It all started with England and his precious colony, America. Typical English pedantry, considering his part as if it were the entire thing. But that wasn't the whole, and there was more America beyond the frontier.
And the America France found was particularly useful to him.
There was water, wood, all types of ores. In short, there was a lot. And it was conveniently positioned right above the apple of the United Kingdom's eye.
Considering the context, the British invasion wasn't quite a shock for France. Those were the golden days of the island-nation, lest not forget, with his official and extra-official navy both unbeatable and a charming megalomania.
When France crossed the ocean, the scent of tea warned him. A pair of heavy leather boots upon the table, a red and golden coat barely touching the floor. And underneath the brim of a feathery hat, one green eye shone.
"Hello, dear."
"Frog." Maybe the smile seemed viler for the angle of the head. "Lovely place."
"Thank you. I thought your colony was south of here, no?"
And then he was on his feet, a sadistic grin sparkling in his eyes and the smell of gunpowder in the air.
Challenge accepted.
It is a kind of literary tradition to refer to battles through elaborate metaphors and comparisons to chess games.
There were no pieces on that field. Neither were there elaborate strategies. There was blood, fire and smoke. And in the midst of the cold uniforms and the mud, a bet. It wasn't chess, it was infinitely more interesting.
England smiled, the splashes of blood blending in with the red of his clothes and his skin. He smiled, teeth and tongue, twisted lips. France danced next to him, the steel shining crimson and the hair sticking to his skin. A crack of the neck, a twisted smirk.
"Tired?"
"I can go all century, frog."
It only took Seven Years, in the end.