With the signing of the North American Peace Accord, conceived under the discreet wisdom of the *Guiding Party*, the final game Arthur Lionheart had long awaited at last unfolded.
The North American continent—once a single, dangerous possibility resting in the palm of his hand—was no longer capable of becoming a unified power.
From this moment onward, there would be three Americas.
Hostile to one another.
Restraining one another.
And, in differing degrees, **dependent upon the British Empire for survival**.
To the north, the Federal Government retained the name *United States of America*.
It possessed the strongest industrial base, yet had permanently lost the Southern raw-material markets and agricultural heartlands. Bound by technological licensing and privileged access to Commonwealth markets, it became—quietly but decisively—Britain's junior economic partner and technological outlet.
A follower state.
To the **south**, the newly recognized *Confederate States of America* preserved their cotton economy and slave system.
But at an immense cost.
Their diplomacy and defense were bound entirely to Britain's war chariot. The Royal Navy's "Combined Fleet" was their only shield. They resembled a carefully bred Merino sheep—well groomed, well fed, and valuable—yet shorn only when the owner deemed it convenient.
To the **southwest**, the Republic of Texas had prospered in silence.
Backed discreetly by Arthur alone, it had expanded into New Mexico during the conflict, doubling its territory. It now stood as Britain's most loyal continental anchor—its principal naval and military enforcer in the Gulf of Mexico.
As for **Mexico**, matters were worse still.
Though California remained nominally Mexican, the nation's railways, mines, and credit lifelines were wholly infiltrated by Arthur's capital. Mexico functioned, in truth, as an **economic colony**.
All accomplished without a single British regiment landing on American soil.
Through political pressure, financial leverage, and perfectly timed intervention, Arthur Lionheart had dismantled an entire future superpower into manageable components.
He regarded the differently colored territories on his map with the quiet satisfaction of a chess master.
For at least a century, no nation on earth would possess the scale necessary to challenge British global supremacy.
With North America settled, Arthur's days grew calmer—almost monotonous.
He accompanied Victoria through palace gardens, watched their three children grow, and governed his commercial empire and secret technological ventures from behind velvet curtains.
At times, he felt like a retired veteran.
Until a letter arrived from **St. Petersburg**.
Written in hurried, emotional script.
From **Princess Olga**.
--
The letter—addressed to "My dearest sister Victoria"—was a storm of frustration.
> *I am losing my mind.*
>
> *Father has arranged yet another marriage. This time to a German prince.*
>
> *I have met him once. He speaks only of beer, hunting boars, and himself. I would sooner marry the oldest bear in the Winter Palace.*
>
> *When I refused, Father confined me for a week. He says if I do not choose one of his "approved candidates" this year, he will marry me to a Cossack general.*
At the end, the plea:
> *Can you—and the omnipotent Prince—help me again? I refuse to marry a man I do not love.*
Victoria read the letter, half exasperated, half amused, and passed it to Arthur.
"This is entirely your fault," she said teasingly. "You filled her head with talk of free love and kindred souls the last time we were in Russia. Now no one is good enough."
Arthur raised his hands defensively.
"You were the one listening beside her. Don't shift blame."
He read the letter again, thoughtful.
In the original course of history, Olga's fate was tragic.
After rejecting countless suitors, she was politically pressured into marrying **King Charles I of Württemberg**—a man whose private inclinations were an open secret among Europe's courts.
She became queen.
And never knew love.
Arthur frowned.
"To waste a woman like that," he muttered, "is a crime against Providence."
Victoria tilted her head. "You sound unusually invested."
"As her honorary brother," he replied coolly, "I intend to intervene."
Arthur's mind moved swiftly through Europe's tangled genealogies.
"Archduke **Stephen of Austria**," he said at last. "Talented. Liberal-minded. Historically, he and Olga once shared… a spark."
They had met at a Viennese ball.
A rare instant of mutual fascination.
Perfectly matched in intellect, station, and temperament.
Even the Tsar had initially approved.
Until **Prince Metternich** intervened.
Fearing Russian influence in Hungary, Metternich fabricated objections—religion, bloodlines, imagined illnesses—until the Tsar withdrew his consent in fury.
The lovers were separated.
Stephen never married.
Arthur's lips curved dangerously.
"Metternich," he murmured, "you chose the wrong timeline."
Europe's balance of power had already shifted.
Prussia bent toward Britain.
Austria's influence waned.
Metternich now feared isolation more than Russian proximity.
"If," Arthur reasoned, "the Prince Consort of Britain were to offer Austria certain Balkan assurances… in exchange for enlightened flexibility regarding family marriages…"
He smiled.
Three empires—Britain, Austria, Russia—bound by blood.
Even France would hesitate.
"Perfect."
Victoria watched him thoughtfully. "You've decided something."
"My dear," Arthur said warmly, taking her hand, "don't you think Buckingham Palace has gone far too long without a proper youth celebration?"
"A celebration?"
"A **Royal Spring Garden Party**," he said lightly. "A full week. Dances. Riding. Hunts. Croquet. An opportunity for Europe's young royals to meet without pressure."
Her eyes brightened.
"Of course," he added casually, "we would naturally invite our troubled sister Olga."
"And," Victoria finished softly, "Archduke Stephen."
Arthur shrugged with theatrical innocence.
"I merely believe young people should talk more. Should love accidentally occur… well, that is God's affair."
Victoria laughed, shaking her head.
Only her Arthur could weave romance into geopolitics so effortlessly.
"Very well," she said, already imagining the rose gardens in bloom. "I'll write the invitations myself."
Arthur smiled.
Checkmate—by invitation.