Before the Christmas festivities had fully come to an end, London found itself once again buried beneath a heavy curtain of snow. Thick flakes drifted silently from the sky, settling upon roofs, lamps and carriages, until the city looked as though it had been carved out of alabaster.
In the gardens of Buckingham Palace, every hedge wore a silver crown, every branch bowed gracefully under crystalline weight. It was a scene stolen from a fairytale — serene, immaculate, untouched.
Inside, however, the atmosphere was anything but pure.
The State Banquet Hall shimmered with chandeliers and gilded décor, but beneath the glitter lay currents of ambition, rivalry and polite deceit. This evening's grand banquet — held to celebrate the Queen's first Christmas with her Prince Consort — gathered all foreign envoys stationed in London.
Among them, the star of the night was unmistakably the special emissary of Tsarist Russia: Count Alexei Orlov.
He was a mountain of a man — broad as a bear, wrapped in a heavy military coat, with a beard thick enough to hide secrets and schemes alike. Yet behind that barbaric frame glimmered the sharp, calculating eyes of a fox. Trusted by Tsar Nicholas I himself, Orlov was no mere court ornament. He was a statesman, a strategist, and a veteran of imperial politics.
Outwardly, his visit was to "offer congratulations to the newly married Queen."
In truth, he had come to probe Britain's stance concerning the weakening Ottoman Empire — a chessboard upon which both empires silently moved their pieces.
As Prince Consort, Arthur Lionheart sat naturally at Victoria's right hand. His formal attire — the deep navy uniform trimmed with silver — made him look every inch the royal consort Britain had praised him to be. He maintained a polite smile throughout the banquet, though deep within, he was sighing.
"For heaven's sake… this Russian really must be bored to death. Of all days to talk about the Ottoman Empire… Can't he enjoy a warm fire like the rest of us?"
Halfway through the banquet, Count Orlov lifted a glass of vodka and addressed Victoria in his thunderous, accent-heavy English:
"Your Majesty, His Imperial Majesty the Tsar is most concerned for the stability of our shared interests in the Black Sea region. We all hope, of course, that our friends in the Ottoman Empire manage to… preserve order."
He spoke of "preserving order," but everyone present understood the truth:
Russia wanted Britain to quietly tolerate deeper Russian expansion toward the Ottoman Straits.
Victoria opened her lips to respond, but Prime Minister Melbourne intercepted, smiling mildly:
"The Count is correct. Stability is essential. Which is precisely why any unilateral attempt to alter the delicate balance of military power in the Black Sea would be… deeply unfortunate."
They sparred with words like gentlemen fencing with hidden blades — every polite phrase concealing a threat, every smile a mask.
After several rounds of diplomatic fencing, Count Orlov finally turned toward Arthur Lionheart — who had spent most of the evening enjoying roast beef and wine with dignified silence.
"Oh? This must be the famed Prince , His Royal Highness Arthur Lionheart," Orlov said warmly, raising his glass. "I have heard that Your Highness possesses extraordinary wisdom. Tell me — concerning the Black Sea, a region of great concern to both our nations — where do you believe the future strategic fulcrum lies?"
A well-crafted question.
Not too specific, not too vague — a test of Arthur's political instincts.
Victoria's hand tightened around her glass. She glanced at Arthur, worry flickering in her eyes.
Arthur, however, dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, serene as ever.
He knew a challenge when he heard one.
"Count," Arthur replied with an amiable smile, "you flatter me. I merely have the habit of seeking answers in history and geography."
"Oh?" Orlov leaned forward, intrigued.
"In my view," Arthur continued, tapping the table lightly with the handle of his cutlery, "the future of the Black Sea does not lie in the ancient walls of Constantinople, nor within the narrow throat of the Dardanelles."
His eyes glimmered.
"It lies in an unassuming peninsula — Crimea."
A ripple of shock travelled through the entire table.
Crimea?
In 1837?
Few European politicians gave that frozen piece of land more than a passing thought.
But Count Orlov's heart lurched.
How does he know…?!
