King George the 3rd, born to this busy capital on the 4th day of June in the year 1738, increased his mother, the beautiful Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha, while his first speaking from his airs with gentle lullabies; as his father, the volatile Prince of Wales, Fredrick Louis, beamed with pride, he spoke his first crying airs that echoed down the halls of Norfolk House. The gold-fringed drapery and crimson hangings told of wonders to come for the little prince. Indeed, few would have suspected that this child's path to the throne would differ from that of the others.

As the baby's arrival was announced to the eager ears at court by the royal physician, an inexplicable weight seemed to fall upon baby George's soul. His tiny mind swirled with memories from a previous life of modern conveniences and cares forgotten.

Of course, he was no ordinary boy; he knew he came from the 21st century. The soft feel of silk, the smell of beeswax candles, or even the distant sound of horse-drawn carriages was never going to soothe this feeling of utter bewilderment. The tender clutches of his mother were alien yet reassuring at the same time. He could feel nothing but the contrast between the warmth of her love and the cold, plain truth: he was never to be here. "Your Royal Highness," cooed the midwife to the new baby, "you are really a king."

They cut through the cocoon of confusion that had wrapped itself around George. He blinked his eyes, trying to make sense of this world around him-foreign in every way. The faces leaned over him: his mother, his father-a mixture of joy and expectation, so real, one could almost touch it.

His mother, the delicate and beautiful Princess Augusta, smiled upon him with so much warmth and hope. His father, the boisterous Prince of Wales, Fredrick Louis himself, stared at him with such fierce determination that it seemed the weight of the world was upon his shoulders.

"You shall be named George William Frederick," boomed his father's voice, great and resonating, as it echoed through the room. "A name which shall ring out through history."

The words hung heavy with destiny in the air, while congratulations whirred around the room by courtiers-to the baby George, they meant nothing other than a cacophony of sounds. His mother, Princess Augusta, ever-graceful, held him against her with a light yet secure touch, anchoring him into this strange new reality. "May your reign be brilliant as the sun, Your Highness," one of the women favored, who was still staring on in wonder.

While other congratulations swarmed the room, George's tiny heart swelled in a medley of emotions; he knew he was not really a baby, yet here he lay, crying and squalling like one. His mother-the Queen-to-be-held him with firm gentleness, a look of joy and concern swimming in her eyes.

"Do not fret, my son," she whispered soft. "You are where you belong."

Ironically, her words now lingered in his mind-the soft push that he needed toward this new life. George heaved a deep sigh as his senses were greeted by birth into the 18th century: the soft rustling of silk, the warm candlelight glow, and the smell of fresh lilies wafting in the air. His crying was less frantic now, his brain slowly creeping in the realization of the truth of his being.

He was George William Frederick, the future King of Great Britain and Ireland, and so he did his duty. Everything George had ever known and loved was dead, and would be sorely missed for all eternity, but he also knew that nostalgia would get him nowhere but miserable in this cold, new world. He had only his mother's reassuring whispers and the warmth of her embracing arms to cling to. She rocked him as the Queen-to-be spoke in a soft yet commanding manner, seeming to soothe-if not the baby in her arms-then at least the jaded soul of the man that was.

"You must be brave, my sweet George," she whispered between sobs, her eyes shining with that hard, ruthless love which cut even through the veil of his terror. "You are born to reign, you shall."

The midwife, Lady Charlotte, nodded solemnly. "Indeed, Your Royal Highness, for he is a fighter-this one-born under the watchful eye of God, with a will to live that was meant to be.".

With these words from Lady Charlotte, as she spoke, the room fell silent, really weighing heavily upon the psyches of all those present. Slight was this baby's chance of living, and yet he breathed and cried so energetically. The priest was summoned, and in great rush, there were preparations for baptizing the baby. The air was thick with tension, and the candles seemed to dance in expectation, their flames flickering.

"The ordained rites will now be performed," the priest announced, his voice as steady as could be allowed by the air of urgency outside. "God willing, this child shall rise to the throne."

With the priest and his attendants busily preparing the improvised baptistery, the room was a scurry of activity. The odors of candle wax grew as more and more candles were lit to cast a holy light upon the scene.

Lying precariously there, suddenly a determination welled in George-he would not go now, not so soon; a chance to live a life of power and influence had been given to him, and he would clutch it with all the might in his body.

"Your Royal Highness," he started with his voice full of gravity and implore, "are you ready to receive the holy sacrament, having him reborn in the eyes of the Lord?

