Among everything I said and did, one of the boldest moves was changing “Max Northson” to “Max the Maker.”
George Martin based Westeros on 14th–15th century Europe, when surnames existed in a kind of hierarchy.
At the very bottom were local nicknames and the first emerging hereditary lowborn surnames, essentially advertisements: “We are Millers, Smiths, Carpenters, Bakers, and we do our job well!”_
In the middle were noble surnames, defined by lords and kings.
And at the very top were mythical and religious titles, often sacred and therefore untouchable even for kings.
“Northson” — which effectively meant “no one’s son,” “nobody” — sat at the absolute bottom of that pyramid. A peasant custom that existed partly as a plea for mercy toward someone who had no one behind him, and partly as mockery - both of such poor sods and of the nobility.
Therefore, my declaration to the Lord Paramount of the North — and a close friend of the king — that I was replacing a mocked pseudo-surname with a surname echoing the Title of the most important historical figure of the North, the progenitor of House Stark, was not merely bold. It was an unambiguous statement that I considered myself at least equal in status to the Lord Paramount, and perhaps even to the king.
Such a move would have been foolish only if I had been unable to back it up. Which I could.
Heck, I even had — an unreliable, but still — plan in case he attacked me for such audacity.
During my experiments with Sculptor, I tested how much I could compress air inside a hollow, slowly compressed wooden sphere the size of a ball. And while the maximum pressure was insufficient even for the weakest fragmentation grenades, it was still enough to create a sort of smoky grenade. Consisted of a sphere with compressed air, a layer of compacted ash, and a thin wooden shell with a small wooden spike connecting the two wooden layers.
It would buy me no more than a couple of seconds. But with Fly, that was enough to pull back dozens of meters, or to surge forward in attempt of something like Liu Kang’s Bicycle Kick.
After I announced the change of my social status, Ned told me to go down the stairs, while he walked behind me.
Oh, judging by his face, he didn't like it, not in the slightest. But at the same time he obviously liked the possibility that I might be right even less. You just cannot have “Winter Is Coming” as your family creed for millennia only to immediately kill a strange mage who says that, to save your people from The Winter, he might need to sleep with your daughters, but if you refuse, he’ll sleep with someone else.
To symbolically demonstrate a bit of trust, I began absorbing the wood of my helmet into the breastplate armor. From a practical standpoint it was nothing more than replacing one piece of decoration with another. But at the same time, it was a rather cool replacement. Even to me, the appearance of wood flowing down like water was impressive. Let alone for the Ned, who had almost certainly witnessed such an explicit manifestation of “magic“ for the first time in his life. Or, because of the talking door, the second.
Two floors down Ned told me to wait by the staircase surrounded by at least twenty guards. Meanwhile, he himself move a few dozen meters away and began speaking to a group consisting of two elderly men, the obvious Benjen Stark, and a young man of about twenty-five with a crossbow, the only one not wearing a scowl, but a slight smile, as if finding the entire situation rather amusing.
After about a minute of discussion, the young man approached me and told me to follow him.
“Wait,” I replied. “Hey, Benjen!” I called out. Everyone cautiously looked at me, and several hands moved toward hilts.
“You’re right.
I said many things. And I backed them with very little proof. But we’ll discuss that in a week.
Then I named myself Max the Maker. And again, I backed that with almost nothing.
So, to confirm it.
And as a reward for your brother’s prudence.
And because I rather like what I know about you.
I decided that for today I will grant you the ability to shape stone, wood, glass, and clay as a baker shapes dough.”
I paused, to let the words sink in, then continued.
“Don’t be afraid, First Ranger, because you have nothing to fear.
Touch the floor.”
I finished the theatrics and waited for his actions.
In more educated times, this would have sparked endless questions. But in Westeros, no one could question the brother of a lord and one of the highest officers of the Night’s Watch. Even Benjen himself could not fully step out of the momentum I had created and challenge me without looking, at least a little, like a coward.
