As the manager of the Peach Garden, Arthur stuck to his routine, taking Fat Tom with him on a patrol of the estate.
Jon, meanwhile, grabbed a bow and quiver and ran off to the nearby woods to practice his archery.
During his inspections, Arthur made a point of talking to everyone. He spoke with the farmers tending the orchards and vegetable patches, the free riders returning from forest patrols, and the stable boy caring for the horses.
Of course, the person he spoke with most was his constant shadow, Fat Tom.
Arthur believed these conversations were the fastest way to keep his finger on the pulse of the estate—understanding its operational needs and tracking its output.
Right now, the estate's biggest export was, naturally, peaches. But peaches were fruit, not grain. They didn't store well, and the market in Winterfell and the winter town was already saturated.
For the smallfolk, fruit was a luxury, not a staple. It was something to taste occasionally, not something they could afford to buy every day.
This forced Arthur to halt the planting of new trees to prevent the surplus fruit from simply rotting in the orchard. It was a major bottleneck for the estate's expansion.
That was exactly why he had come up with the idea of brewing peach wine—to process the surplus capacity.
Wine had a long shelf life—or rather, if stored correctly, it could last indefinitely.
More importantly, alcohol was addictive and had a massive customer base. In the freezing North, a drink that warmed the blood was essential. As long as the taste wasn't completely foul, it would sell.
Aside from peaches, the proximity to the Wolfswood meant the estate also produced a fair amount of animal hides and timber.
The hides could be made into leather armor or warm furs, but they were currently shipped raw to the tanners in Winterfell, so they didn't bring much direct profit to the estate yet.
Timber, however, was what Arthur saw as the next big industry after the wine.
The North was different from the South. The trees here were massive and ancient—mainly sentinel trees draped in grey-green needles, sturdy oaks, and the old, stone-hard ironwoods.
The quality of the wood was exceptional. Beyond fuel, it was perfect for tools and furniture. Ironwood, in particular, was the premier material for ship hulls, shields, and heavy bows.
Arthur was already planning to build a carpentry workshop to process the timber on-site.
As noon approached, Arthur and Fat Tom finished their rounds and returned to the watchtower.
Arthur sat at his desk, quill in hand, recording the legitimate requests he'd heard. Fat Tom, like most of the people on the estate, couldn't read or write, so the administrative burden fell entirely on Arthur.
"Arthur, the beast pen is finished. I can round up some hounds soon, but we need a kennelmaster to train them and run the place," Fat Tom reported, slightly out of breath as he took a swig from his waterskin.
"I spoke to the Steward, Vayon Poole, about it. He said Lord Eddard took so many men south that Winterfell is short-handed. There's no one to spare for us."
"Then shelve the beast pen for now. We'll wait until we can hire someone," Arthur said, frowning slightly.
The development of the Peach Garden estate was heavily reliant on Winterfell, both for manpower and resources, as well as political cover for logging and hunting rights.
When Duke Eddard Stark was present, these issues were easily smoothed over. But now that he had gone south to suppress the Greyjoy Rebellion, Lady Catelyn was the acting ruler of the North.
The growing pains of the estate couldn't be solved without Winterfell's support, and that support was currently drying up. It was a frustrating situation for Arthur.
"But the woods are full of 'little things' that come out at night," Tom persisted. "Some of them dig holes under the mud fences and tear things up. The farmers are getting sick of it."
"The peach wine is the priority right now. If we can't solve a problem, we endure it."
Arthur set down his quill and tucked the list into his tunic pocket.
"Come on. Have someone carry two casks of the wine over. Alebelly should have that roe deer roasted by now. He's been talking about it since dawn; he's probably losing his mind waiting."
---
The estate's mess hall was open-air, consisting of two large log tables and a scattering of wooden stools. A farm woman brought out a large pot of rabbit soup mixed with vegetables and set it on the table.
Arthur peered into the pot. Aside from the standard Northern staples—turnips, carrots, and onions—there were chunks of peach boiled until they were soft and mushy.
Rabbit stew with peaches. That was... unexpected.
