At the heart of the German Empire, in the gardens of the royal palace at Potsdam, Oskar found himself enduring yet another lecture from his father.
Wilhelm II paced before him, voice rising and falling with every accusation of irresponsibility, recklessness, and astonishing immaturity. The Empress sat nearby, attempting whenever possible to soften her husband's anger, though even she appeared uncertain how to defend her son this time.
Fortunately, the confrontation was taking place beside the lake rather than inside the palace. The Royal Guard and the Eternal Guard had quietly cleared the surrounding paths, ensuring that no servant, courtier, or curious visitor came close enough to overhear.
The source of the Kaiser's fury was obvious.
Oskar had brought another woman into his household.
Worse, that woman was Cecilie, the wife of his deranged eldest brother.
Nothing had been announced publicly, and the palace made every effort to preserve appearances, but no one within the imperial family was foolish enough to misunderstand the situation. Cecilie was living in Oskar's wing, sleeping beneath his roof, and had recently given birth to a daughter whose parentage required very little imagination.
Oskar admitted that his earlier encounters with her had been impulsive. He even conceded that sleeping with his brother's wife had been morally questionable, particularly when the consequences had resulted in a child.
In his defence, however, he explained that Cecilie had been frightened, lonely, and desperate. She had thrown herself into his arms, and he—being young, male, and regrettably susceptible to his most basic instincts—had responded accordingly.
This explanation did not calm the Kaiser.
It made him considerably angrier.
Wilhelm stopped pacing long enough to stare at his son as though wondering whether twenty-one years of fatherhood had been some elaborate punishment devised by Providence.
The Empress nearly fainted.
She lowered herself quickly onto a bench and ordered a servant to bring bread. When it arrived, she began tearing it into pieces and throwing them toward the ducks, apparently deciding that feeding waterfowl was preferable to listening to any further details of her son's intimate reasoning.
The ducks descended upon the bread with savage enthusiasm, fighting over every piece like fashionable women competing for a limited-edition handbag.
Wilhelm muttered darkly beneath his breath.
"What am I supposed to do with you?"
Oskar lowered his head.
He did feel guilty. He understood the humiliation the arrangement caused his parents and the complications it created for the Crown. Yet guilt did not mean he was willing to cast Cecilie aside.
She had nowhere else to go.
Her own family had effectively abandoned her after she chose Oskar over them. Her relatives remained politically suspect, blacklisted, and under permanent surveillance because of their continued attachment to the former Crown Prince and their hostility toward Oskar's rise.
Cecilie had therefore been forced to choose.
She could remain loyal to a family still clinging to a violent and unstable husband who had nearly destroyed her, or she could accept the protection Oskar offered her and her children.
She had chosen Oskar.
Whatever mistakes had brought them to that point, he would not punish her now by sending her away.
The argument might have continued indefinitely had movement at the far end of the garden not interrupted it.
A palace servant approached one of the Royal Guards and handed him a sealed message. The guard inspected it, exchanged a few quiet words with the servant, and then crossed the lawn toward the imperial family.
He bowed before Wilhelm and presented the letter.
"Your Majesty. Urgent news from London."
Wilhelm broke the seal.
As he read, the anger gradually disappeared from his face, replaced by something colder and more controlled.
King Edward VII was dead.
The news was hardly unbelievable. Edward had spent decades smoking heavily, eating richly, drinking generously, gambling freely, and conducting an energetic private life filled with women and indulgence. By the end, he had become corpulent, chronically unwell, and increasingly vulnerable to respiratory illness.
His death was therefore not entirely surprising.
Its consequences were another matter.
Edward had ruled the greatest empire in the world. The Royal Navy commanded the seas, British trade touched every continent, and the British Crown remained connected by blood to almost every major royal house in Europe.
He had also been family.
Edward was Wilhelm's maternal uncle, one of the last great figures of the generation shaped by Queen Victoria.
By evening, newspapers across Germany had received the news. Their editions offered conflicting accounts of his final illness—bronchitis, pneumonia, lung infection, and a heart that had finally surrendered after years of strain.
The precise medical explanation mattered little.
A king had died, and Europe had shifted beneath the weight of his absence.
Oskar had expected it.
The timing matched what he remembered from his previous life, history repeating itself with the same cruel punctuality.
What concerned him was not Edward's death.
It was the man who came after him.
George.
The relationship between Berlin and London had never been warm, but Oskar believed it would become colder under George V. The new king had little affection for Wilhelm and even less enthusiasm for Germany's growing power. Private grievances, childhood resentments, and family rivalries would be concealed beneath the language of policy and patriotism, but the bitterness beneath them would remain.
