Just as the **First Family Cold War** entered its fourth day—and showed no sign of de-escalation—Lord Melbourne, Prime Minister of the Empire, concluded that continued neutrality was no longer an option.
What appeared to be a private marital quarrel had begun to interfere, quite seriously, with the machinery of government.
At the Cabinet meeting the previous morning, the Chancellor of the Exchequer had cautiously raised the issue of the *annual budget for the expansion of the Royal Women's College*, hoping Her Majesty might give it her approval.
She did not even look at the document.
Her Majesty dismissed the proposal outright, her expression icy.
Her exact words were recorded—unfortunately—by several witnesses:
"Expand what college? Why should girls study so much? Do they all plan to become engineers building armor plating? Do they all think they are another Ada?"
The remark—steeped in personal irritation and unmistakable bias—left the Chancellor speechless and sent a visible shiver through the Whig ministers present, many of whom were outspoken supporters of women's education.
They all knew the truth.
The Queen was not rejecting the budget.
She was attacking—at a distance—a certain *disobedient* prince.
Upon hearing this report, Lord Melbourne felt a familiar throb behind his temples.
Thus, the venerable Prime Minister—armed with decades of political survival and a lifetime of crisis management—resigned himself to an unusual duty: *marital mediation in the interest of the Empire*.
Under the pretext of "urgent state affairs," he first sought an audience with the Queen.
"Your Majesty," Melbourne said gravely, "your decision yesterday regarding the Women's College budget has caused considerable reaction in Parliament."
"Hmph. And?" Victoria sat alone at her desk, absently drawing furious circles on a sheet of paper. Upon closer inspection, the sketch depicted a small figure in a formal coat being ruthlessly trampled by a figure in a dress.
"I simply believe girls don't need to learn all that useless nonsense. Dressing well, dancing properly, and speaking a little French is more than sufficient."
Melbourne immediately understood.
He sighed inwardly and began the careful work of diplomacy.
"Your Majesty, your position is—naturally—reasonable. Raising an elegant princess is a royal tradition and a sacred maternal duty."
He paused, then gently shifted his tone.
"But have you considered that Princess Vicky is not *only* a princess?"
"She is also Prince Arthur's first child," he continued. "Do you truly believe a girl with such extraordinary intellect would be content to count dresses for the rest of her life?"
Victoria's pen halted mid-stroke.
"And furthermore," Melbourne pressed on softly, "the things His Highness teaches her—though admittedly… rather unfeminine—are meant to help her understand the world she lives in and protect herself within it. Is that not another, deeper form of love? He is simply… not gifted at expressing it."
Silence.
The Queen did not respond—but the storm in her eyes eased, just a little.
Having stabilized one front, Melbourne proceeded at once to the Prince Consort's study.
Inside, he found Arthur Lionheart staring bleakly at a stack of mechanical blueprints he clearly had no interest in understanding at that moment.
"Your Highness," Melbourne asked cautiously, "are you… encountering difficulties?"
"Don't ask," Arthur replied flatly, waving a hand.
"I would rather recalibrate a malfunctioning difference engine than argue with a woman in a maternal rage."
Melbourne laughed despite himself.
Then his expression turned serious.
"Your Highness, I understand your intentions. You wish to raise Princess Vicky into a woman of vision and strength—much like yourself. That is admirable."
"But you must also understand the Queen."
"She is a mother first. And what mother does not wish her daughter a carefree, cherished life? From her perspective, you are filling her child's world with war, strategy, and power—stealing a childhood meant to be light."
Melbourne leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"And do not forget—she is still very young. While you stride across Europe shaping history, she remains here, buried in documents and nurseries. A sense of imbalance is… inevitable."
"She is not truly opposing your philosophy," he finished gently.
"She merely wants your attention. Your reassurance. Your indulgence."
Arthur froze.
The words struck harder than any argument.
He had considered empires, futures, legacies.
He had forgotten something far simpler.
That very afternoon, after seeing the Prime Minister off, Arthur acted.
He did not argue.
He did not explain.
He did not apologize with words.
He walked—personally—into the Royal Kitchen.
Under the stunned gazes of the palace chefs, Prince Arthur Lionheart rolled up his sleeves and baked a tray of **Portuguese egg tarts**—the Queen's favorite indulgence, and one he normally forbade on grounds of "excessive calories."
When the plate of golden, fragrant pastries was carried before Victoria, the familiar scent shattered her composure.
Her eyes reddened instantly.
She turned away, huffing.
"Hmph! Who wants something *you* made? It's far too sweet—take it away!"
Arthur smiled, lifted one still warm, and brought it gently to her lips.
"If you don't eat it," he said lightly, "I'll give them all to Dash."
That did it.
Victoria's resolve collapsed.
She bit down—angrily.
Crisp shell.
Silken custard.
Perfect sweetness.
*That hateful man… even his egg tarts are unforgivable.*
Arthur offered another.
She hmphed—and accepted.
The entire plate vanished.
Afterward, she wiped her mouth, maintained a stern expression, and left without a word.
Arthur smiled.
The war was over. Only pride remained.
That night, Arthur took his pillow and blanket, prepared once again for exile to the study sofa.
Just as he reached the bedchamber door, it creaked open—barely.
Victoria's flushed face appeared.
She did not look at him.
"…Hey."
"Yes?" Arthur replied innocently.
"The sofa… is too hard." Her voice was barely audible.
"Sleeping on it too long… isn't good for you."
She gathered her courage, looked up with reddened eyes, and snapped:
"You idiot. Absolute scoundrel."
"Do I really have to invite you myself?"
"…I'm scared sleeping alone."
She vanished inside, leaving the door ajar.
Arthur dropped the bedding, smiling helplessly.
And followed her in.