Some of the guards stared at me; the rest stared at Benjen Stark, who was staring back at me. Ned said something to him, but Benjen slightly shook his head and slowly crouched down, placing his left hand on the floor.
“Imagine a small column rising from the floor,” I shouted, and transferred Sculptor to him.
The floor around Benjen began to ripple. Some swords were drawn.
“You’re too distracted. Just think of the stone as dough and lift a small part of it with your mind,” I pressed on my gamble.
Soon, a small mound truly rose from the stone, which then shaped itself into a column.
“Now we can go,” I said in a slightly hoarse — due to Max Northson’s poorly developed vocal cords — voice to the no-longer-smiling young man.
After the demonstration of — given its unusual duration, I couldn’t even call it a miracle anymore — something bigger than that, the atmosphere had changed completely.
Even in high-magic settings, the idea of renting out personal magic without magical items was rather an unusual concept. In Westeros? I wasn’t sure how the Starks would perceive this development — especially given Sculptor’s extreme financial potential — but I was certain that it would bring their perception of me much closer to the claims I had declared.
The young man glanced at Ned Stark, who, after a few shifting stares between the raised column and me, slowly nodded in response.
“Let’s go,” he said, and led me — along with at least five guards — down the tower stairs.
For a brief moment, I again considered doing something with flight — like floating along while seated — but I quickly realized it was just adrenaline talking. My goal wasn’t so much to demonstrate my power as to prove that I could wield it, well not exactly responsibly, but predictably. What difference does it make how powerful an allied mage is if he’s insane?
“You gave him magic to command stone?” the young man asked as we walked.
“Aye. And wood, glass, and clay as well. But only for a day,” I calmly repeated what I had already said.
“That’s not what I’ve read or heard about magic.”
“Magic is known for being able to do anything,” I replied. “Including not looking like magic.” Then I suddenly remembered something. “You’re Jory Cassel, right?”
“The one and only. And you… Max the Maker, I've heard.”
“Bran the Builder could build great structures. I can make many things… Hence, Max the Maker.” I shrugged.
“And what exactly can you make?” Jory asked. “Aside from intricate trinkets and stone walls,” he added.
“Ah… those mages who make intricate trinkets and stone walls — they’ve popping up like weeds,” I joked. “May I see your crossbow?” I added as we exited the First Keep surrounded by an armed escort.
After a moment’s hesitation, Jory Cassel handed me the crossbow.
“Looks like I’ll be getting chewed out by my uncle. Just a few hours after an intrusion into Winterfell, and the captain of the guard hands a weapon to the intruder.”
“For clever tricks, I presume. Hence, it doesn’t count,” I replied while examining the crossbow, which consisted of roughly 8 iron parts, 10 wooden ones, and about 20 iron rivets and brackets holding it all together.
“I’m not sure how well I can replace a steel string with wooden fibers, but I can make all the other parts of a crossbow in about thirty seconds. With opt... shape simplification without loss of function, even faster. And literally from a single log. Let’s say up to two thousand crossbows a day…”
’Yep,’ I thought. ’ONE lowest-tier superpower in ONE Power Manipulation slot, plus some basic engineering knowledge to make repeating crossbows, and in a couple of days I could completely change the local power balance just by spamming simple trinkets.’
“Large ballistae… I think about one every three minutes. From a single tree and mounted on a pivot resting on wooden roots.”
“Twenty ballistae an hour? Impressive,” Jory said in a half-joking tone, but with a strained voice. “But that sounds more like Max the Destroyer than Max the Maker.”
“Creation and destruction tend to intertwine. But you’re probably right. If I were walking with a maester, I’d be giving more peaceful examples.”
“Such as?”
I paused — not because I was searching for an answer, but because there were too many of them. Then a good answer presented itself when I noticed something very unusual. After passing one of Winterfell’s inner walls, a long three-story brick building came into view, with three elongated pools in front of it and clouds of steam rising above them.
'Uh… something like this was in the book? Why? Bathing in front of what looks like a guest house? Seriously? I REALLY hope that I'm not in that GoT graphic novel with the ninja-Tyrion.'