He could only assume the cook was being pragmatic: throw whatever you have into the pot. It reminded him of the "Bowl of Brown" eaten by the poor in King's Landing—a mystery stew of whatever was available.
Fortunately, the two roe deer roasting on the spit nearby looked magnificent.
Alebelly had done a fine job. The skin was slightly charred and sizzling, dripping with fat. He had rubbed the meat with aromatic spices, and the scent alone was enough to make a man drool.
The stable boy, having finished grooming the horses, was already standing by with his wooden bowl, a string of drool escaping the corner of his mouth.
Two free riders carried up the casks of peach wine from the cellar. The wooden barrels were well-sealed; not a drop had leaked during transport.
Fat Tom grabbed a mallet and handed it to Arthur. "This is the first batch produced by the Garden. You have to be the one to broach it, Arthur."
The men gathered around. Arthur's hand trembled slightly as he gripped the mallet. He was nervous.
Everyone knew that the future of the Peach Garden estate—whether it would thrive or fail—was inside these barrels.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Nerves made him clumsy; it took three solid strikes to knock the bung loose.
Arthur set down the mallet, and heads instinctively leaned in closer.
He waved his hand over the open bunghole, wafting the air toward his nose. The scent of alcohol mixed with the fresh, sweet aroma of peaches hit him.
"Sealed tight. No smell of vinegar," Arthur thought, relieved. He wasn't an expert brewer; he just knew that if the seal was bad, the alcohol would oxidize into vinegar.
He looked up at the men. "I think… I think it worked?"
Alebelly didn't wait for confirmation. He shoved past Arthur, grabbed the heavy cask, and began pouring directly into the wooden mugs on the table.
The liquid was slightly cloudy, a soft pink color that looked strangely inviting in the rough wooden cups.
"Smells amazing!" Alebelly held the cask with one arm and downed a cup with the other. He smacked his lips, sticking out his tongue in delight. "Damn fine wine!"
The man's nose was already naturally red, but after the drink, it glowed like a beacon. He looked like a giant, tipsy circus clown.
"I've had Dornish Summerwine, and I've drunk more of Winterfell's ale than is good for me," Fat Tom said, wiping pink froth from his ginger beard after a long pull. "It's a bit tart, but this is definitely the best stuff I've ever tasted."
Jon stood to the side, holding his cup and taking small, tentative sips. Having little experience with alcohol, he kept his opinions to himself.
Listening to the praise, Arthur tore off a piece of the roasted haunch. The savory, spiced meat washed down with the crisp, cold peach wine was perfection.
He felt a massive sense of satisfaction wrap around him. It wasn't just the fullness of his stomach; it was the thrill of achievement.
With the [Peach] card and the [Pact of the Grove], he knew that no matter where he went, this business model would work.
In the simple, open-air mess hall, fueled by alcohol, the mood shifted into a celebration.
The farmers straightened their backs, shedding their usual deference. The stable boy began singing a song loudly—something about a "Bear and the Maiden Fair."
Arthur listened closely. It was definitely about a dancing bear.
Alebelly, now thoroughly drunk and looking very much like a real red-nosed bear, grabbed an empty cask and began to dance with it, his clumsy movements possessing a weird, natural rhythm.
Jon was also drunk. His face was flushed bright red, his silence completely gone. He was shouting now.
"I am Prince Aemon the Dragonknight!"
His voice grew louder with every claim. "I am the Young Dragon!"
Fat Tom got into the spirit. He lurched up from his stool, swaying unsteadily, and announced, "If you're the Young Dragon, then I'm Florian the Fool!"
Jon waved his empty wooden cup like the sword he so desperately wanted. "I am Ser Ryam Redwyne!"
"I am Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning!" Arthur roared back, face equally red, wielding a deer bone like a greatsword.
Ser Arthur Dayne was his mother Ashara's brother—a legendary Kingsguard, the deadliest knight of his age, a man who would rather die than break a vow.
Lord Eddard had told Arthur that he was named after his uncle, carrying his mother's fervent hope.
Finally, Jon shouted the last claim, ending the game in a sudden hush:
"I am the Lord of Winterfell!"