker’, the one who’d managed to become dishwasher at alehouse.
“What happened?” Toren asked, almost hysterically, clearly assuming that Max Northson would only come to him if something had gone seriously wrong. Which, in a way, it had.
Trying to mimic Max Northson’s usual dry, terse indifference, Max replied: “Nothing. I need information. I can pay.”
“Information?” Incredulously ask Toren.
“I like a girl. She likes the past. I don’t know the past.” Max recited the most convincing tale he could devise.
For about five seconds Toren stared at Max as if he were the Night King himself — the one who’d claimed to be a squirrel and started dancing. Then suddenly burst out laughing and tried to explain that he didn’t know anything worth sharing.
After Max insisted that Toren still knew more than he did, Toren finally agreed to give him an hour of his time on the condition that Max buy him a cup of something named hippocras. Max immediately agreed.
Soon, they walked around the building and entered through the main entrance.
Almost all the space of the alehouse consisted of a vast hall with around a dozen tables, each large enough for six people. Along the far wall stretched a long bar counter, beside which stood a large stone fireplace decorated with a colorful stone mosaic with some fire-related motifs, and with an integrated skewer with the leftovers of some animal.
Despite having room for over a hundred customers, the alehouse was nearly empty. Only eight people were present: the tapster, a middle-aged barmaid, a bored bard idly fiddling with a lute at the counter, and five clients, two at the counter, and three arguing at one of the tables.
At first, the emptiness puzzled Max. But after noticing the leather-upholstered furniture, expensive furs and tapestries lining the walls, and multiple taxidermied animal heads at walls, he decided this was a high-end establishment meant predominantly for guests from the nearby inn and richest families of Winter Town.
Toren started walking toward the center of the hall. Max, however, silently turned right and headed toward the far wall.
Near it, he froze in complete disbelief as he intently looked at something that made as much sense as Winterfell itself.
The taxidermied direwolf’s snout was at least as long as his arm. Somewhere between 80-85cm. According to his memories, dozens centimeters more than saber-toothed cats ever had.
“That’s Beron,” Toren said from behind him. “Named after the hunter who killed it. The leader of the hunting party. Direwolves aren’t usually that big. Not that many people have seen them lately… but those who do say so.”
“What do they eat?” Max asked.
“No idea. Whatever they eat, I doubt anything eats them.”
Successfully suppressed a chuckle Max dryly nodded, and took a seat at the nearby table in the far right corner of the hall.
Toren sat beside him, told Max to take out a whopping fourteen coppers, waved over the barmaid. Within a minute he was already drinking his order, which was, judging by the intense aroma and the steam rising from the enormous mug, hot mulled wine with lemon and spices.
Most of what Toren shared afterward were basic historical facts Max already knew. Though not without a few surprises.
For example, Toren claimed that a hundred years ago there had been a major war between the northern lords and the Skagosi, which didn’t line up with Max’s knowledge about Skagos.
Also, according to popular legend, the first maesters of the Citadel arose from a pirate hideout after a successful raid on some library due to 'the great value of knowledge.'
Despite Max’s cautious attempts to ask clarifying questions, almost all of them ended with Toren’s, “I don’t know.” And the few that didn’t - weren’t useful for Max.
Somewhere near the end of Toren’s lecture on Westerosi history, Max abruptly cut him off by strained voice:
“Can you repeat that?”
“Repeat what?” Toren asked.
“Everything you just said.”
“What’s unclear?” Toren replied with a slight exasperation. “The maesters say childbirth is safest at eighteen or nineteen namedays. And that’s exactly the age, eighteen namedays, of Sansa Stark and Arya Stark. Just like...”
“They were born at the same time?” Max interrupted again.
“How could they be born at different times if they’re both eighteen?” Toren said slightly discontentedly and frowned. “Do you even know why men court women? About… Woodpeckers and worms... Rabbits and burrows?” he asked, looking at Max with genuine pity.
“So they’re twins?” Max ignored him.
“What’s a twins?”
“Do they look alike?”
“Nay. People say so... They say Sansa takes after her mother, while Arya looks more like… Lord Stark’s mother? Something like that,” Toren answered uncertainly.
“How old are the other Stark children?”
“People talk about the age of the Stark ladies because a lot of folks think His Grace and Prince Joffrey Baratheon will soon visit Winterfell to choose one of them as his future queen. As for the others, I haven’t heard much…
Robb Stark should be a bit younger than his sisters. Probably seventeen namedays. Aye, seventeen," Toren said thoughtfully.
Bran Stark… ten? Nine? I’m not sure. Rickon Stark is four namedays.”
“And Jon Snow?” Max asked.
“Who?”
Max felt his stomach dropped.
“Lord Stark doesn’t have a bastard?” Max asked.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Toren hissed, glancing around in fear. “Where did you hear such nonsense?”
“From the washerwomen?” Max said the first excuse that came to mind.
“Of course…” Toren muttered absently. “No. Of course not. Lord Stark does not have... I won’t even say such a thing. And you shouldn’t either. Ever. That’s not something you ask. Not anywhere near strangers.”
After answering a few more questions, Toren said he couldn’t stay any longer and disappeared into a room behind the counter.
At the same moment Max found himself under the intense gaze of three pairs of eyes belonging to the alehouse staff and still idle — no, now looking at him as if Max stolen his lute — bard.