"I am," she replied with almost a shaking voice. The priest bowed his head and began uttering holy words binding George to his new life. Warm water washed over the small body of the baby, and George felt an odd sensation-he was being cleansed away, the very essence of his 21st-century self to be taken from him. The room fell silent but for the priest's soft chanting, the reverberations of the city outside.

"I baptize thee, George William Frederick, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," intoned the priest. As the water touched his forehead, a strange tingle, a feeling that across worlds a bridge had been crossed came upon George. This tiny little body, so small, so new into this time, strongly imbued with the ancient power of a legacy reaching back centuries in time, made his mother seek reassurance in his eyes. "Welcome to your new world, my son," she whispered, her tone hopeful yet reflecting a deeply cared-for concern.

The faces around him blurred together in a meld of differentiation, yet some underlying sameness, with shock and awe mixed in their eyes. His father, the Prince of Wales, was the first to reach for him, firm hands extending to catch his fragile body.

"Thou art a very son of the House of Hanover," said he in a husky voice with emotion. "Thou shalt never turn thy back, not even on the Devil himself."

Other than the soft crackling of the fire dancing in the grate, it was a silent room. The words of his father weighed upon George as inside his will to survive started to grow strong. The eyes of the prince were searched for strength he knew was there.

"I will not fail," he told his mind, his voice silent, a promise as if, with those words, it faced the very room.

Days melted into weeks; George had grown stronger. His mind, though a racing mill of questions and thoughts from the 21st century, knew all too well that it had to cloak the real self. To his tutors, his precociousness was a marvel as he grasped concepts with an ease which belied his tender age. This speaking to oneself and understanding of multilingual languages by the child were unmatched, as much as was expected by a young prince besides an unappeared curiosity that had grown within him to devour books on governance, history, and science.

"Your Highness," his chief tutor, Mr. Waldegrave told him, his eyes shining with wonder, "your mind is quite unlike anyone I have ever known. Your thirst for knowledge is impressive indeed."

Young George's eyes left the page where the 21st-century words swirled in his mind. "Thank you, Mr. Waldegrave. I find these subjects familiar." The gray-fringed eyebrows lifted, the graying locks of his head bobbing slightly in a nod. "Indeed, Your Highness. It would appear you bring with you a certain knowledge of times yet to come."

George nodded solemnly, his mind whisked away by memories of the life he had lived. He had watched base decisions made by the leaders, wars that could have been avoided, and lives that could have been saved; watched as revolutions were born and empires fell. King George, the original, had made his fair share of mistakes, and George was determined not to repeat them. ​He studied this with an ardent zeal, alike impelled by the instinct of self-preservation and by a nascent ambition of just and enlightened government.

Mr. Waldegrave was in the midst of explaining some particular nicety in parliamentary law when a knock at the door broke the hush. He opened it and allowed a choleric-looking man, with bright blue eyes, into the room. He was dressed like a scholar, but his bearing spoke of a man much more accustomed to giving orders than to taking them. The new tutor of George in the art of ruling, Francis Ayscough, had arrived.

"Your Royal Highness," said he, with a low obeisance, "I am Mr. Ayscough, sent by your Royal Grandfather to perfect your education."

George started and glanced up from his scroll, interest in the newcomer flickering for an instant. "I am already blessed with Mr. Waldegrave's tutelage," he replied civilly enough, though his gaze moved straight back to the parchment spread before him.

Mr. Ayscough drew towards the desk, running his eye with an inquiring glance over the young prince. "Your Royal Highness," he said, "I am charged with the wisdom of the ages, knowledge which shall mold in your mind the character of a king worthy of the crown."

With his mind churning, knowing full well that he would need every bit of help he could get in making his way through the treacherous politics of the 18th century. Without the ease of modern technology and information, he would have to rely on his own wit and what others would advise him.

"Very well, Mr. Ayscough," he said in a firm voice, but his brain raced. "I will listen to your teachings with an open mind."

Mr. Ayscough's stern expression slackened into a smiling face, though one which never reached his eyes. "Excellent, Your Highness. I am sure that Your Grace shall find my methods.. .illuminating."

Over the next few weeks, George's lessons grew decidedly interactive in delivery. Where Mr. Waldegrave was satisfied simply to lecture and ask questions, Mr. Ayscough set George to mock councils and state interchanges. At other times, he would pretend to be this or that historical figure in order to pressure George into rapid, unrehearsed thinking and application of the lessons learned.

