The second day of the Royal Spring Garden Party unveiled its true centerpiece.
Upon the vast emerald lawns stretching beyond **Windsor Castle**, beneath a sky polished blue by spring winds, the aristocracy gathered for a spectacle as old as empire itself.
The royal polo match.
Called the "King of Sports," polo was no mere diversion. It was a crucible—of horsemanship, strength, nerve, and, above all, hierarchy. And Arthur Lionheart had selected it with deliberate precision.
He did not believe in idle ceremonies. He believed in exposure.
Let princes sweat. Let them clash. Let their polish crack beneath hooves and sun. In sport, as in politics, true character surfaced only when blood ran hot.
Arthur rode onto the field dressed in immaculate white riding attire, astride his magnificent black Arabian thoroughbred, *Phantom*. Horse and rider moved as a single silhouette—controlled power wrapped in elegance. He looked less like a host and more like a conqueror granting others the illusion of competition.
Across the field assembled the other contenders.
The Russian Tsarevich, Alexander—tall, broad-shouldered, iron-blooded—sat firmly upon his Don stallion, confidence carved into his features.
Young Friedrich of Prussia, forced since childhood into martial discipline by his severe father Wilhelm, rode with determined rigidity. He lacked brilliance but not stubborn pride.
And then there was Archduke Stephan of Austria.
Stephan's seat was flawless, his posture aristocratically restrained, yet his gaze wandered—again and again—to the ladies' pavilion erected in pale silk and gold at the edge of the field.
There, dressed in soft spring green, stood Princess Olga.
She appeared serene, ethereal even, conversing lightly with companions. Yet her emerald eyes betrayed her. They drifted—briefly, guiltily—to a white-clad rider across the field before retreating like a startled fawn.
Arthur Lionheart noticed everything.
He always did.
*Good,* he thought. *Last night's little "misunderstanding" has borne fruit.*
A whistle cut through the air.
The match began.
---
### The Game of Princes
The players divided into Red and Blue.
As host, Arthur assumed captaincy of the Blue team. His gaze swept over the field with strategic calculation before he beckoned both Friedrich and Stephan to his side.
Across from them, Tsarevich Alexander led the Red team, flanked by Prince Ferdinand of Portugal and several minor German royals eager to prove relevance.
What followed was less a match of sport and more a theatre of veiled diplomacy.
Hooves thundered.
Arthur struck first, seizing the white ball with effortless precision.
Applause rose from the sidelines.
But instead of charging forward to claim glory, Arthur's eyes flickered—toward the pavilion.
Opportunity, he believed, was rarely discovered. It was engineered.
With a sudden pivot, he delivered a long, perfect pass—straight to Stephan.
The Archduke startled, then reacted on instinct. A clean strike.
Goal.
Before the field erupted, a cry rang out from the pavilion.
Olga had risen to her feet.
"Bravo!"
The word escaped her before discretion could intervene.
Color flooded her cheeks as she realized her error. The goal had not been her brother's.
Queen Victoria, seated beside her, did not miss the moment.
Victoria, radiant in pale lavender silk, watched the field with sparkling amusement. Unlike many sovereigns, she did not merely observe events—she enjoyed them.
She leaned toward Olga, her voice a playful whisper.
"My dear Olga… were you cheering for your brother's most excellent adversary?"
"I—no! I only thought the shot was well executed!"
Victoria's lips curved knowingly. "Of course. Women are so admirably consistent in denying what their eyes confess."
She sipped her tea, smiling to herself.
Arthur, across the field, caught a glimpse of her laughter. For a fleeting moment, the iron strategist softened.
He loved that sound.
For empire, he was merciless.
For Victoria, he could afford indulgence.
---
### Calculated Chaos
From that moment forward, Arthur transformed into something far more dangerous than a competitor.
He became an architect.
Each advance seemed spontaneous, yet every movement bent the field toward a single purpose: elevate Stephan.
A feigned miscalculation sent the ball conveniently free before the Archduke.
A dazzling backhand pass dismantled the Red defense.
When Alexander rode hard to intercept, Arthur blocked him with impeccable legality—horse to horse, shoulder to shoulder.
"Lionheart! Move!" Alexander barked in frustration.
Arthur's expression remained serenely innocent.
"My dear Alexander. It is polo. Physical contact is… unavoidable."
Alexander found himself stalled again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth goal, the crowd no longer murmured—they roared.
By the fifth, Stephan had become the hero of the afternoon.
Each time he scored, Olga's applause rang clearer than any other voice.
Her eyes shone—not for her brother's valor—but for the quiet Archduke bathed in sunlight.
Politics was often conducted in shadow.
Today, it unfolded beneath open sky.
The Blue team claimed a decisive victory.
---
### Aftermath
The princes dismounted, breathless and sweat-soaked.
Arthur alone appeared composed, adjusting his gloves with calm satisfaction.
He approached Stephan, who still flushed with triumph.
"Well, Archduke," Arthur said smoothly, placing a firm hand upon his shoulder, "victory suits you."
Stephan laughed, exhilarated. "Your Highness, I have never felt such—such certainty."
"Confidence," Arthur corrected. "It is intoxicating."
His gaze drifted toward the pavilion where Victoria now stood, sunlight framing her like a coronation halo. She caught his eye and offered a subtle, mischievous smile—fully aware of the game he had orchestrated.
Arthur's answering look held warmth no courtier would ever witness in council chambers.
For her, he would conquer kingdoms.
For her laughter, he would move nations like chess pieces.
He turned back to Stephan, voice lowering.
"This was merely sport," Arthur said. "The next match awaiting you… will determine far more than applause."
Stephan blinked, puzzled.
Arthur Lionheart smiled—a strategist's smile.
On this field, he had not merely won a game.
He had advanced a future alliance.
And in matters of empire, sentiment was never separate from power—only dressed more beautifully.