Chapter 147: Chapter 133: The Death of a King

London, Great Britain
December 1st, 1810

"Where is Amelia? Where is she?"

"Your Majesty, she is fine and well."

"Then I demand to see her!"

The royal attendant swallowed nervously, "I'm afraid she is still... secluded. But rest assured, Your Majesty, you will see her when the time comes."

King George III, the reigning monarch of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, babbled as if he did not hear his attendant's voice, "Why must this happen? What happened?"

Nearby, the Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne, watched his father's dementia flare up with a grimace, "Will he get better?"

"I do not know, Your Royal Highness," The attendant replied quietly, "But his... actions have been worsening recently. One of the attendants let it slip that Princess Amelia has passed. Since then, His Majesty has been acting more and more irrationally."

"Where is that damned Minister North? I will have his head for losing to... that Hun in Boston! Kill Burygone! Kill Howe!"

"Leave us alone, for a few minutes," The Prince Regent commanded.

Once he and the king were alone, the younger George sat by his father’s bedside and tried to calm him down, “Father...”

“I have lost my realm. I have lost my child. I have lost everything!” The insane king shouted, “What will my father think of me? I must take them back! All of them!”

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“I will try.”

King George turned his head to his son and let out a manically laugh, “Oh you fool! Do you not realize, it is a threat. It will rip the remainders of our realm. They will cast us out and dethrone us! Those damn Yankees! Oh yes, they smile and jest but they are plotting against us!”

The Prince Regent knew that ever since the Despard Plot rocked Britain, the king had been both in pain and insane. And after his sister passed, his father had “jumped off a cliff,” so to speak. He had only awakened from his coma three months ago, but the king’s condition had only worsened since then. The prince was aware that his father did not have much time left and that soon, he would be crowned king.

It was all because of the damn Yankees. It was because of them that his father had turned into a blubbering, insane man. And the Irish too. Once he was king, they would pay. It would take years, if not decades. But once the preparations were made, both would pay.

“Rockingham! Where is Rockingham?”

“He’s dead, father.”

The British monarch turned and stared at his son’s face, “Hello father! It seems you are looking much younger. Do not worry, you will rule for a hundred more years!”

With a surprised look, the King suddenly collapsed onto his bed and gasped, “It can not be!”

“Father?” The Prince of Wales rushed to his father’s side and grasped his hands, “Father, are you alright?”

As if the haze cleared just for a single moment, King George III looked deeply into his issue’s eyes and let out a breath, “Do not let them win. I was a fool to be deceived.”

And King George III, the man who had lost the entirety of North America to a group of rebels, drew his last breath and died in the hands of his son.

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