"Your Royal Highness," Mr. Ayscough began, his voice deep and commanding as he took on the character of some French official, "Your Royal Navy has been spotted near rival shores. What is your response?"

George slumped back in his chair at the head of the makeshift council table and took his time to amass a response. The honeyed scent of the beeswax candles hung heavy in the air as their flickering light jumped across the tapestries hanging from the walls. So he had read about it in his books, but now he would have to live through such meetings.

"Your Royal Highness," Mr. Ayscough said, nudging him low of speech.

George took a deep breath and let his eyes pan across the imaginary, wild tangle of faces that sat for his advisors. "We shall deploy more vessels to monitor the situation," he answered strongly, his voice filled with confidence which had grown inside him. "But we shall not act without just cause. Diplomacy must be our first weapon."

Mr. Ayscough nodded; his eyes shone bright with approval. "Wise decision, Your Highness. Quite a lot is involved in the scale that weighs the balance of power in this world.

"Indeed," said George, whose mind was already full of plans, "We can send an envoy to speak about trade agreements or pledge military aid in case there is a common enemy. This may be the opportunity to strengthen our alliances."

Smiling, Mr. Ayscough extended into a grin. "A king who sought peace through conciliation and mutual benefit, an impressive end. Your Royal Highness makes your lineage proud."

"Many thanks, Mr. Ayscough," he said, an impish sparkle dancing in his eye, "but is it not important for a king to have strength of body as well as of mind?"

Mr. Ayscough looked up in his eyebrows to the wit of the child thus speaking: "Indeed, Your Highness, 'tis a quality in a King much to be wished for, though scarce ever taken notice of by many kings in the past."

"But I am not like other kings, Mr. Ayscough," George said, with a slight edge to his voice. "I would be a leading king, not exemplary only by decree."

Mr Ayscough's eyebrows shot up higher this time in surprise. "Physical training, Your Highness?

"Indeed," said George, an edge in his voice. "I want to be more than a figurehead. I want to be a king who can stand in battle alongside his soldiers, if need be."

Mr. Ayscough was surprised at this precocity and stared at him with amazement: "Your Royal Highness, training your body is a heavy exercise, not exactly adapted to a prince of such tender years."

"I know," said George, his eyes limpid and hard, "but I am not a prince like other princes. I would know how to lead myself, not merely by an edict."

Mr Ayscough had taken the time to digest what the prince had said, scanning the face of the young boy in front of him, searching for jest or folly. Finding nothing of the sort, he nodded slowly, "Very good, Your Highness. I will speak to His Majesty concerning arranging suitable tutelage in the martial and physical arts."

The tutor's face then turned grave, as if he moved away from some imaginary council table. "But remember, George William Frederick, a king, must be as quick on his feet in the ballroom as on the battlefield. Diplomacy is your sword, wit your shield, and wisdom the greatest weapon."

George nodded solemnly. "I won't forget, Mr. Ayscough." With the tutor starting to gather his things together, it wasn't as if George could help but not feel a little surge of anticipation toward the physical training ahead-something different from cold, endless reading and remembering that had comprised his days up to that point.

"Your Royal Highness," said Mr. Ayscough, his voice breaking into George's reverie, "our lesson is at an end. Tis time for you to take your noon meal with your illustrious family."

"Already, Mr. Ayscough?" George's eyes shone with the eagerness of his thoughts as he looked up from the chart they had been poring over.

"Certainly, Your Highness," Ayscough said, his tone reflecting a smile. "The mind must be fed as well as the body."

The outing to his parents' official residence, Kensington Palace, was indeed an affair of pomp and circumstance as George rode in a velvet-lined carriage, with the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harnesses on his guards.

It passed-the grandness of the countryside, in a blur of green and gold-but George couldn't help feeling a sense of detachment to any such beauty outside when the faces of the people he saw seemed in stark contrast to anything beautiful of his time.

The aristocrats in powdered wigs and heavy makeup, the plain, mostly harsh features of common folk-they incited not a bit of attraction in him. A strong reminder that he was indeed in another era.

George then wrinkled his nose against the stink of it all.

Refuse-cobbled streets, whose building facades were worn and tired from a time long past, were simply not his style. Odors from the Thames filled the air, and the stink of rot was everywhere. All this was quite extreme compared with the gleaming towers and sanitized streets that were his life.

