After his arrival in London, Oskar was conveyed directly to Buckingham Palace, where rooms had been prepared with the quiet perfection Britain reserved for rivals—never too warm, never too cold, never so lavish that it looked like gratitude.
The suite was discreetly impressive: ceilings high enough to swallow voices, tall windows buried behind heavy drapes, furniture chosen for dignity rather than comfort—except the bed. That had been reinforced. Broadened. Built like a small bridge, as if the palace itself had admitted, without comment, that the German Crown Prince did not fit ordinary human measurements.
Servants were assigned at once. They moved with the polished ease of people trained to vanish while still seeing everything. Their deference was correct, their eyes respectful, their silence flawless—yet watchful. Britain did nothing by halves. Not grief. Not protocol. Not surveillance.
Oskar rested only long enough to wash the road and sea out of his skin. Sleep did not come. The air in the palace felt too clean, too scented, too arranged—as if even the dust had been told where it was allowed to settle.
Before the evening's formalities, the German ambassador was admitted for a short conference behind closed doors. It was not a long meeting. It didn't need to be. The ambassador spoke in the careful language of men who had spent years learning how to describe danger without sounding afraid: Parliament's mood, the tremor beneath public mourning, the succession calculations already forming like ice under thin water. Britain grieved—yes—but Britain also watched, and its watching was never idle.
That evening, Prince George hosted a formal welcome dinner in Oskar's honor.
The palace was full.
Senior figures of the British military and government attended, along with nobles, social lions, and foreign envoys who had arrived early for the funeral rites. The gathering was not celebration. It was a display—mourning dressed in silk and silver, etiquette worn like armor. Even the candles seemed controlled, their flames steady as if trained not to tremble.
Prince George remained only briefly. Preparation for his father's funeral and his own investiture devoured his time, and after half an hour he withdrew with measured courtesy, leaving his eldest son, Prince Edward, in his place.
Edward was fifteen. Earnest. Properly groomed and painfully aware that every eye in the room could measure him against the man he would one day become.
But the room did not bend around Edward.
It bent around Oskar.
At twenty-one, the German Crown Prince disrupted spaces simply by existing in them. He rose well above two meters, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, his uniform fitting like a disciplined apology. Among Britain's tailored restraint he looked almost obscene—a pillar of living mass in a palace built for elegant, human-sized rulers. Where other men disappeared into rank and decoration, Oskar stood out like stone among porcelain.
Whispers followed him like perfume.
Men watched with calculation and envy—wondering how such wealth had been assembled so quickly, how such influence had been concentrated in a single prince, how a nation had somehow reshaped itself around a boy. Officers studied him with professional curiosity, as if trying to decide whether the Iron Prince was myth, madness, or the first real warning of a century about to change. Industrialists watched him with something colder than curiosity, their smiles not quite reaching their eyes.
And the women noticed.
Polite interest turned bold in small increments: laughter arriving too easily, hands lingering a moment longer than necessary on his sleeve or forearm, a glance held just long enough to become a question. Invitations to dance followed—one after another—each phrased with impeccable courtesy, each declined with equal grace.
He handled the questions the same way.
On wealth and power he remained careful, smiling without feeding anyone numbers. Some things, he said lightly, were matters of state. On health and training, however, he spoke more freely—simple advice offered without preaching. That, perversely, seemed to draw more fascination than money ever could. In a room full of men who talked in circles, the German prince spoke in straight lines.
Still, the attention wore on him.
In truth, his mind kept slipping—across the Channel, toward the chaos he actually missed: Tanya's sharp voice, Anna's quiet warmth, Gundelinda's shy steadiness, the children crawling over him like a small conquering army. Compared to that messy, living warmth, the beauty and polish on display here felt distant—ornamental. Impressive, perhaps, but hollow in the way court life always became when you scraped away the music.
As the evening deepened, his refusals became known. A few women of higher rank were granted a single dance—not as invitation, but as courtesy, a way of closing a conversation cleanly. After that, no one pressed the matter.
These were people of status.
They understood when a door had closed.
And so the banquet continued—music, conversation, glances weighed and exchanged—while the German Crown Prince remained at its center, calm and controlled: a guest welcomed with ceremony…
…and measured with care.
It was the kind of attention that didn't shout. It simply pressed—softly, constantly—like a hand testing the edge of a blade. Every laugh was counted. Every refusal noted. Every small gesture filed away by minds trained to turn manners into information.
Oskar endured it the way he endured everything: still, polite, unreadable. He answered what could be answered, smiled when smiling cost nothing, and kept the rest behind his eyes.
Then, at last, something familiar cut through the polish.
A voice behind him—warm, amused, unhurried—spoke like it belonged to a man who didn't need permission to be frank.
"Your Highness Oskar, my man!" it said, "good evening. I envy you. You've somehow become the gravitational center of the entire banquet."