Oskar knew the pattern.
George V and Wilhelm II were cousins, joined by blood and separated by temperament. Wilhelm was loud, impulsive, theatrical, and hungry for recognition. George was reserved, rigid, and deeply sensitive to insult or disrespect.
Their personalities did not complement one another.
Their empires fit together even less comfortably.
Every German factory, battleship, railway, and overseas ambition strengthened the conviction in London that Germany was becoming an intolerable rival.
There would be no easy reconciliation.
Not while George occupied the throne.
The following day, on 7 May, Wilhelm II convened an emergency royal council.
There was no parade, no public ceremony, and no carefully prepared speech for the newspapers. Only the machinery of empire gathering behind closed doors to assess how the death of one monarch might alter the balance of Europe.
The questions before them were straightforward.
How would British foreign policy change under George V?
Who would represent Germany at Edward's funeral?
And who would attend the coronation of the new king?
Wilhelm stood at the head of the council table, his uniform immaculate and his expression carved into stone.
"Gentlemen," he began, "King Edward VII has passed away, and Prince George will succeed him. Tell me plainly: does this benefit the German Empire, or does it harm us?"
He did not resemble a grieving nephew.
He looked like an emperor examining the movement of a piece upon a board.
Prime Minister Bernhard von Bülow answered first, his voice as smooth and measured as ever.
"Your Majesty, George may prove a more formidable opponent than Edward. He is younger, more disciplined, and less inclined toward personal diplomacy. His instinct will be to protect Britain's advantage, and he will increasingly view Germany's growth as a danger to Britain's position."
He paused briefly.
"We should therefore expect British policy toward us to become more assertive."
Wilhelm's mouth tightened.
He had known George as a boy and had studied intelligence reports concerning him as a man. The essential character had not changed.
Tirpitz entered the discussion with the confidence of someone who had long been waiting for others to accept his conclusions.
"Your Majesty, Britain has already attempted to contain us upon the continent. Its understandings with France and Russia are directed against Germany, whatever language London uses to disguise them."
He lifted his chin.
"We must therefore prepare to defeat Britain in the war that is coming."
A brief silence followed.
"The Imperial Navy is being built for precisely that purpose," Tirpitz continued. "When the decisive battle arrives, I believe our fleet will be victorious."
His confidence rested upon more than pride. New hulls were rising inside German shipyards. Armour plate rolled from Krupp's factories. Turbines, guns, shells, and engines were being produced in quantities few foreign observers understood.
The fleet was no longer a dream.
It was becoming an argument written in steel.
Moltke the Younger intervened before the room could drift too deeply into Tirpitz's naval certainty.
"Your Majesty, we should remember that Britain's understandings with France and Russia are not formal military alliances. The only binding military alliance among them is that between France and Russia. Britain may not necessarily enter a continental war."
His words sounded like a neutral clarification.
His intention was less neutral.
Moltke had grown increasingly hostile toward Oskar's faction and toward Tirpitz in particular. The Navy's expansion threatened the Army's traditional primacy, while every mark directed toward ships was a mark Moltke believed should have belonged to soldiers, railways, artillery, and mobilisation.
Wilhelm frowned.
Technically, Moltke was correct.
In practical terms, almost no one believed Britain would watch Germany crush France and then politely applaud from the opposite side of the Channel.
War Minister von Falkenhayn answered immediately.
"The British will not remain neutral," he said. "If Germany goes to war with France, Britain will intervene."
Moltke looked toward him, but Falkenhayn continued without hesitation.
"London understands that France cannot withstand us indefinitely without British support. If France is defeated, Russia becomes less dangerous, and Germany emerges as the dominant power in Europe."
He leaned forward.
"If Germany dominates the continent, Britain's security is threatened regardless of the Channel. Its trade, empire, and global position would all face a power capable of challenging them directly. Britain cannot permit that outcome."
His voice remained blunt and certain.
"If war comes, Britain will join it. We must prepare accordingly."
Moltke's eyes narrowed.
Falkenhayn ignored him.
The rivalry between the two most powerful figures in the Army had become an open wound, visible to everyone seated around the table.
Wilhelm's gaze travelled from Bülow to Tirpitz, from Moltke to Falkenhayn, before finally settling upon the young man who had been reshaping Germany in ways even ministers struggled to measure.
"Oskar," he said. "What is your opinion?"
Oskar did not answer immediately.
He could feel the weight of the room pressing toward him: Tirpitz's hungry confidence, Moltke's rigid resistance, Falkenhayn's cold logic, Bülow's political caution, and above them all his father's pride—an iron wheel that could not be turned without breaking something.