Feeling the crushing mental exhaustion brought on by yet another shock, alehouse warmth, and intense smells from Toren’s mug, Max waved over the barmaid and ordered the same thing Toren had. Judging by her snort, not quite correctly.
Moments later, a large, steaming mug of richly scented mulled wine was placed in front of him.
Trying skeptically to figure out what he had spent half a silver stag on today, Max took a careful sip... and almost moaned at the surge of pleasure.
Startled by his own reaction, he jerked the mug away.
Soon he resumed with rare, shallow sips, letting his body adjust to entirely unfamiliar sensations.
A few minutes later, having untangled the small puzzle, he reached a conclusion.
At first glance, the drink was exactly what he had expected: hot young wine mixed with cinnamon, ginger, lemon, and a generous portion of dried apple pieces, raisins, and something else, tart berries and sour dried green grass.
But as Leonardo da Vinci once said: details make perfection, and perfection is not a detail.
Every component of the drink was a small trick, and together they formed a truly brilliant scheme.
First: the mug. It looked like a half‑liter one, but 'thanks' to thick 'thermal insulation' it only held about 300 milliliters. A full fifth of that volume consisted of cheap swollen dried apples. Shocker.
Second: the clash of strong contrasts: heat, the astringency of young wine, the acidity of lemon, berries, and herbs, light bitterness of cinnamon and ginger, intense aromas.
Third: an abundance of dried fruit, both floating on the surface and lurking at the bottom.
Fourth: an extreme, deliberately excessive sweetness.
Fifth: alcohol.
All together?
With the first sip and the first breath of its enchanting aroma, the drink created an unbearable urge to gulp down the hot nectar in one go and to chew on the irritating treats scraping lips and tongue...
...only to immediately be assaulted by cold, emptiness, hunger; dryness in the mouth from young tannins and acid; and, of course thirst from the sugar and heat...
... followed immediately by severe longings for nectar.
For someone completely unfamiliar with such a powerful combination of stimuli, it would almost certainly trigger a positive feedback loop; one that quickly devoured money and thanks to alcoholic intoxication reduced the chance of escape to zero.
“Bravo,” Max thought.
“Now I understand why everyone's eyes were glued to me.
Not just because someone looking like a wilding was loitering without ordering in an elite establishment, but because they were watching the loss of yet another Hippocras virginity, and the birth of another Hippocras addict.
Also, no wonder the alehouse was so empty. Almost certainly, somewhere near the front door, there were a pan-armed rapid-response team of wives on standby. Perhaps also because of that chewing gum from the guy at the back door.
Great. Just great. A few hours in rather boring place in Westeros, and I’ve already stumbled into a drug cartel. Perhaps international one.“
Max cautiously glanced toward the bar and saw that five more patrons had appeared in the hall. Along with another young barmaid.
She had tall, with a long dirty blonde hair and was wearing a clearly expensive dark-blue dress. With a deep neckline that revealed the upper curves of her breasts, well visible even from the far end of the hall, and cinched with a wide leather belt that sharply emphasized her very thin waist.
Energetically weaving among the tables and darting her head around, she served patrons not just physically but also emotionally, answering them with playful remarks — to Max, drowning in the hall’s other noises unnoticed during the musing, the background twang of the bard’s lute — and by her piercing laugh that drew matching chuckles from at least a third of the alehouse crowd.
Something inside Max tried to tell him something about her, but he couldn’t grasp what exactly.
“Probably just because she’s a pretty woman, and I a stressed man,” he thought, and promptly lost any interest.
After a short distraction, he returned his attention to a long list of discovered revelations.
Originally, he visited Toren for answers to two questions:
'What are the local zombies called, White Walkers or Others?'
'What you know about Jon Arryn?'
Toren’s answer about the White Walkers left Max slightly confused. According to him, in local stories the creatures are called Others. And White Walkers. As well as Cold Shadows and Winter Shadows.
Unfortunately, when Max tried to ask what might have been the single most important question, whether Toren had ever heard of the Night King, the answer was: 'Of course, several dozen of them are buried under Winterfell.' With a clear confusion of such term with term 'the Kings in the North.'
Attempts to clarify by mentioning the Corpse Queen or the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch led only to another Toren's 'I’ve never heard of that.'
The situation with Jon Arryn was much clearer.
Since Max couldn’t directly ask whether Jon Arryn is alive, he instead asked about the current Hand of the King. Toren named Jon Arryn without hesitation, adding that Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had once been his wards.
“Given the Ned Stark children ages, the lack of gossip about Jon Arryn death and king’s upcoming trip among smallfolk — no, fuck, SOME trip, but, regarding all the rest, just theoretical, not real — and the distance from King’s Landing to Winterfell, it’s reasonable to assume that Robert will arrive within one to three months,” Max concluded.
“Given Toren’s poor awareness and surprisingly big size and good quality of the Kingsroad, possibly sooner. Though that’s doubtful.
If I didn’t have Power Manipulation, a lot of time for preparations would be great news. But if I was sent to this world for any kind of challenge, 30-90 days a very poorly fits “1 charge per one-three day“ hypothesis.
This suspicion partly supported by other information Toren had provided. ”But first… let’s check something else,” Max thought, opening the Modifiers tab.