While Oskar's train clattered north toward Danzig, he sat by the window, forehead against the cold glass, mind full of steel.
He imagined shipyards like cathedrals of iron:
Slipways as long as parade grounds.
Cranes moving like slow, patient giants.
Skeleton hulls rising from scaffolds.
Badass battleships sliding into the gray Baltic like predators.
In his head, an entire future fleet lined up across the horizon, a floating city of guns and armor.
In Berlin, in the Neues Palais, his father was thinking of ships too—but not with awe.
With anxiety.
Kaiser Wilhelm II sat alone in his study, With Crown Prince Wilhelm standing close by. The afternoon light was falling pale across the Kaiser's desk. Stacks of papers fanned out before him, each one a worry with ink on it.
The first pile: diplomacy.
Reports on the Entente Cordiale lay open, the English and French signatures like a slap.
Britain and France, enemies for centuries, now arm in arm.
Germany?
Germany had Austria-Hungary.
Italy was unreliable. The Netherlands quietly neutral. Sweden cautious. Russia—once a friendly cousin—had drifted away after the Kaiser chose to stand by Vienna in the Balkan mess.
He rubbed his temple.
Surrounded. Always surrounded.
Another pile: naval reports.
Charts comparing British and German tonnage. Gun calibers. Dockyard output.
The British saw his fleet as a challenge to their supremacy. Wilhelm saw it as a shield for German trade, and as the proper glory for a rising Empire.
He had never trusted Edward VII; the man smiled too easily.
And besides—was it a crime for Germany to build her own navy?
Had God written somewhere: "Thou shalt only let Britain rule the seas forever"?
Of course not.
Yet every new German battleship seemed to add one more line to a British complaint.
A third pile: the Russo–Japanese War.
So far, a disaster—for Russia.
Wilhelm flipped through the reports again. Japanese victories. Russian blunders. Lost ships, lost prestige. The Tsar's armies retreating instead of advancing.
The Kaiser had expected the Russians to perform poorly, but this…
If Russia collapsed in the Far East, what would they do next? Turn angry eyes back to Europe? Or inward, to revolution?
More uncertainties.
Then there were the colonial files—which he pushed aside with visible distaste.
German Southwest Africa.
A thick report on the war with that tribe—the Herero.
He skimmed the first page, then tossed it back down.
The colonies were supposed to bring riches, prestige, markets.
Instead they bled money and sent back complaints. Southwest Africa in particular was nothing but desert, trouble, and military bills.
Those weren't the lands that would decide Germany's fate. Europe would.
And to hold that, he needed ships. Battleships. Cruisers. Destroyers. Not sand and cattle halfway across the world.
Another stack, heavier, uglier: internal politics.
Social insurance expansions, accident insurance, industrial arbitration courts, laws limiting child labor, Sunday rest.
He had given the workers more than any monarch before him. He had helped forge the greatest industrial machine in Europe, turned Berlin into a cultural capital, made railways and chimneys and fortunes rise everywhere.
And still the Social Democrats wanted more.
They grew and grew, snapping at the heels of throne and altar alike.
He scowled and shoved the papers aside.
Let them be. He had no energy for their endless demands today.
A final folder offered more pleasant thoughts: dynasty.
Photographs of Crown Prince Wilhelm and his fiancée Duchess Cecilie of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. Notes on the engagement. Plans for a 1905 wedding. Names of attending royals, the placement of princely cousins, the prestige to be gained, the possible repair of relations with Russia through her Romanov mother.
He smiled faintly.
That, at least, was something solid. A good match. A beautiful girl. Strong family ties.
He looked up.
Crown Prince Wilhelm stood across the desk, back straight, uniform immaculate, a document in his hand.
The Kaiser studied him for a moment.
The boy really has grown, he thought. Twenty-two now. Almost a man. Almost ready to rule one day.
If only his character would grow with his age.
Wilhelm II tapped the folder with Cecilie's photograph.
"So, Wilhelm," he said, the tone almost conversational. "Have you been keeping in touch with your fiancée? You'll be married soon. It would be wise to nurture the bond. And you know my offer still stands—you may have her live here for a time, if you wish. It would be a good chance to get to know each other better before the wedding."
The Crown Prince's fingers tightened dangerously on the document he held.
He was reading—well, pretending to read—a report titled:
Royal Shipbuilding and Repair Yard – Transfer Proposal.
Every line of it made him feel sick, but even more he disliked the idea of marrying that giant of a woman.
He forced himself to look up.
"Well, Father," he said. "In truth, I must apologize. I've not written as often as etiquette might demand. She, however, cannot stop writing me—constantly asking about my day and all that I do."
