Wilhelm II set the folded cheque down on his desk and looked at his eldest son.
His expression gave nothing away, but inside he felt a familiar disappointment.
As Crown Prince of the German Empire, Wilhelm's heart was too narrow, his temper too quick. If he could not even bear the existence of a successful younger brother, how was he supposed to bear the weight of parties, parliaments, generals, and a continent full of enemies?
Across from the Emperor, Essen von Jonarett stood very still, hands clasped, saying nothing.
The Crown Prince broke the silence first.
"Father," he said, trying to sound calm, "I still believe my suggestion is reasonable. Oskar's company is earning absurd sums. If those funds were placed directly under the royal household, they could be better employed for the Empire's needs. My brother does not require such wealth."
Before Wilhelm II could reply, Essen's son—Karl von Jonarett—stepped in, pale but determined.
"Your Majesty," Karl said, "I… also hold twenty percent of the shares in His Highness's company, and I receive ten percent of the profits." He swallowed. "If needed, I am willing to donate my share of profits to the royal family, free of charge."
Giving up that income made his heart bleed—but it was better than becoming an enemy of the throne. Better to prove loyalty now than be crushed later.
Essen's jaw tightened. He knew his son's generosity was forced by the Crown Prince's jealousy, and it made him resent Wilhelm even more.
Wilhelm II raised a hand.
"Enough," he said.
He let his gaze rest on the Crown Prince for a long moment before turning it to Essen and Karl.
"Essen, Oskar, and you, Karl, are already offering twenty percent of the company's profits to the royal house. That is more than most would give." He tapped the cheque with one finger. "This is their property. As the exemplar of the nation, the royal family cannot be seen simply seizing the wealth of its own children and servants."
He paused, then allowed himself a faint smile.
"However, since Oskar shows such… inventive filial piety, I will accept the twenty percent."
It would have been a lie to say he wasn't tempted.
An annual sum of fifty million marks—enough to pay for an extra battleship each year—falling into his lap out of nowhere was not something any emperor would ignore.
But he had no wish to be known as a man who robbed his sons for cash. Better to appear noble and let the money come as a "donation."
"Your Majesty is wise," Essen said quickly, bowing his head.
The Crown Prince's face flushed, then paled. The rebuke was soft, but the meaning was clear: his father did not approve of his greed.
It stung.
In his own mind, Crown Prince Wilhelm still believed he was right.
Oskar was a prince who could barely finish a sentence without saying "my man," who had called the Naval Academy "garbage," and who frightened the servants with the smell of a ditch. How could such a man be trusted with a fortune equal to that of serious industrialists?
The Crown Prince, on the other hand, was the future Emperor of Germany and sorely in need of funds. If Oskar knew his place, he should donate everything to the royal house and its heir.
But Wilhelm dared not say any of that aloud. Not now. Not when his father's patience had already thinned.
Too much open aggression toward his brother would only deepen Wilhelm II's displeasure.
Essen cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty," he said, "His Royal Highness Prince Oskar is concerned that, seeing the profits of the German Welfare Lottery Company, certain… greedy individuals will try every means to wrest control of it. He therefore hopes Your Majesty might grant him some protection."
Wilhelm II leaned back in his chair.
He knew the character of German capitalists all too well—iron magnates, steel barons, bankers in Frankfurt and Hamburg. When the scent of profit was strong enough, claws came out.
"Well then," Wilhelm II said slowly, "for once, that son of mine is thinking ahead."
He chuckled.
"Clever little fellow. Does not share so much profit for nothing. But if this money allows us to build one more battleship a year…" He smiled properly now. "Then yes. The royal house will step in. Those who seek to meddle with the Deutsche Wohlfahrtslotterie will find they are also meddling with me."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Essen said with visible relief.
If the Emperor put even a fraction of his prestige behind Oskar's company, many hungry eyes would suddenly look elsewhere. The capitalists might be bold, but they were not suicidal.
"Essen," Wilhelm II added, "send word to Oskar. Tell him: this year, he is not permitted to fall ill conveniently before the Christmas banquet. He will attend. And remind him to bathe. And to wear proper clothes. He has given our Empire a… profitable toy. That does not mean I trust him to make a cup of coffee."
There was amusement in his voice, but also a hint of warmth.
His view of Oskar had changed dramatically in a matter of weeks.
