In the end, Arthur yielded to the girls' requests, slowing down the pace so they could gradually adjust to riding. Consequently, they separated from the main hunting party and took over an hour to finally reach the Peach Garden estate.
The slower pace allowed the girls to acclimate, and by the time they arrived, they could at least maintain a trot without shrieking.
"Are the peaches we eat in Winterfell really grown here?" Sansa asked, smoothing her windblown hair. She scanned the estate and noticed that Domeric and most of the guards were missing.
"Have they already gone into the Wolfswood?"
"The lords arrived about an hour ago. They asked me to feed their horses," the stable boy said, hurrying over to take the reins of their three ponies.
"They rested for maybe ten minutes, filled their waterskins, and took the hounds up the dirt road into the forest. I didn't even have time to brush their horses down."
Hearing that Domeric wasn't there, Sansa was visibly disappointed. Listlessly, she took her two companions down to the creek to wash off the road dust.
"Where is Fat Tom?" Arthur looked around but didn't see the guard captain. "Did he go into the Wolfswood too?"
"He didn't go. His son, Tom Two, who runs the beast pen, went instead," the stable boy replied as he led the horses away. "Fat Tom is escorting a noble lady on a tour of the Garden. They should be back soon."
Nodding to the boy, Arthur headed for the watchtower.
---
Habitually, Arthur stood on the third floor of the watchtower to survey the estate. Compared to before, the Peach Garden had transformed again.
Across the creek where Sansa and the girls were washing up, the woods had been cleared to create a large open space. Carpenters were leveling the ground, and piles of timber and stone were stacked nearby.
This clearing was the site for the new carpentry workshop. According to the plan, raw logs would be processed into planks here, alongside the production of finished shields and bows.
Around the clearing, tents and campfires had been set up—temporary lodging for the workers.
A simple wooden bridge had been thrown across the creek, wide enough for a single wagon.
The fence around the peach orchard was complete, topped with sharpened stakes to deter small and medium-sized animals.
Inside the orchard, Arthur saw five straw-and-wood training dummies the farmers had set up. Jon was currently there, practicing his archery.
Where Arthur had once held his open-air barbecue, a stone longhall with a fireplace had been erected. Though not as grand as Winterfell's Great Hall, it had two long tables capable of seating forty people.
In addition to the hall, workers had dug more cellars around the watchtower to store peaches and wine.
"A fine estate," a voice praised from the doorway as Arthur surveyed his domain.
Lady Dustin stood there, holding a half-eaten peach.
"I assumed the peaches in Catelyn's pies were imported from the South. I never imagined they were grown here."
"It was Arthur's discovery, supported by Lord Eddard," Fat Tom said, wiping sweat from his forehead and offering an ingratiating smile.
"If you like them, my lady, Winterfell can send a cart… er… two carts of peaches to Barrow Hall as a return gift."
Arthur turned to Lady Dustin, bowing respectfully. "My lady, you didn't join Domeric for the hunt?"
"I wanted to speak with the boy," Lady Dustin said, ignoring the question. She turned to Fat Tom. "Go about your business. You need not attend us."
Fat Tom looked at Arthur. Seeing Arthur nod, he wiped his brow in relief, closed the door, and left.
"For the smallfolk, hunting is about survival. For the nobility, it is for honor, or perhaps a display of power?" Lady Dustin unclasped her sable cloak.
"What meaning do honor and power hold for a childless widow?"
"But bastards like you need honor. Imagine the scene: Lord Stark returns victorious from the South to feast upon game hunted by his own trueborn son. What a beautiful picture that would be."
She found a chair and sat down, a cynical smile playing on her lips as she looked at Arthur.
"Catelyn certainly didn't give you a chance, did she? Having a bastard teach riding lessons? It keeps Domeric away from Sansa, and keeps the bastard out of the hunt. Two birds with one stone."
"I told you I would leave the North," Arthur said, frowning. "My lady, there is no need to speak of this to me again."
"You are still in the North, aren't you? I am merely stating facts." Lady Dustin raised the peach in her hand, curiosity in her eyes.
"How did you make these things grow in the North?"
"I only planted them in the Godswood of Winterfell first. The trees here were planted by farmers, my lady."
Arthur added a plausible lie, "The hot springs under Winterfell keep the ground warm. Perhaps they adapted to the climate there."
Arthur knew the real reason was the [Pact of the Grove] card, but he would never reveal that secret.
He still remembered the first—and only—time he used the [Pact of the Grove].
After activating the card, his eyes had rolled back, and he had lost consciousness instantly. He was in a coma for a full day. When he woke up, his head pounded as if someone had taken a hammer to the back of his skull.
His body felt completely drained, hollowed out. He was so weak he was bedridden for seven days.
During that week, he had to consume [Peach] and [Wine] cards daily just to prevent permanent damage.
It was during that recovery period that Arthur noticed a new warning note under the card description in his System interface.
[Tactic Card (Unlocked)]: [Pact of the Grove]
[Tactic Card (Locked)]: ...
(Warning: Using Tactic Cards consumes a massive amount of mana, mental energy, and stamina. Please use within your limits. Overuse will cause irreversible physical damage.)
Just thinking back on it made Arthur feel dizzy and weak in the knees.
Lady Dustin, obviously unaware of Arthur's internal monologue, simply shrugged after her inspection.
"There are no hot springs here. Would these peaches grow elsewhere in the North?"
"I haven't tried. You could test it, my lady," Arthur replied honestly, shaking his head.
Lady Dustin looked thoughtful. Finishing the peach, she threw her cloak back over her shoulders. "It is worth a try."
---
Meanwhile, Winterfell welcomed new guests: Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor and his granddaughter, Wynafryd Manderly.
White Harbor was the only true city in the North, located south of Winterfell at the mouth of the White Knife. It was the seat of House Manderly.
As one of the few ice-free ports in the North, White Harbor provided year-round trade access, earning it the nickname "The Mouth of the North."
Beyond trade, White Harbor was a prime fishing ground, rich in eels, cod, crabs, oysters, and spotted prawns.
The lands controlled by White Harbor also contained numerous silver mines, attracting many skilled silversmiths to the city.
Despite ruling this wealthy northern city, House Manderly did not originate in the North. Like their name suggested, they came from the Mander River in the Reach. They had been exiled by the Gardener Kings of the Reach—a dynasty now extinct.
When they were homeless, friendless, and in peril of their lives, the Kings of Winter had welcomed them, granting them protection and land. This act of mercy allowed House Manderly to survive.
In return, House Manderly swore an oath in the Wolf's Den to serve House Stark forever, by the Old Gods and the New.
Because of their southern origins, they kept the Faith of the Seven—one of the few noble houses in the North to do so. This religious difference somewhat isolated them from other northern houses, making them even more reliant on and loyal to their liege lords, the Starks.
The current Lord of White Harbor, Wyman Manderly, was one of the few lords who hadn't ridden south with Eddard Stark. Instead, he had sent his two sons to lead the White Harbor knights and men-at-arms in his stead.
It wasn't that Wyman was unwilling; he was physically unable. He was immensely fat—arguably the fattest man in Westeros. No horse could bear his weight, earning him the nickname "Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse."
The common folk under his rule preferred to call him "Lord Lamprey," joking that his enormous belly was stuffed full of the eels he loved so much.