He chose his words carefully.
"Father, as much as it pains me to admit it, I believe George's accession is harmful to the Empire."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed, though he allowed him to continue.
"From this moment forward, we should abandon any illusion that Britain may become our friend. Its hostility will harden. If a major European war begins, Britain will join our enemies."
Several men shifted in their chairs, not surprised but grimly reassured that Oskar had reached the same conclusion.
"There are ways to avoid war," Oskar continued. "The most certain method, however, is one you will never accept."
He met Wilhelm's gaze directly.
"Germany would have to stop expanding its navy. We would have to cease challenging British control of the seas and abandon further overseas ambitions."
The words were calm.
Their effect was immediate.
Wilhelm's expression darkened. The Kaiser had spent much of his reign dreaming of a Germany that stood beside Britain as an equal world power. To surrender the fleet and colonial ambition would not merely mean changing policy.
It would mean abandoning the vision around which he had built his reign.
Oskar held his father's gaze nonetheless.
"So the remaining path is the one we are already following."
He opened one hand toward the council chamber and everything it represented: factories, shipyards, armies, trade, steel, and the slow transformation of the German Empire.
"We become so powerful economically, industrially, and militarily that no nation believes attacking us would be worth the cost."
Oskar did not pretend that success was certain.
"It offers no guarantee. But it offers us a chance."
His voice hardened slightly.
"Whatever happens, however, Germany must not begin the war. We cannot allow Britain to portray itself as the innocent defender of Europe against German aggression."
He looked directly at Wilhelm.
"If nothing else, Father, do not give them the moral banner. Once Britain believes itself righteous, it will endure sacrifices that calculation alone would never justify."
Silence settled across the chamber.
For several moments, the only sound was the quiet crackling of the fire, as though the palace itself were listening.
Wilhelm stared at his son like a man being told that the only cure required cutting away part of himself.
At last, his jaw tightened.
"If war between Germany and Britain grows closer with every passing year," he said, "then Germany will prepare for war."
It was not the declaration of a man who desired conflict.
It was the decision of a ruler who refused to escape danger by surrendering his ambitions.
Wilhelm did not want war with Britain. Yet he would not avoid it by accepting permanent inferiority, and somewhere beneath his caution remained the dangerous conviction that Germany might actually win.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the ministers answered almost together.
War promised loss.
It also promised spoils, provided one survived long enough to claim them.
Wilhelm leaned over the table.
"Edward VII is dead, and George will soon be crowned. Who shall represent Germany at the funeral and the coronation?"
Bülow answered as though discussing an ordinary diplomatic appointment.
"Your Majesty, perhaps the Foreign Minister—"
"No."
Wilhelm's refusal came immediately.
"That is insufficient."
He turned once again toward Oskar.
"You will go."
A slight stir passed through the council.
Oskar blinked, genuinely surprised.
"You are the most optimistic man in this room," Wilhelm continued, as though the admission caused him personal discomfort. "If anyone can make a favourable impression upon the British court—or at least upon the British public—it is you."
The choice was logical. As Acting Crown Prince, representing the Empire abroad fell within Oskar's duties. More importantly, if Germany wished to keep the remaining diplomatic doors from closing completely, his reputation and personality might accomplish more than another grey minister carrying condolences.
Oskar bowed his head.
"Yes, Father."
Inside, however, a quieter thought began to rise.
Britain in 1910.
He had read about it in books, examined its photographs, and watched documentaries about its people and cities in another life. Now he would see the British Empire with his own eyes.
Perhaps he might even discover how close Europe truly stood to burning.
The meeting ended soon afterward, but Wilhelm detained him as the others prepared to leave.
"One final matter," the Kaiser said.
Oskar stopped.
Wilhelm regarded him with the exhausted suspicion of a father who had recently discovered that his son had brought home yet another woman—this time his own brother's wife.
"While you are in Britain, you will behave with dignity. You will act with restraint, maturity, and proper imperial decorum."
Oskar opened his mouth.
Wilhelm raised a hand.
"No scandals. No impulsive decisions. No women appearing mysteriously in your household when you return."
Oskar tried to appear offended by the implication.
His father's expression made it clear that the attempt had failed.
"You will not embarrass Germany," Wilhelm finished.
Oskar placed a hand over his heart and bowed with exaggerated solemnity.
"Father, you have my word. Everything will be perfectly respectable."
Wilhelm stared at him for several long seconds. He clearly wanted to believe him.
Unfortunately, he also knew his son.