“Have you ever seen a pot lid rattle on boiling water?” I asked Jory as we moved closer to the pools.
“Aye?” Jory replied, clearly unsure why I was talking about such thing.
“Can we approach one of these pools? Just for a minute,” I asked.
“Ponds,” Jory corrected, and nodded. Soon we stood beside one of the stone-lined basins, filled with clear, odorless water.
I smiled and prepared to play one of my main cards.
At first glance, compared to shaping stone, wood, and glass, Sculptor’s ability to shape clay looked like a minor, almost irrelevant bonus.
That was until one remembered what clay really is - fine-grained by water aluminous minerals with up to 40% of other types of fine-grained minerals. Something that almost always accompanies water resources, and which Sculptor can simply pull ashore by the cubic meter.
“See all that steam? Just like steam lifting a pot lid, all of it has ‘strength.’
What can I make? I can clear all the sediment around hot springs and water wells, opening them to greater depth." I sat down by the pond and started touching mortar between stones. When I found the right place I moved the ’camera’ to the center of the pond and startingly fast raised a clay pole there. 'Fuck, a wet clay probably has the biggest combat capabilities of all materials!' I thought.
"Using a mechanism, I can raise water from wells to a greater height and run it through granite pipes dipped into hot spring water, heating it and turning it into steam. Without the risk of drying out the hot springs.
Then I can use that ’steam strength’ in a similar way to how watermills use water and windmills use wind.”
“Why? Winterfell doesn’t have that much grain,” Jory asked, not disputing my claim about steam’s ‘force.’
“To use that strength in mechanisms capable of doing the same work as many craftsmen,” I replied.
Jory frowned. “I don’t understand. How?”
“To strip bark from logs with millstones?” one of the guards suggested.
I nodded. “Rather good suggestion. Or to spin circular saw. Or move a blade across moving logs. Or press logs against a blade to split them.
The exact method doesn’t matter. What matters right now is that it’s possible.
Even hundreds of mechanisms that merely strip bark and sand wood would raise Winterfell’s plank pro... creation and wealth.”
“But…” Jory started to say something, then stopped as realization dawned. “…you can create entirely wooden and stone watermills, without a single piece of metal... and carts too.”
“Aye. A lot of them. With such… steammills… and in such a windy place - windmills, within a year I can make the strength created by steam and wind exceed the total strength of all the people of the North. And within two years - of all people and animals of the North,” I said, looking directly at Jory. “Is that constructive enough for Max the Maker?” I asked pointedly.
“If your words turn out to be heavier than air, then yes,” Jory replied seriously, with a slight undertone of fear.
Soon we stepped into a lavish hall crammed with paintings, taxidermy, large tapestries embroidered with wolves, and people peering out from behind doors, whispering something to one another. Clear proof that my actions had already become the main subject of local gossip, and would likely remain so for weeks to come.
Jory Cassel escorted me to the second floor, to the room closest to the staircase, where he informed me that if I needed anything, I should pull the rope near the door, and then locked me inside an astonishingly luxurious chamber. Nowhere near comparable to the pale, gray show sets.
I looked around.
The room was roughly five by seven meters. On the wall opposite the door stood a long window with perfectly transparent glass and an excellent view of the Great Keep, framed on both sides by two narrow mahogany cabinets.
On the right side stood, perhaps literally, a King-sized bed flanked by two nightstands, and two small sofas positioned opposite each other.
On the left side was a writing desk with a shelf hanging above it, holding an iron-and-glass construction — certainly an oil lamp. Beside the desk stood a long table pushed up against the wall, with ten chairs in total.
The whole space was tastefully framed by light-gray trimmed furs on the walls, exquisite white plaster patterns on the ceiling, and a thin dark-burgundy carpet on the floor.
In addition, the room contained four large metal columns with thick candles, an iron pot, and a tall iron vessel with a wide lid in the corner. Well. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Though if even the bathhouse had a proper clean toilet, this floor must have one as well… with a bath… really hope so.