Once, he had considered Oskar a half-mad, possibly brain-damaged boy who climbed trees, stank of sweat, and vanished to swim in lakes at night. Now he was forced to admit that his strange son had an extraordinary talent for pulling money out of the pockets of the masses—and then handing a share of it to the Crown.
It was, in its own way, a form of loyalty. And Queen Victoria had always preached unity among their scattered royal kin.
As for the harsh words he had spoken to Oskar in the past, Wilhelm II chose to forget them. He still did not trust Oskar with serious responsibilities of state—but as long as the boy kept earning money and not starting wars, he was content to let him fly where he wished.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Essen said. He was privately very pleased. Karl's future—and his own—were now tied irrevocably to Oskar, and the Emperor's shifting favor meant protection.
Crown Prince Wilhelm's expression darkened further.
He did not believe Oskar threatened his right to the throne—succession in modern Europe was stable unless the heir died or disgraced himself—but something in him bristled.
It was bad enough that his younger brother had grown suddenly taller and more muscular; now Oskar also commanded a river of money. The Crown Prince did not like the idea of any of his brothers outshining him, even in business.
And that bizarre phrase in the corridor earlier—
"A mouse with a fork…"
What in God's name had that been supposed to mean?
He tried to laugh it off. But something uncomfortable had lodged in his chest: not fear, not yet, but the first sour taste of rivalry.
Within days, discreet announcements were made:
The Deutsche Wohlfahrtslotterie was recognized as having royal protection. In more private circles, it was understood that the company was effectively under the wing of the House of Hohenzollern.
The impact was immediate.
Financiers, industrialists, and speculators who had been eyeing the lottery as a juicy acquisition discreetly changed the subject. For all its profitability, openly challenging a business tied to the Emperor himself would be an act of monumental stupidity.
No one wanted to risk losing their factories, their banks—or their titles—for a handful of lottery offices.
The next morning, back in Berlin, Oskar received the news while lying in bed.
An older maid bustled into his room without knocking, muttering about trays and laundry and "where is that girl Tanya now?"
Oskar pulled the blankets a little higher.
Underneath them, Tanya was not exactly hiding—more like deeply asleep, using his arm as a pillow after what Oskar, in his head, called "night training."
He shrugged innocently at the maid.
She harrumphed, picked up a tray, and left without noticing anything.
Oskar let out a slow breath of relief.
Crisis one: secret relationship – contained.
Crisis two: capitalists – deflected by imperial decree.
For the first time, he felt like the battlefield around him was relatively quiet.
He could finally breathe… and think.
He began shifting the company's day-to-day operations more fully onto Karl's shoulders. Karl handled meetings, ledgers, staff, distributors, legal matters—the whole machine.
Oskar, meanwhile, locked himself in his room for long stretches, emerging only for food, Tanya, and occasional workouts.
He had other fronts to fight on now:
planning a future battleship,
and trying to hammer proper German into his stubborn brain.
Tanya helped with both: evenings of slow conversation and word practice, mornings of her gently correcting his grammar while he muttered phrases like "I must not say 'my man' to ministers."
After arriving in this world, Oskar's first instinct had been to study armies and wars. Now, with money in hand and time temporarily secured, he turned his attention back to ships.
As a military enthusiast in his previous life, he had collected every kind of war machine—if not in his room, then in his games:
tanks,
aircraft,
battleships,
aircraft carriers,
and even spaceships in sci-fi.
Most of that lay far in the future. But battleships… battleships were now.
In this era, battleships were the queens of the sea, much as aircraft carriers would be later. Only a few nations could build them at all. Among those, Britain and Germany stood at the top.
He spread papers over his desk and muttered to himself.
"By the timeline… the British Dreadnought design should already be in someone's drawer," he said. "Next year they'll approve her. After that, one year or so to build. Once she's commissioned, the old battleships will all be scrap in principle. The whole category will be renamed in her image."
He tapped a pencil against notes listing the existing German fleet:
four Brandenburg-class battleships,
five of the Kaiser Friedrich III class,
five of the Wittelsbach class,
five of the newer Braunschweig/Deutschland types.
On paper, impressive.
In the shadow of a Dreadnought, all of them would be second-rate.
"If I let the timeline run exactly as before," he thought, "we will always be one step behind. The British will define the standard—and we will react."
He smiled slowly.
"Not this time, my man," he murmured, in English. "This time, we aim first."
He bent over his notes again.
Outside, the Empire went about its business, unaware that one strange prince, his overworked dwarf partner, and a maid who'd taught him how to turn on a shower were quietly planning to change the course of naval history.