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Chapter 94: Princess
George's private jet landed smoothly on the Jerusalem runway. As the engines quieted, nearly forty black sedans stood waiting on the tarmac—polished, identical, arranged in two precise rows. Each carried senior councilors from across the Peninsula, there to greet him in person after being notified in advance.
Since the unification of the Peninsula, George had designated Jerusalem as the capital. The people now called it the Holy Capital—a name that had grown naturally, almost inevitably.
The city was sacred to three faiths, and under George's direction, it had found peace again. To avoid disrupting the old city's religious balance, he'd ordered the construction of a new district to the east—modern, efficient, and open to all.
Economically, Jerusalem had flourished. Material goods flowed. Crime rates had dropped to nearly zero. With its infrastructure and security measures, the city was now one of the safest in the entire region.
George entered his stretch limousine without ceremony. The convoy pulled away from the airstrip and headed toward the military base. There were no sirens, no reporters, no waving hands. Just tinted windows and quiet efficiency.
Formally, the Peninsula was now independent. The British had relinquished their claim. George no longer held a title there. The government was ruled by a local parliamentary council, composed of the old families and new technocrats.
On paper, George was just an honorary figure—no legal authority, no formal position.
But everyone knew better.
The entire region still operated under George's hand. The council followed his lead. The military took its orders from advisors he had trained. Nothing moved without his approval.
The illusion of independence was important. It gave the Peninsula space from European politics. With the world bracing for another war, George wanted this territory left out of old alliances and historical grudges. The idea was simple: sever colonial ties early, play the neutral card until the right moment, then choose a side when it counted.
During the ride, George reviewed a few reports. The oil sales figures were rising. Weapons production had increased. His last shipment of advanced tanks had been integrated into training exercises.
At the base, George toured the facilities with a group of senior councilors. The soldiers were well-equipped and well-drilled. The training programs mirrored the structures of Western special forces.
There were new barracks, hardened bunkers, aircraft hangars, and a command center outfitted with modern communication gear. George walked through each area, said little, but took in everything.
These troops weren't meant for show. They were prepared for the long haul.
After the inspection, George made his way to the Parliament Hall.
At the far end of the room stood the raised platform, and on it, the gilded throne, built years earlier for George himself.
It wasn't an antique passed down through generations. It was crafted from reinforced gold alloy, inlaid with rare gemstones from across the Empire. A symbol more than a seat.
George walked up the steps, turned, and sat.
The councilors stood, placed their right hands over their hearts, bowed their heads, and dropped to one knee.
"King."
George gave a quiet nod.
"You may rise. Be seated."
They sat.
"Councilors," he said, "the stability of the Peninsula and its prosperity are the result of your efforts. I see them. I recognize them. And I will not forget them."
Then came the rest—straightforward, no performance.
He outlined the state of the world. Europe was shifting fast. Germany was preparing for war. George made it clear: the Peninsula had to prepare, too.
First priority: grain. The region lacked arable land. It relied heavily on imports. George ordered immediate stockpiling of non-perishables—grains, legumes, preserved goods—along with the construction of secure, climate-controlled storage facilities.
Second: neutrality. The Peninsula would not join the Axis. But it wouldn't rush to ally with the British or French either.
George's strategy was simple—maintain neutrality, sell oil and supplies to the Allies, and stay out of combat until the war tilted clearly in their favor. Then, they'd join the winning side and claim the spoils legally, as a participating ally.
After setting directives for infrastructure, logistics, and internal preparedness, George stayed one more day to review reports and sign off on longer-term plans. Then he boarded another plane and flew to Britain.
This time, there was no elaborate welcome. Only a few senior staff from his company met him at the airfield. He returned to his private villa in Kensington Palace Gardens.
On the table in his study sat a sealed envelope. Heavy parchment, wax-stamped.
An invitation—from Duke Mountbatten.
It was For A banquet.
George didn't hesitate. He sent his reply the same day.
The next evening, his car pulled into the long drive of the Duke's country estate. The manor house was lit up, the gravel path lined with flickering lanterns, and the sound of strings floated softly through the air.
Inside, the crowd was thick with nobility. Old money, titled families, military men, and industrialists. Some were allies. Some had tried to buy George's loyalty. All of them watched him now as he stepped into the room.
George had become something of a curiosity in British circles.
A man whose mother had quietly left the country, moved to America, and raised him together with her husband, a rich landowner. A man who hadn't even known he was heir to a title until years later, after his grandmother's death, revealed the Swinton estate was his by blood.
A boy raised outside the system who returned to it with more wealth than most of its members combined.
He hadn't sought the Earl's title. He'd inherited it.
And then, almost immediately, he'd become impossible to ignore.
Penicillin. Patents. Military contracting. Hogwarts Island. Then came the books—children's literature that outsold everything else in print. And the Peninsula. Always the Peninsula.
He'd given up official control, yes. But somehow, what he'd kept—20% of the national asset company—had become the most valuable stake in the Middle East.
Britain and the U.S. had both quietly offered to buy him out. He'd refused.
Publicly, the shares couldn't be transferred. Privately, George made sure that clause was always on the record.
Whitehall was frustrated.
Plans had been drafted—leverage factions within the UAE, seed unrest, push for instability that would allow Britain to step in and "stabilize." But it never worked. The councilors stayed united. Even an assassination attempt meant to shake the structure failed.
George remained untouchable.
"Long time no see, Earl Swinton," Duke Mountbatten said, approaching with a cordial smile. "Delighted you could come."
"Thank you, My Lord Duke," George replied, returning the handshake. "It's an honor."
They spoke quietly for a few moments.
Mountbatten had profited handsomely from Penicillin. George had let him handle all British distribution. They understood each other.
A minute later, Mountbatten raised his glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. Let's drink to the Kingdom."
"To the Kingdom!" the crowd echoed.
Glasses clinked. The musicians resumed. Conversation returned.
Mountbatten leaned in again. "I've set aside a quiet room for us. Shall we?"
George nodded.
Just as they turned, the banquet doors opened again.
The room didn't fall silent, but the tempo shifted.
A woman entered in a simple white dress. Clean lines, bare shoulders, dark hair gathered low behind her head. No jewelry, no gloves. Just red lips, calm eyes, and the kind of composure that turned heads without effort.
George noticed, and so did Mountbatten.
George leaned in slightly. "And who is she?"
Mountbatten answered without hesitation, "Princess Victoria Lois Alice. His Majesty's niece."
George's gaze lingered a moment longer.
He didn't speak. Just smiled, lightly.
It wasn't the kind of smile that played to the room for show.
That smile was quieter and thoughtful, meaning only one thing:
'Someone just played their card'
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