The sincere and profound self-reflection of **Arthur Lionheart** dispelled, in an instant, the last traces of irritation Victoria still held over the state banquet.
In its place remained an indescribable mixture of tenderness, sorrow, and pride.
She looked at the man before her—someone who had excelled in so many fields that he left everyone else in the dust, yet still had the clarity and honesty to admit his own shortcomings without reservation.
This frankness, paired with his relentless drive to improve, was infinitely more captivating than the stiff pride of the so-called gentlemen who strutted through London's salons, convinced of their own superiority.
"Very well," she murmured, reaching up to ruffle his hair in a playfully comforting gesture. Her tone softened. "They're only military matters, after all. Nothing you can't learn. With your mind, it won't take long before you silence that bearded Russian."
Arthur chuckled quietly.
"I wish I shared that confidence. But this is a vast field… I don't even know where to begin."
"Who says you don't?" she replied at once.
A spark of mischief lit her blue eyes. She seized his hand and, like a child eager to show a hidden treasure, declared:
"Follow me!"
She led him down a long, silent corridor of Buckingham Palace to a chamber rarely entered: the **Royal Strategy Research Hall**.
Maps covered every wall—huge, meticulously drawn military charts: all of Europe, nautical maps of the Atlantic, topographical maps of colonial territories, diagrams of trade routes, naval deployments.
At the center stood a massive sand-table covered with tiny colored flags marking armies and fleets across the world.
Shelves sagged under the weight of thick tomes on war, history, strategy, and imperial diplomacy.
The very air smelled faintly of iron, gunpowder, and ambition.
"Good Lord…" Arthur whispered, stunned as if he had stepped into a strategist's paradise.
"This is where I spent much of my childhood," Victoria said with a nostalgic smile. "My uncle, King William IV, used to bring me here. He taught me to recognize the military banners of every nation, their troop numbers, the strength of their fleets. He always told me: *A sovereign may fail at poetry or painting, but must never fail to know every inch of her realm—and the blades of her enemies.*"
Arthur's expression softened. He had never imagined the young Queen had received such a harsh, disciplined upbringing.
Victoria turned to him with her newly adopted instructor's air, wielding the wooden pointer like a schoolmistress.
"Now then, Your Highness," she declared, "since you admit to knowing nothing… I shall be your first military tutor. Personally."
She paused, then added with delicate mischief:
"As for your tuition fee… I shall punish you simply by asking that you be gentler with me next time. No more sharp words."
Arthur's heart melted.
More than a monarch, she seemed a young woman eager to be useful to the man she loved—proud to show him her hidden strengths.
"As you wish, Your Majesty… my stern and formidable teacher," he replied, bowing theatrically. "Your student, Arthur Lionheart, is ready."
She cleared her throat, satisfied.
"Good. Let us begin with the basics."
She pointed at France on the sand-table.
"This is France, our ancient rival. Their army is strong—especially their artillery. Napoleon reformed it into something truly formidable.
But…" She paused, wrinkling her nose in disdain.
"Their navy is a disaster. Slow, clumsy—no match for the Royal Navy. As long as we hold the Channel, they will never set foot on British soil."
Then she turned the pointer northeast.
"And this," she said, with a glance recalling the eventful evening, "is Russia—the homeland of our talkative, shaggy guest today."
Her tone grew serious.
"Their army is the opposite of France's. Not brilliant, not elegantly organized—but endless."
She indicated the cluster of Russian flags.
"There are simply too many of them. Hardy, used to cold, famine, and long marches. The worst mistake is to follow them into their own territory. Napoleon learnt that painfully well."
She tapped the Baltic and Black Seas.
"Our strategy has never been to fight them on land. It is to *trap* them. Block their ports. Suffocate their movement. Keep the polar bear locked in its den."
For a full hour, Victoria spoke with the fervor of a true strategist.
Arthur listened with rapt admiration.
He wasn't only absorbing military knowledge—he was witnessing her brilliance, her focus, her passion.
Not a fragile sovereign in need of protection, but a young ruler forged by imperial expectation, growing alongside him.
And at last, he realized something simple yet profound:
their relationship was no longer one-sided. She was beginning to guide him, too.
Their bond deepened.
At the end of her lecture, Victoria looked at him expectantly, almost shyly.
"Well? I spoke rather well, didn't I?"
"More than well." Arthur set down the pointer, stepped toward her, and held her gently. "My Queen… you are a born strategist."
"Obviously," she replied, lifting her chin proudly.
But Arthur's eyes gleamed with playful intent.
"And yet," he murmured, "if I'm to catch up quickly… relying solely on my charming *part-time* teacher may not be enough."
She tapped his chest with the pointer. "Impudent."
Arthur turned his gaze toward Westminster, where his thoughts were already forming.
There was only one man in Britain capable of guiding him properly.
A man who had shattered Napoleon's legend and ended an entire era.
**The Iron Duke.
Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington.**
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