Once I’d finished visually inspecting the room, I began probing it with Sculptor. To my disappointment, despite the very high temperature, I found none of Winterfell’s famous hot-water pipes in the walls, no secret passages, and no echo chambers for eavesdropping.
Then I settled onto one of the sofas and finally allowed myself to relax, melting the armor away from myself and making a makeshift locker from it.
’If from this moment on all I do is have sex, that will confirm I’m a character in some kind of porn fanfic…
’Winter is Cumming’?
’Game of Dildos’?
’Bran the Builder, Bran the Fucker’?
But I truly hope that’s not the case. Living in a world with porn logic must be one hell of a nightmare… Too much sweetness turns bitter, too much comedy turns into tragedy, and too much sex turns into The Simpsons,” I mused.
After a few minutes, I resumed my exploration, this time going through the drawers. Where I found towels, something between nighties and bathrobes, sheets, three glass vials and a glass decanter, spoons, a letter opener, a small mirror, as well as a strange iron sauceboat and colored ribbons.
Finding the long-awaited paper, quill, and ink in the writing desk, I temporarily stopped searching, lit the oil lamp covered with sanded glass, and began drawing a chronological map of events and writing down all the important facts I could recall.
Roughly half an hour later, there was a knock on the door, and under the watchful gazes of two guards, a woman in her forties with short blond hair entered and politely asked whether I would like breakfast. After receiving an affirmative answer, she quickly left.
I picked up a glass cup, sliced off its top with Sculptor, reshaped it into two lenses, and pressed them together inside a wooden tube.
Approaching the window, I began looking at the Great Keep through tube, alternately touching the lenses and experimenting with the most temperamental part of Sculptor - the alteration of a material’s ’base structure.’ Or rather, sort of alternative way of 'material equalization', but at the micro level and at a much greater time cost.
After a couple of minutes, my face split into a wide smile. I returned to the desk and, on a clean sheet of paper, wrote:
Osha.
Kennelmaster’s daughter.
Jeyne Poole.
Rodrik Cassel’s daughter.
Bessa (Theon Greyjoy's bedwarmer).
Sansa’s septa.
Talisa Maegyr (battlefield healer, somewhere in the North).
One night, or up to 10 hours of sexual deeds, without penetration: 50 gold dragons.
One night, or up to 10 hours, of sex: 250 gold dragons.
Meera Reed; Lyanna Mormont; Dacey Mormont; Alys Karstark: tenfold prices and 3 healings.
Additional paid offers may be possible. Without them voluntary overtime is unpaid.
The women’s consent to this offer must be fully voluntary.
At first glance, the prices I listed seemed insane - equivalents of 0.75, 4, and 40 million dollars!
By local standards, they were enough to buy, if not everything, then nearly everything. Even a knight’s full-quality armor set and a warhorse — the analogue of a top-tier sports car or even a yacht — would cost somewhere around 5,000 silver stags, or about 24 gold dragons. Less than half of what I was asking for ten hours of essentially petting.
But after just a few minutes, successfully creating basic version one of the most valuable goods across two continents — the Myrish eye — I no longer had any doubts about whether I could afford it.
Even if Benjen right now do nothing but create glass lenses, producing more in a single hour than all the glassmakers of Myr could produce in years, the value of such trinkets wouldn’t come close to the far more valuable things I could offer: engineering projects, information, and future services tied to superpowers.
So no, spending thousands of gold dragons on sex wasn’t an issue. Even with that level of expense, I’d soon have far more money than ways to spend it. Which meant I should start converting wealth into what I actually needed — charges and time — as soon as possible.
A far more serious problem was that there were too few named characters nearby on whom I could actually spend my money.
’Sure, in theory, I can start making assumptions. For example, that among all the eighteen-year-old girls living in Winterfell there is at least one named character. Or that the book version of Talisa Maegyr is an eighteen-year-old daughter of one of the nearby lords. Or that a significant portion of local lords’ wives had been mentioned at least once in the books and therefore also count as named characters.
