The London wind cut through the city like a sharpened blade, carrying the damp chill of early winter. Yet within the private kitchens of Buckingham Palace, warmth blossomed like spring sun through fog, infused with the rich aromas of roasting, herbs, and delicate sauces.
Arthur Lionheart—revered as a God of War, a God of Wealth, a master manipulator—stood at the hearth in a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a modest lace-edged apron tied around his waist. He appeared almost comical, yet in that moment he was absorbed in a task far more delicate than commanding armies or directing empires.
Before him, copper pots and silver serving dishes held the evening's creations: a frittata infused with fresh garden herbs, a rich and tender beef stew slowly braising in wine, a crystal-clear consommé simmering with aromatic roots, sole meunière lightly browned in butter, and in the corner, a golden tarte Tatin cooling, its caramelized apples glistening like jewels. Glazed vegetables and carefully prepared sauces awaited their turn, each element crafted to perfection, elegant enough to grace the Queen's private table.
"Arthur! The butter is far too hot! You will ruin the sole if you place it in now!" Victoria's voice rang from behind him, carrying both exasperation and affection. She perched upon a high stool, her gown stretched over the gentle curve of her belly, her eyes sharp, her tone imperious yet tender.
"Yes, my Queen, your wisdom is unparalleled," Arthur replied, a smile tugging at his lips. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, letting the warmth of her gaze soften his otherwise cold, calculating mind. Compared to orchestrating wars and influencing kings, satisfying Victoria's exacting palate required infinitely more care.
Since her morning sickness had intensified with her pregnancy, even the palace chefs had failed to entice her appetite. Aromas that might tempt any ordinary noblewoman provoked nausea in Victoria. Arthur, with his far-off knowledge, had taken it upon himself to craft a menu that balanced subtle flavors and delicate richness: frittata light yet aromatic, consommé crystal-clear yet profound, sole delicate yet buttery, beef stew rich yet refined, tarte Tatin sweet yet balanced, glazed vegetables vibrant, and sauces nuanced.
He plated each dish with the precision of a statesman presenting a treaty, the gleaming porcelain reflecting the candlelight.
"Your Majesty, pray taste. Does it suit your desires?"
Victoria lifted her silver fork with care, tasting the frittata first, then the sole, the stew, and finally a spoonful of consommé. Each bite revealed layers of flavor: freshness, tenderness, depth, balance. Her eyes shone with delight, her lips curving in the faintest, approving smile.
"Exquisite!" she breathed, the corners of her eyes crinkling like sunlight through lace. "Arthur, you are indeed a genius. Not even the palace chefs could achieve such perfection."
Arthur allowed himself a rare moment of quiet satisfaction. Here, in the domestic hearth of Buckingham Palace, far from the intrigues of Europe and the bloodied battlefields of America, he found a victory sweeter than any conquest.
Later, as the fire crackled and the evening deepened, the two nestled on a velvet settee, Victoria leaning into him. He massaged her calves gently, feeling the life growing within her, and she rested her head against his chest with trust and warmth.
"My dear," she murmured, her voice a soft echo of the storms outside, "Europe seems… unsettled. There is news from St. Petersburg, and the Russians—"
Arthur chuckled, though a calculating gleam lingered in his eyes. "Do tell me more, Victoria."
She smiled wryly, sensing the mixture of love and calculation in him. "Nicholas believes your 'World Island' vision. He is building a railway across Siberia, taxing his people outrageously. It is madness, yet the consequences are… useful."
"Madmen achieve greatness," Arthur said, measured, almost cold, yet softened by the warmth in his gaze as he looked at her. The grand game of geopolitics was his canvas, and Europe, Russia, Prussia, France—all pawns in his unseen hand. "Let him exhaust his resources. In fifty years, he will have nothing left to menace the west or south. Every move, every tax, every railway is part of the design."
Victoria laughed softly, the sound like wind through the palace gardens. "And Frederick William IV? Bismarck seems to have swayed him with your currency unification plan. Austria is furious. Metternich nearly bursts daily with indignation."
Arthur's smile deepened, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Tradition exists only to be broken. A unified Germany under Prussia is far more controllable than a fragmented mess of petty principalities squabbling endlessly. France will be contained, Russia exhausted, and we will watch from our parlors as the continent rearranges itself at no cost to us."
Her eyes softened. She rested her hand atop his. "Arthur, even in all this… you remain so cold in strategy, yet tender in your care for me. It bewilders me."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, lingering with deliberate warmth. "Victoria, power without heart is empty. Strategy without love is hollow. One governs nations, the other… nurtures life."
Her smile deepened into a quiet, intimate radiance. "And the Qing Empire?" she asked softly, recalling distant correspondence. "Have their students arrived?"
Arthur's gaze darkened slightly, thoughtful. "The first ships are en route. Alongside tea and silk, a small delegation of thirty young scholars arrives—gifted, yet constrained by tradition. Their minds still steeped in Confucian thought. They will be malleable, impressionable… useful."
Victoria's brow furrowed in curiosity. "And what will you do with them?"
Arthur's eyes gleamed, a spark of both danger and genius. "I will cultivate not just engineers, scientists, or administrators. I will implant ideas that reshape the very foundations of their world. From these thirty seeds, the future will not merely learn from Britain—they will one day challenge their empire, perhaps even rise to proclaim the impossible: revolution."
A gentle fire warmed the room, but in Arthur Lionheart's heart, a colder, sharper flame burned—ruthless, strategic, unyielding. Yet here, in the arms of his beloved Victoria, it softened just enough to remind him why he fought not merely for empire, wealth, or influence—but for the intimate, irreplaceable warmth of a shared life.
Amid the rich aroma of roasted pheasant, herb-frittata, consommé, sole meunière, glazed vegetables, delicate sauces, and the sweet allure of tarte Tatin, Arthur Lionheart remained simultaneously the most feared mind in Europe and the most devoted husband in the world.