He had read about the unhygienic conditions of 18th-century London, but experiencing it himself drove it home.

The carriage rolled out into the town, passing by urchins and merchants calling for vendees. Cries of street hawkers and the laughter of their betters mingled with the coughs of the diseased and wails of the poor. Classes stood in great contrast to one another, an all-too-real testament to the monumental tasks facing him. He almost pitied these people, who had to stay amidst all this filth.

Before him loomed the palace gates, and George's heart filled with some sort of determination. This was his new world, and he would do nothing but stand idle while his subjects starve. It wasn't going to be easy to bring about change, but he was a king born of two eras, having that uniqueness that could shape the future of his nation.

Coming out of the carriage, suddenly the weight of his promise to himself and his people weighed itself on his young shoulders. As he entered the great hall in Kensington Palace, George got a hug from his mother, the Queen-to-be, and the firm handshake of his father, the Prince of Wales. The grandeur of it all meant little as he scanned the faces of his relations, each of whom wore an expression of curiosity with a dash of concern. The chandeliers above cast their soft heat upon the assembled nobility; the nobles' jewels and finery glittered in reflected candlelight.

"Your Royal Highness," returned his mother, her eyes sparkling with pride. "The tutors speak highly of your progress.

"Thank you, Mother," George returned, his face bent to conceal the rising tumult of his mind. "Mr. Ayscough especially has been very instructive."

"Indeed," his father, the Prince of Wales interrupted, his eyes keen in the regard which passed between him and his son. "Your education is of the essence, George. You are to reign one day and should be ready to do so." It seemed the words would stay there, a warning of things to come. The weight of his birthright was crushing in-the heavy crown which had not found its place upon his head yet. A birthright born of privilege, born while his people suffered.

The richness of the palace contrasted with the squalor outside the walls, while the idea of the Slave Trade was such a heinous practice that he knew his future self had to abolish it-a festering sore in the fabric of his new nation.

He took a moment to collect himself, pushing off the anger and disgust threatening to rise in his belly; he knew well he couldn't afford clouding his judgment with emotions.

He faced his mother instead, her eyes brimming with quiet strength that somehow seemed to bolster him. "Mother," he said with a voice full of innocence and at once firm, "I want to know much about the state of our country."

The Queen-to-be exchanged a look with her husband that spoke volumes before turning to her son. "Our country is large and prosperous, George," she said, shining with a soft kind of pride. "Yet it is also a place of great need and challenge. There are many who live in less than ideal conditions."

The prince took a mouthful of roast pheasant, his 21st-century conscience screaming at what glistened beyond the palace walls. In his books on world history, he had read about the Slave Trade, but now it was much more tangible and awful, real-life stuff.

"Your Royal Highness," his mother began, proud yet with an apprehensive glint in her eyes, "is already beginning to show a great interest in how his future kingdom should be run. A quality that will serve him well." He nodded solemnly and pushed his plate away; food did not have any attraction anymore as his mind was filled with the sufferings of his people.

"When shall I be grown up enough to change the world?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Patience, my son," his father counseled, his eyes all afire with the same burning just like his son. "The way to kingship is a long, circuitous one and is one that must be traveled with finesse."

The conversation now flowed to easier subjects; the clinking of utensils and grunts of politeness echoed within the great hall. ​Still, George's mind turned to the plight of his future subjects, the knowledge of the role that is his to play—to lead, and to see that justice and prosperity fall upon those who look up to the crown.​

Dinner ended, and the adults went on to whatever business was to be attended to; George broke free, eager for the huge corridors of Kensington Palace. Larger-than-life mythical and historical scenes had been inwoven into tapestries whose brilliant colors now seemed to clash bright red against the gray that had taken residence in his heart.

The opulent chambers he wandered through, from one to the next, were explosions of gold and fine furnishings against the stark reality outside. This excess—money wasted, better utilized to uplift the lives of his people—made the 21st-century mind shudder within him.

Yet, he knew well that he was but a guest in times such as these—a future king saddled with his own destiny. Every step he took into the corridors dissolved into silence, except for the echoes of his feet on the cold marble flooring within the huge emptiness.

Each window he walked past presented him with visions of sprawling gardens—viewpoints of lush green in and amongst the dust and grime of city streets. These instants of solitude were when he permitted himself to miss his old life, his friends, his family.

The weight of his new existence weighed upon him, always standing in constant reminder that he was an outsider in a world both foreign and yet so alike.