There was acid under the polite words.
In truth, Cecilie was a beauty—on paper, and at a distance, and in photographs, yes. Graceful, youthful, glittering with the right bloodlines.
In reality…
In shoes, she stood taller than him.
He, the Crown Prince, could tolerate many things.
But marrying a woman who looked down at him—even half a head?
His pride howled every time they stood side by side.
He despised the feeling.
Wilhelm II raised an eyebrow.
"Well, isn't that good?" he asked. "She is beautiful and young. And her mother is a Romanov. Through this marriage, we may perhaps restore good relations with Russia. Her family is wealthy, prestigious, and clean by all accounts. There is simply no better match for you. By every measure, she is perfect. Is she not?"
Silence.
Crown Prince Wilhelm looked away, jaw tight.
The Kaiser's face darkened, and spoke, "I see so it is like that then. I had hoped not to bring this up, I hoped once you married her all would become well. But I see I must warn you now to forget your other private affairs."
Crown Prince Wilhelm looked up with shock at his father, as his father continued by saying sharply, "Do not play dumb with me, boy, I know of your… private affairs."
The Crown Prince went rigid.
"I know of this Miss Love," Wilhelm II continued coldly. "The woman you sneak around with like a student behind the stables. I know all about your little 'games' with her as well."
The Crown Prince went pale.
"N-no, Father, I—"
"Do not lie to me," Wilhelm said, voice icy. "Berlin is not so large that such gossip cannot reach my ears. You may call it a 'modern arrangement' or, as I heard my men describe it, a 'BDSM affair'—whips, ropes, and other such nonsense. An absolute disgrace."
Color flushed up the younger Wilhelm's neck, shame and fury mixed.
Wilhelm II watched him a moment longer, then exhaled and leaned back.
"When I was young," he said, tone softening a fraction, "I had my own mischief. I was not a saint. I know how young men behave. Curiosity is not a crime. Experience may even be… useful… one day in pleasing your wife."
He steepled his fingers.
"But if the public learned of this? If the newspapers printed your little adventures? Do you understand what that would do to your reputation? To our House? To your chances of marrying any respectable woman of high standing ever again?"
His gaze hardened.
"As your father—and as Emperor—I am warning you: cut your ties with this Miss Love. End it and stop it with your strange tastes and fantasies. You do not have the luxury to follow only your hearts darker desires. You are the Crown Prince. You marry for the good of the Empire. You sacrifice for the dynasty. That is the price of your position."
Wilhelm's chest felt tight.
He did not want to let Miss Love go.
In her company, he felt… powerful. Desired. Masculine. Not a puppet of ministers or a waxed figure on a balcony. She told him he was strong, exciting, a real man in bed, not some stiff court mannequin.
But he saw no mercy in his father's eyes.
"Yes, Father," he said at last, voice dull. "I understand."
"Good," Wilhelm II said. "You're fortunate it is only I who knows of this. If your mother did—"
He did not finish.
They both understood.
For a moment, the Crown Prince almost felt… relieved.
His father—who admired strong men, who had been a shameless flirt in his own youth—might even respect him a little for this.
Not officially, of course. Not in public. But privately, somewhere behind that mustache, perhaps a tick of approval.
It soothed his pride for half a heartbeat.
Then his gaze fell again to the folder in his hand.
Royal Shipbuilding and Repair Yard – Transfer Proposal.
His eyes narrowed.
Perhaps, now that his father had seen evidence of his "manliness," it was a good moment to speak boldly.
"Father," he said, straightening slightly. "There is another matter."
Wilhelm II looked up, cautious.
"Yes?"
The Crown Prince lifted the folder.
"Is this true," he asked, "that you have transferred the Royal Shipyard in Danzig to Oskar—for only fifty million marks? And lent him another one hundred and twenty million for expansion—without informing the rest of the family?"
Wilhelm II did not answer at once.
He looked past his son, toward the winter garden outside his window. Bare branches scratched faintly against the glass.
"And you also allowed him to repay the loan with battleships," Wilhelm pressed on, voice tightening. "This has never happened before. No prince has ever been granted such… reckless favor."
The Kaiser turned slowly.
"Favor?" he repeated, voice going cold. "That is what you call this?"
He walked around the desk, boots ringing on the polished floor.
"I call it initiative," he said. "Something you appear to lack."
The Crown Prince flinched.
"F-Father, I am only concerned for the family's assets," he protested. "Oskar is young. Unstable. If he fails, the royal name—"
"Enough! Who are you to call anyone unstable? You, sneaking around with a woman called Miss Love doing—ah, forget it." Wilhelm II barked.
