---
Arthur Lionheart's mood turned to iron the moment he finished reading the first batch of internal documents on the opium trade—files delivered by Matheson, the so-called *Opium King* of the East India Company.
Behind every number, every ledger entry, every quiet column of silver and cargo weight, he heard the silent screams of thousands of ruined families, of entire European regions drained of their wealth. And the list of "partners"… that was the worst poison of all. The empire was rotting from within, crisscrossed by corruption so systematic it felt like a second bloodstream.
Arthur understood instantly: he wasn't facing a mere criminal network. He was staring at an ancient, sprawling bloc of interests, entangled deep in political and military structures. Trying to uproot it with British political resources alone would be hopeless.
He needed a force of his own—one not answerable to Parliament, not bound by diplomatic protocols, able to act in his name during delicate operations far from London. The seed of that idea already existed. To create such a force, three things were essential: a legitimate reason, men, and armed ships.
The reason… was almost ready.
That evening, after an intimate dinner with Victoria, Arthur exhaled just enough to make the worry look real. His expression darkened with a measured dose of concern.
"My love, what is it?" Victoria asked immediately. "Did something happen?"
Arthur hesitated, letting the pause settle like dust.
"The situation in Northern Europe is deteriorating," he said quietly. "The Baltic maritime republics and the small trading states—privately, of course—have sent word that Dutch private fleets have resumed raiding. Harassing ports. Seizing convoys. Robbing merchants under British protection. And they can't ask for help publicly."
Naturally, he had fabricated every word.
"What?!" Victoria slapped her hand on the table, indignant. "The Dutch have lost their minds! We can't just let this continue!"
Arthur lowered his gaze with precisely calibrated restraint.
"What can we do? If the Royal Navy intervenes, Parliament will accuse us of abusing royal power. And those small Baltic states can't defend themselves. They're at the mercy of whichever power decides to strike."
Victoria bit her lip, uncertain—exactly the hesitation Arthur had expected.
He let his "immature idea" fall into the air with flawless innocence.
"I heard the Admiralty plans to retire several small patrol vessels due to funding cuts," he said softly. "Obsolete for the Navy… but perfectly adequate against Dutch privateers."
Another measured pause.
"I thought… I might buy them. Personally. Then recruit retired Navy veterans. Form some kind of European Escort Fleet, dedicated to protecting the convoys of those smaller northern states."
Victoria's eyes widened.
"That's brilliant!" she exclaimed. "You'd use your own funds to buy old Navy ships and protect regions that would otherwise fall under Dutch aggression! Who could possibly object?"
Her excitement grew with every breath.
"I'll speak to the Admiralty myself! They'll give you the best ships for the lowest price!"
The motive was secured. Now he needed men—and weapons.
In the months that followed, Arthur carried on with his public duties, but once a week, without fail, he rode to the estate of the Duke of Wellington for private military instruction. The old marshal treated him like a real student, not a prince. He didn't just recount battles; he taught Arthur how to design them.
"Remember," Wellington said one afternoon, holding a percussion rifle, "victory doesn't go to the largest force. It goes to the best-organized. Ten trained men can break a hundred farmers with muskets."
Arthur nodded, absorbing every syllable.
"And logistics," the Duke continued. "Seventy percent of a war is decided before it begins. Boots, food, ammunition. Control logistics, and you control fate."
His modern mindset fused with Wellington's unforgiving discipline, creating something new and unsettlingly effective.
When Arthur "purchased" six Daredevil-class patrol ships, he immediately began shaping his own fleet. He oversaw recruitment personally, selecting three hundred elite veterans—well-paid, fiercely loyal, proud to "serve Prince Arthur Lionheart." Then came a brutal three-month training rotation.
Organization.
Discipline.
A chain of command sharpened like a blade.
Arthur applied Wellington's lessons with surgical precision, then enhanced the ships using expensive industrial designs he had gathered from his own workshops.
Rifled breech-loading cannons with interlocking screw mechanisms and early metal seals—technology only a few arsenals dared to test.
Auxiliary steam-propulsion modules: compact boilers driving retractable side propellers for tight maneuvers and storm control.
Advanced communications: arc lamps with prismatic lenses, a high-speed drum-code telegraph, and a primitive electric vibration transmitter for rapid short-range signals.
Improved mechanical systems: reinforced winches with adjustable friction joints, semi-automatic fire pumps, rudimentary gyroscopic stabilizers built on heavy flywheels, and more efficient boiler-cooling circuits.
The small fleet was becoming dangerously capable.
But a single, brutal question remained unanswered.
What were they supposed to do once they reached the northern coasts? The Baltic states had no idea who Arthur Lionheart was. They hadn't requested his help. They hadn't recognized him. And if three hundred armed British veterans suddenly sailed into their ports?
They might see him as an invader.
Or a pirate.
Or worse: a foreign destabilizer.
The cultural divide alone was massive.
The diplomatic one, nearly insurmountable.
"Damn it," Arthur muttered one night in his office, surrounded by documents and maps. "This whole identity as 'protector of the small European states' is a bloody trap."
For the first time, the political mask he'd crafted for himself began to feel like a scorching, impossible burden—
a **boiling hot potato** he had no idea how to drop.
---