The birthday banquet of Princess Vicky concluded at last—wrapped in an atmosphere of magic, warmth, and the distinctly *unpleasant* expression of Her Majesty the Queen.
That night, Buckingham Palace.
The mood plummeted to its lowest point since the infamous *Scottish Tour*.
As fate—and experience—had foretold, a family war erupted precisely on schedule.
"**Arthur Lionheart!**" Victoria's voice cracked like a whip. "What exactly did you think you were doing today?!"
For once, she did not personally escort the children to bed. The nurses and ladies hurried them away instead, retreating with professional speed. The bedchamber door slammed shut behind them with a thunderous finality.
Victoria stood with her hands on her hips, a furious lioness incarnate. Fire blazed from her blue eyes—beautiful, intelligent, and lethal.
"A *birthday present*? Is that what you call it? Have you ever seen anyone give a cannon to a four-year-old girl? What next—using artillery shells as her wedding dowry?!"
Arthur Lionheart sat on the sofa, attempting—heroically—to defend himself behind a newspaper and a fortress of logic.
"My dear, it was only a model. An educational one. A harmless way to introduce mechanical principles—"
"Educational?!" Victoria laughed sharply, bordering on hysteria. "I heard you all day! You were explaining ballistic trajectories and explosive yields! **Arthur! She is four!** What she should be learning is piano, classical dance, painting, court etiquette! How to recite French poetry gracefully—not how much explosive it would take to demolish Versailles!"
For the first time that evening, Arthur felt something dangerously close to guilt.
He set the paper aside, rose, and stepped toward her, arms opening instinctively.
Victoria shoved him away with one decisive push.
"Don't touch me."
Arthur froze, then raised his hands in surrender, wearing the expression of a man who knew he was losing but refused to die quietly.
"Victoria, listen to me." He adopted his most reliable strategy: reason dressed as affection.
"Of course I want Vicky to grow into a graceful, beautiful, beloved princess—just like you. Piano, painting, elegance, charm… it would be wonderful."
"She inherited your beauty and your nobility," he continued softly. "But she also inherited my mind."
"Letting her learn only decorative skills would be a waste of her potential."
His tone shifted—lower, sharper.
"This world is about to change."
"In the future, respect will not be granted for a pretty face or a flawless sonata. It will belong to those with intelligence, vision, and the will to shape the world."
"Our heir is Edward—yes. But Vicky is his elder sister, the foremost princess of the Empire. She must be capable of advising him, guarding his interests, and—if fate demands—deciding in his place."
"I want her to understand politics. War. Economics. I want a complete map of the world built inside her mind. I want her to know exactly where Britain's true interests lie."
"I support raising her as a lady," Arthur concluded firmly. "But I will also raise her to be the most formidable princess this Empire has ever known."
He spoke with conviction, foresight, and unmistakable ambition.
Victoria was unmoved.
"I don't care!" She covered her ears like a child, shaking her head violently.
"I don't understand your grand visions! I only know my daughter is a princess! She should grow up safe and happy, marry a prince—preferably half as decent as you—and live peacefully!"
"As for wars, schemes, and empires—*you* can handle those. And Edward, when the time comes. Isn't that enough? Why must our Vicky carry men's burdens?!"
"You brute. You liar. I'm done talking to you."
Arthur stood helplessly.
He discovered—much to his despair—that when a woman, particularly an angry mother, abandoned reason…
Even the laws of heaven were negotiable at best.
Thus ended the first great clash of parenting philosophy.
And so began a **cold war** of breathtaking immaturity.
The following morning, at breakfast.
Arthur examined his plate.
Burnt toast.
Weak black tea.
Across the table, Her Majesty enjoyed his favorite dish—perfectly pan-fried Scottish smoked salmon and soft-boiled eggs.
Victoria did not look at him. She ate slowly, deliberately, savoring each bite with visible pleasure.
Arthur's jaw twitched. He said nothing.
By afternoon tea, retaliation arrived.
Arthur instructed the chef to prepare a full **Sacher torte**—a Viennese chocolate cake Victoria always deemed *excessively sweet*. Her beloved strawberry pudding was also placed—quite deliberately—before *him*.
In full view of his wife, Arthur consumed both desserts. Entirely. Without mercy.
Victoria stared at the empty plate, fury tightening her jaw until her silver teeth nearly cracked.
Thus began the cycle.
She stole his salmon.
He devoured her pudding.
They sat at opposite ends of the dining table, an invisible English Channel between them. When their eyes met, only disdainful *hmphs* were exchanged.
By evening, matters worsened.
Arthur took a quilt and relocated to the adjoining study, declaring with masculine stubbornness, "I'm sleeping on the sofa."
Victoria waited in the bedchamber. He did not return.
She lay awake all night, angry, wounded, hugging her pillow like a battlefield casualty.
The cold war lasted **three days**.
Buckingham Palace sank beneath suffocating pressure. Servants tiptoed through corridors, terrified of becoming collateral damage.
Princess Vicky, meanwhile, was both the most distressed—and the most delighted—participant.
One moment she whispered to her mother,
"Mommy, Daddy is secretly eating your macarons in the study!"
The next, she warned her father,
"Daddy, Mommy hid your favorite cigar in her jewelry box!"
A born strategist.
At last, the long-suffering Lord Melbourne surrendered.
If he did not intervene soon, he was quite certain this marriage would bring the roof down upon Buckingham Palace itself.