The study seemed to shrink around them.
He snatched the folder from Wilhelm's hand and slapped it onto the desk so hard that the inkwell rattled.
"You come here, red-faced like a jealous schoolboy, because your brother shows unexpected talent," he said, voice razor sharp. "A Prince of Prussia—my son—behaving like a petty clerk jealous of another office worker."
His blue eyes narrowed.
"Oskar built a company from nothing. In months, he has brought more money into this house than you have in your entire adult life."
Wilhelm's lips trembled.
"Father… I merely wish to protect the royal assets," he tried again. "If Oskar succeeds, he may overshadow the—"
"The what?" Wilhelm II snapped. "Overshadow you?"
Silence.
The Kaiser leaned forward, voice dropping to a growl.
"Tell me, Crown Prince of the German Empire," he said, "if your first reaction to your brother's success is fear, then how do you intend to lead an Empire facing Britain, France, and Russia together?"
He began to pace, agitation flowing out of him in sharp movements.
"Look at Europe!" he barked. "France and Britain grow closer by the day. Russia watches from the east. The British fleet still dwarfs ours. The ring around Germany tightens every year."
He whirled back on Wilhelm and jabbed a finger at his chest.
"And instead of focusing on that, you fixate on your own brother like a jealous child."
The Crown Prince clenched his jaw and fist together behind his back, nails digging into his palm.
"I am not jealous," he said through his teeth. "I only wish the Empire to act with caution. Oskar's ventures are untested. His obsession with battleships and exercise—"
Wilhelm II slammed both hands flat on the desk.
"Oskar's obsessions will make Germany stronger… and give the Imperial Navy the ships it needs!" he thundered. "What have you given the Empire? A speech at your engagement party? A luncheon with the Bavarian envoy?"
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Oskar gives me solutions and cards I can play," he said. "You give me… appearances."
The words cut deeper than any whip.
Crown Prince Wilhelm felt something twist inside him—hurt, anger, humiliation.
All his life, he had been trained, polished, paraded as the future Emperor.
All his life, the best tutors had been assigned to him.
All his life, ministers had bowed to him as the next sovereign.
And now—
Oskar this. Oskar that.
Oskar's lottery.
Oskar's ships.
Oskar's "brilliance."
The newspapers called him "the people's prince."
The Navy had listened to him at the Christmas banquet.
Women whispered about his height and strength.
Even Father…
Even Father looked at him differently now.
"I see," the Crown Prince said quietly, lips trembling. "So that is how it is now."
He looked up, eyes cold.
"My younger brother becomes the favored son."
Wilhelm II froze.
"Do not misunderstand me," he said sharply. "You are still the Crown Prince. The throne will be yours. But for God's sake, Wilhelm—grow up. You cannot rule with a child's heart."
The crown Prince felt his hands tremble, teeth biting together, hands curled into fists behind his back hard enough that his knuckles cracked.
He forced himself to bow his head.
"…As you command, Father," he said tonelessly.
The Emperor exhaled, rubbing his forehead.
"I will explain this once," he said more softly. "The Danzig yard is a burden. It loses money every year. Selling it for fifty million marks is good business. The loan to Oskar? With interest. Every mark will return. If he fails, he loses. Not us."
He met his son's eyes.
"Understand this: if Oskar's ships sink, they will drag his fortune down—not ours."
A pause.
"And if he succeeds," the Kaiser continued, "the Navy will gain ships that could change the balance of power at sea."
Crown Prince Wilhelm nodded stiffly.
"Yes, Father," he said.
But inside?
He didn't hear a word.
All he heard was:
Oskar. Oskar. Oskar.
Favored. Trusted. Admired.
Loved.
He bowed and left.
The heavy doors closed behind him with a dull, final slam.
Outside, in the long marble corridor, he stopped.
His face, so carefully controlled in the study, twisted the moment he was alone.
"That damned Oskar," he hissed under his breath. "Ever since he 'changed', Father takes his side again and again."
He began pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, boots striking hard against the stone.
"If this continues… one day the people will forget their Crown Prince…"
He stopped by a window, fingers closing around the carved banister so tightly the wood creaked.
"…and remember only him."
His voice dropped to a whisper, low and venomous.
"I won't allow it."
His grip tightened until his knuckles went white.
"I won't let him steal what is mine."
Outside, winter lay frost-hard over Potsdam.
Inside, in the heart of the Neues Palais, the future of the Hohenzollerns had just cracked a little further—along a line named Oskar.