But I don’t even theoretically know how to verify or use such assumptions. I can buy a memory-related or analytical superpowers, but how much such powers can really give to someone who hadn’t read the book?’ I mused.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Soon the same maid as last time entered the room, holding a wide rectangular tray with a closed lid. She set it on the table, wished me a pleasant meal, and left.
I lifted the lid and nearly choked on my own saliva.
On the tray were two plates and two glass cups. The first plate held halved boiled eggs and small slices of meat in a cream sauce with pieces of pickled cucumber and onion. The second held a buttery porridge resembling oatmeal, with small chunks of partially melted cheese and butter, sprinkled with herbs and tomatoes. One of the cups contained a reddish drink that was definitely not wine. The other held clean water.
After greedily devouring the unbelievably delicious food with maple juice, I suppressed a raging desire to sleep and returned to the writing desk and the paper.
About half an hour later, the woman silently returned and took away the tray.
I watched her leave, thoughtfully. Then frowned. And froze.
My stray thought “what if she’s a named character?” unexpectedly turned into “even if I can check that, it won’t solve the real problems: distance and time to find such named characters,” and something in my head clicked.
I opened the power catalog and started searching.
When I found what I was looking for, I burst into laughter so hard that tears streamed down my face. After some time I took a deep breath and for the first time in Westeros allowed myself to truly relax.
Up to this moment, I had viewed my version of Power Manipulation exclusively as a severe nerf.
But nothing exists without flaws. Including flaws themselves.
Original Power Manipulation granted five charges per day. Thirty-five charges per week. And an insane 1,825 charges per year.
My nerfed Power Manipulation, on the other hand, tied charge acquisition to difficult actions involving a limited pool of named characters.
But it had no limit on the maximum number of charges per day. And therefore, in this particular aspect, my version could theoretically be even stronger than the original Power Manipulation.
Theoretically.
And just now I had come up with a theoretical method of rapidly earning points:
First, using Sculptor, create a large glass lens.
Then, for 1+2 charges, buy a superpower that allows my body to emit powerful light and transmit information through it to recipients with certain properties.
And finally, at night, create a giant beam of light and use it to transmit something useful or interesting to women over eighteen — information about health and alcohol, agricultural knowledge, a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. With an explanation that further transmissions will depend on how well they masturbate in a specific way. From the perspective of the superpower’s mechanics, performing unique sexual actions according to my instructions.
A lord’s wife decides to accept my offer? Well, that’s entirely her choice whether to subscribe to medieval Netflix or not.
Among the wildlings alone, I remembered about ten female named characters. One-third of the thirty-one charges (1+2+4+8+16) required for the horizontal version of Kaleidoscope, which would allow me to earn charges from named characters of the past and future.
Which would allow me to earn another thirty-two points and buy the basic version of Kaleidoscope. Gain access to named characters from other universes. And then earn sixty-four more charges for the final upgrade, which would grant me access to items and powers not much weaker than my version of Power Manipulation itself.
Of course, implementing such a plan right now would create far too many problems. It would lead to conflict with Ned, scare off Robert, create far too much chaos with unpredictable consequences, and at the same time do nothing to help with the Others because of overly intense investment in long-term goals.
But the mere fact that such a strategy was possible lifted a burden whose existence I hadn’t even known about before.
Soon I began thinking about how to refine all of this. For example, by creating a more powerful light source through chemical means and using a more specialized transmission superpower that would allow me to send edited memories of films. Or even a weak healing effect.
’Fuck, I really want to hear the High Septon’s arguments for why something like this would be displeasing to the Seven,’ I mused.
’It would also be hilarious if this is how I became a One-Man Sexual Revolution, while simultaneously spreading factory labor and free contraception.’
Soon my thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. After that, a very old man entered the room, wearing an intricate gray robe and holding a large leather-bound book.
’Well, since I’ve already started playing the role of wannabe legendary hero, let’s continue spreading cognitive dissonance among the main characters. After all, who are heroes if not those who keep raising the bar of what’s considered normal higher and higher?’ I thought, and smiled at the man who would soon be just as flabbergasted as Ned, Benjen, and Jory.