For he understood better than anyone that Tsar Nicholas' hidden strategy was precisely to transform Crimea into an "unsinkable warship" — a fortress capable of controlling the Black Sea and threatening the Ottomans' lifeline at will.
And yet this British prince — this newcomer — had spoken it aloud with unsettling precision.
Orlov forced a smile, masking his unease.
"A fascinating perspective indeed. Then allow me to ask a more specific question…" He leaned in, voice dropping. "If — and only hypothetically — our Empire wished to use Crimea as a base to block the Bosphorus entirely, how should the Black Sea Fleet deploy its forces?"
There it was.
A trap.
The previous question tested strategic vision.
This one demanded military minutiae — logistics, firepower distribution, formation speeds, coastal artillery placement. The sort of expertise Arthur did not have.
Strategically, he had spoken like a prophet.
Tactically, he was blind.
Arthur Lionheart made the wisest move he could.
He smiled disarmingly.
"Count, you have asked the wrong man. When I once discussed Waterloo with the Duke of Wellington, I was merely studying the logic of strategy as an admirer of military history. But the precise deployment of troops — that belongs to professionals such as yourself, and the Duke. I would not dare to parade my limited knowledge and make a fool of myself."
His answer was humble, polite, and clever.
But Orlov was an old wolf.
And he could smell blood.
He laughed thunderously.
"Your Highness is modest indeed! Of course you have no time for dry military details. You are far too occupied with inventions, factories, trade — the matters of great wealth. We ordinary soldiers must content ourselves with thinking about fleets and cannons."
His tone was friendly.
His meaning was not.
A subtle message to the Queen:
Your husband may be brilliant, but he is no guardian of nations.
Victoria's cheeks reddened — not with embarrassment, but with anger.
Then, unexpectedly, she let out a soft, musical laugh.
The entire hall fell silent.
She picked up her glass, dabbed her lips gently, and met Orlov's gaze with blue eyes that shone like polished ice.
"Count," she said sweetly, "you are absolutely right."
"My husband does spend far too much time wondering how to make the chimneys of our factories produce thicker black smoke… and how to fill the vaults of our banks with more gold."
She paused delicately.
Then her tone shifted — gentle, but carrying the authority of a sovereign.
"But I consider that his greatest strength."
"For only when our chimneys smoke, and our vaults overflow… can our Royal Navy possess enough warships to ensure that every nation sits down and reasons with us, do you not agree?"
Silence.
Victoria had not contradicted Orlov — she had elevated Arthur's focus on economics into the foundation of imperial might.
A checkmate delivered with a smile.
Count Orlov could only bow his head stiffly.
"Your Majesty… you speak truth."
Melbourne concealed a grin behind his wine glass.
The young Queen and her Prince Consort — one gentle, one sharp — complemented each other like two halves of the same blade.
Later that night, returning to their chambers, Victoria shed her gloves with indignation, tossing them onto the sofa.
"That dreadful bearded man! He knew you wouldn't know those military details, and he asked on purpose! He wanted to embarrass you!"
Arthur, amused by her protective frustration, wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"My dear, you were angrier than I was. And you avenged me rather thoroughly."
"Of course! If he bullies you, he bullies me!" Victoria turned, cupping Arthur's face in her hands. "And your answer earlier was wonderful! So poised! Far better than that pompous Russian."
"Truly?" Arthur's eyes gleamed thoughtfully.
"Truly!" she insisted.
But Arthur shook his head gently.
He walked toward the window, watching the snow fall softly upon the palace grounds.
"No, Victoria," he said quietly. "I lost half a move tonight."
She blinked. "Arthur, it doesn't—"
"It does," he interrupted softly, turning to face her. "A prince consort who knows only commerce is not enough. A sovereign ignorant of military affairs cannot truly safeguard an empire."
His gaze deepened — earnest, resolute.
"I will never allow a foreign envoy to challenge you again while I stand beside you helplessly."
"That Russian did not humiliate me."
Arthur stepped closer, taking her hands.
"He awakened me."
"From this day forward… I have much to learn."