Oskar turned, already smiling.
The man approaching carried a wine glass like it was part of his uniform. Middle-aged, handsome, a neatly groomed mustache that belonged to a more confident century. Relaxed posture. Bright eyes—mischief, not calculation.
"I've also heard," he continued, dropping his voice as if sharing battlefield intelligence, "a great many complaints from the ladies. Apparently you're a tragic romantic—utterly immune to subtle hints." His gaze flicked over Oskar's face, eyebrow lifting. "Although… your English is criminally precise. Don't tell me that Tolkien boy finally finished training you."
Oskar snorted.
"Your Excellency," he replied, clasping the man's forearm and tugging him closer with easy familiarity, "good evening indeed. And yes—Ronald did. He and Hilary. Edith too."
Oskar didn't need too much formalities with this man.
This was Archduke Franz Ferdinand after all—heir to Austria-Hungary, Germany's most stubborn ally, and over time something rarer than allies ever managed to become: a friend.
They hadn't bonded over treaties. They'd bonded over defiance. Both had married women the polite world disapproved of. Both went to church without letting it do their thinking. And both—quietly, stubbornly—loathed the idea of war, even while preparing for it like men who understood what the world actually was.
Ferdinand's smile widened at the mention of the writing trio.
"So it's true," he said, half impressed, half delighted. "The secret weapon of the German Empire isn't your battleships. It's a thin writing trio of orphans with too many languages and pens."
Oskar's mouth twitched. "Don't underestimate pens, my man. They're cheaper than dreadnoughts and somehow more dangerous."
Ferdinand laughed—genuine, pleased—and Oskar looked him over with the satisfied eye of a man inspecting the result of his own badgering.
"Well, shit," Oskar said cheerfully. "I must say, you've grown again, haven't you? I told you—better diet, protein, five gym sessions a week. Looks like you actually listened. You look good, man."
Ferdinand shook his head, still smiling up at Oskar's towering frame.
"Your advice has been… transformative," he said. "My wife is delighted. And," he added, lowering his voice with the conspiratorial pride of a husband who had discovered religion, "she's been training too. I did not know women could develop such… architecture."
Oskar barked a laugh.
"Careful," he warned. "That's how you get challenged to a sparring match."
Ferdinand waved it off, still grinning. "Your gyms, your programs—your madness, really—have done wonders for my family and my people. For that, I sincerely thank you."
Once, Germany and Austria-Hungary had been bound together by pressure—surrounded, constrained, forced into alignment by hostile powers. Now the bond ran deeper. Among younger officers, among nobles and common people alike, the relationship had become something more than necessity.
They drifted toward the buffet, plates filling quickly, conversation slipping into the easy rhythm it always found when they were together.
"As pleased as I am to hear that," Oskar said between bites, "I have to ask—how is the unity holding?"
Ferdinand didn't hesitate.
"At first?" he said. "There was resistance. Your companies employed only German-speaking Christians. That unsettled people. But time has a way of sanding down sharp edges." He gestured lightly. "Your books, your games, your educational nonsense—all of it published only in German. People adapted. Learned. Accepted."
He took a sip of wine.
"Today, most people in Austria-Hungary speak at least some German. Quietly. Naturally. I would call that a success."
Oskar's shoulders eased. Hearing it from Ferdinand mattered more than reports ever could.
They moved to a quieter table, eating with the unpretentious focus of men who had missed too many meals in their lives.
Then Ferdinand leaned slightly toward him.
"Look," he murmured. "The Russian Foreign Minister. With the French. And the Italians."
Oskar followed his gaze and frowned.
Italy was… flexible. Even now, their presence meant nothing concrete—but it was enough to prick the instincts.
"You're being sensitive," Oskar said lightly. "Perhaps they're just enjoying the wine."
Ferdinand smiled, knowing perfectly well that Oskar was thinking the same thing he was. The topic was allowed to die.
They talked on. Wine appeared. Ferdinand drank more than he should have.
Soon, the Archduke was rambling—about hunting trips, forests, the beauty of untouched fields, and how he sometimes wished to vanish to an island with his family, free of empires and obligations, content to smell flowers and watch the sun move.
They were more than twenty years apart in age.
It didn't matter.
Then it ended.
Soft hands settled on Oskar's shoulders. Skilled. Familiar. Confident.
A sweet, unmistakable voice whispered in his ear.
"Long time no see, big boy."
Oskar froze.
He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Princess Patricia of Connaught.
Warm. Beautiful. Just drunk enough to be dangerous.
Ferdinand chuckled quietly and leaned back, suddenly far too interested in his wine.
"Well," he said, eyes twinkling, "I believe my work here is done."
Oskar exhaled slowly.
Some enemies, he thought grimly, were harder to refuse than others.