Inside the heavily guarded command tent of the British main camp, the air was thick with silence and humiliation.
The Sikh peace delegation—five men led by Prime Minister Devan Singh—sat rigidly upon a coarse military carpet, their fine robes ill-suited to such surroundings. Their hands trembled slightly, betraying the fear they struggled to suppress.
Opposite them sat two men who needed no raised voices to command terror.
Governor-General of India, Sir Henry Hardinge, and the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Hugh Gough, occupied the principal seats like immovable idols of empire. Each held a riding crop loosely in hand, tapping it now and then against polished wood.
Neither spoke.
This silence—deliberate, crushing—was the first rule Arthur Lionheart had drilled into them from his Principles of Negotiation:
Let them wait. Time is a weapon. Anxiety bleeds concessions.
Thirty minutes passed.
Sweat formed beneath Devan Singh's turban. His once-composed expression collapsed into pallor and strain.
"G–Governor-General…" he finally stammered, voice hoarse. "We… we come with sincere intentions for peace. Her Majesty's representatives assured us that if your army would show mercy and withdraw, then… then all terms may be discussed."
Hardinge and Gough exchanged a glance.
The play had begun.
Hardinge gently placed his crop upon the table.
Crack.
The soft sound made the Sikh ministers flinch.
"Discuss?" Hardinge repeated softly, his tone measured, cold—eerily reminiscent of Arthur Lionheart himself. "Prime Minister Devan Singh… do you truly believe there remains anything to discuss?"
"My artillery has already spoken for me. Your response was… inadequate."
He rose to his full height, looking down upon the defeated men.
"Still," he continued, his expression transforming into a polite, almost gracious smile—the very mask Lionheart favored—"the British Empire is, at heart, a civilized power. We do not delight in slaughter."
"More importantly," Hardinge added, "His Highness Prince Arthur Lionheart wrote to me personally two months ago."
He spoke with theatrical precision.
"In his letter, he insisted that should a regrettable military friction occur with your state, then after victory, annihilation would be… inefficient."
Hardinge quoted him word for word:
'Grant the defeated dignity enough to survive. A desperate enemy is troublesome. A grateful vassal is useful.'
The Sikh delegation sat stunned.
This was not a conqueror speaking.
This was doctrine.
The legendary Prince Lionheart—master of artillery and empire—had not only refrained from demanding their extinction, but had calculated their survival long before their defeat.
Hardinge reached behind him and produced a thick document.
"The Treaty of Lahore," he announced calmly. "Drafted personally by Prince Arthur Lionheart. A framework of peace, foresight, and order."
"Read."
With shaking hands, Devan Singh accepted the treaty.
As his eyes moved across the pages, his expression shifted—humiliation, anguish, resignation… and beneath it all, unmistakable relief.
This treaty bore the unmistakable Lionheart signature: polite language, substance.
Article I – War Indemnities
The Sikh Empire shall pay one million five hundred thousand pounds sterling to the British Empire, compensating for military expenditures and veterans' pensions incurred during this defensive counteraction.
(Empire runs on capital. Always.)
Article II – Territorial Reorganization
All lands between the Sutlej and Beas rivers, including the strategically vital region of Kashmir, shall be permanently transferred to British authority.
(Not everything—only what matters most.)
Article III – Military Restrictions
The Khalsa Army shall be immediately dissolved.
The Sikh standing army shall never exceed twenty thousand men.
All future defense and security matters within Punjab shall be entrusted to British forces stationed in India, under the banner of friendly protection.
(Disarm the body. Paralyze the will.)
Then Devan Singh reached the final clause.
And froze.
Article IV – Royal Status
The British Empire recognizes Maharaja Duleep Singh, son of Ranjit Singh, as the sole legitimate monarch of Punjab.
His mother, Queen Jindan Kaur, shall continue as Regent.
The British Empire guarantees the dignity, safety, and authority of the Sikh royal household against all internal and external threats.
Devan Singh stared.
"They… they did not depose him?" he whispered.
They had expected erasure.
Instead, recognition.
Arthur Lionheart understood power far better than conquest alone.
A destroyed regime breeds chaos.
A preserved, hollowed throne—utterly dependent—becomes an instrument.
Queen Jindan Kaur, ambitious and unloved, would rule on Britain's behalf, absorbing resentment and enforcing unpopular policies.
Britain would remain unseen—an emperor behind the curtain—controlling military and economic lifelines with invisible chains.
Hardinge watched the delegation carefully.
"Well, Prime Minister," he asked pleasantly, "does His Highness's treaty meet your definition of… benevolence?"
"Too benevolent," Devan Singh murmured.
It felt as though a thief had stripped him naked—then returned his undergarments and promised protection.
Absurd.
And yet… comforting.
Suddenly, Devan Singh dropped to his knees.
"Governor-General!" he cried. "Your mercy! Prince Lionheart's mercy! The people of Punjab will never forget this! We accept! We sign at once!"
And so—
In an atmosphere thick with gratitude and coerced friendship—
The First Anglo-Sikh War, which history once recorded as a costly British struggle,
Ended instead in a perfect victory,
praised most loudly by those who had lost everything.