After returning to Potsdam, Oskar shared dinner with his parents and the wider family—formal enough to satisfy court expectation, warm enough to remind him that, for all his titles, he was still someone's son.
Later that evening, he sat shirtless on the edge of the great bed, surrounded by bodies and noise and life.
Children sprawled across the carpet and cushions—his own, Anna's older girls among them now as well, since it had been decided they would live in the palace from this point on. Stuffed animals, wooden toys, and half-forgotten books lay scattered like the aftermath of a small battle.
Oskar sighed, running one hand through his hair.
"My loves," he said, already sounding apologetic, "I'm heading to German Works tomorrow. Tirpitz insists I come in person. I'll probably be gone two days."
He looked at his wives with genuine regret. He had only just married them, and already duty was pulling him away again. Part of him wanted to vanish with them for a year and let the world manage itself.
But that was not who he was.
Gunderlinde smiled immediately, soft and earnest.
"That's alright," she said. "Go do your work. I'll write you letters—many of them. We'll stay close."
She meant it. She understood what being married to Oskar meant, and she had accepted it with a quiet grace that still surprised him.
Tanya didn't bother with words. She hugged him from behind, pressing her small frame firmly against his back, murmuring that she'd miss him.
Anna claimed his arm, hugging it possessively and kissing his bicep with exaggerated seriousness.
"I'll miss these," she said, deadpan.
Gunderlinde flushed when she saw them, then stepped in as well, hugging his other arm. She hesitated—considered copying Anna—then lost her nerve and simply held on.
Oskar laughed under his breath.
"You were supposed to help me get dressed," he said, "not anchor me to the furniture."
That was when Liorael struck.
The boy hurled an angry-looking skunk plush straight at Oskar's face with all the drama of an ambush.
Without thinking, Oskar caught it in his teeth.
There was a moment of frozen silence.
Then—rip.
The stuffed skunk split cleanly in half, then in thirds, as Oskar bit down with effortless precision.
The children stared.
Oskar growled playfully.
That was enough.
The room exploded.
Children scattered in shrieks of delighted panic, scrambling under the bed, behind furniture, around Oskar's massive legs. The two youngest—still unable to walk—crawled determinedly after their siblings, convinced this was a matter of survival.
Anna's older daughters watched for exactly three seconds before joining in, declaring a competition to see who could "capture" the most toddlers and return them to the crib first.
The palace room dissolved into chaos.
Laughter. Screams. Running feet. Crawling bodies.
Oskar stood in the middle of it all, his arms around his wives as they leaned against him, watching the madness with warm, shining smiles. Tanya kissed him, then Anna, then Gunderlinde, as if thanking him for the absurd joy of it all.
Oskar turned his head and kissed Gunderlinde gently, resting a hand on her stomach.
"Soon," he murmured quietly, meant only for her. "You'll have little ones of your own joining this madness."
Her face went crimson.
She didn't object.
She liked the idea more than she dared admit.
The women rested against him, content and happy, watching children who bore silver hair and violet eyes chase each other through the room.
After all, marrying a brilliant crown prince with a heart and a future was far better than marrying some spoiled noble brat.
And perhaps—just perhaps—one or more of them would one day become Empress.
That was a dream worth holding.
---
Later that night, dressed in his usual 8th Army general's uniform, Oskar stood ready to leave.
His wives praised him relentlessly.
One of the children pointed at him and declared proudly,
"Papa look like German Man!"
Which, technically, was accurate—the comic hero was based on him.
That earned another barrage of stuffed animals as the children shouted,
"Go! Go! Brave animal force! Defeat giant!"
Oskar laughed, kissed each child, hugged Anna's older girls, thanked them sincerely for being there—and then kissed his wives goodbye.
With one last look back at the chaos and warmth he was leaving behind, he turned and walked out.
German Works waited.
And so did Tirpitz.
---
Oskar met the old sea-obsessed man later that afternoon at the station.
Count Tirpitz was already there when the special train rolled in—coat immaculate, moustache bristling, eyes bright with the barely restrained excitement of a man who lived and breathed hulls, guns, and displacement tonnage. He greeted Oskar with a firm handshake that carried more energy than his age suggested.
They boarded together, escorted by the Eternal Guard, and soon the train slid smoothly onto the rails, Potsdam fading behind them in a blur of green and stone.
Tirpitz wasted no time.
"So," he said, settling into the seat opposite Oskar, fingers tapping lightly against the polished table, "this secret weapon of yours."
Oskar leaned back, entirely too comfortable for a man being interrogated.
"No," he said calmly.
Tirpitz's tapping stopped.
"No?" he repeated.
"No," Oskar confirmed. "Not yet."
The admiral's expression tightened in visible irritation. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then exhaled through his nose like a man forcing himself not to shout at the tide.
"You know," Tirpitz said, "I commanded the Imperial Navy through men who tried to pry secrets out of me for decades. You would have made a very irritating subordinate."
Oskar smiled faintly. "You would have made an even worse superior."
Tirpitz snorted despite himself.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, the rhythmic clatter of the train filling the space. Then Oskar, as if remembering something trivial, spoke again.
"I was thinking," he said, casually, "about sailing."
Tirpitz's head snapped up.
"Sailing?"
"Yes. Proper sailing," Oskar continued. "Not standing on decks barking orders. Actually being out on the water. My uncle Heinrich has the Kiel Yacht Club, after all—Baltic air, clean wind, Denmark just across the water. I thought I might finally try it."
Tirpitz leaned forward instantly, irritation forgotten.
"You've never sailed?" he demanded.
"Not once," Oskar admitted. "I've studied ship design, naval doctrine, fleet actions—but I've never actually… felt it."
The admiral looked genuinely scandalized.
"My God," Tirpitz muttered. "A man who plans fleets without ever letting the sea argue with him."
Oskar chuckled. "That's why I want to. I suspect it will tell me how wrong I am."
That, at least, Tirpitz approved of.
They talked for a while then—rigging, wind, Baltic currents, the difference between reading charts and trusting instinct. For all the grand strategy Oskar carried in his head, he listened like a student, genuinely curious.
Then tea arrived.
Real tea. Yorkshire tea, no less—imported, checked thoroughly by the Eternal Guard before being set down between them.
Oskar took a sip and sighed contentedly.
Tirpitz, inevitably, steered the conversation back where it always went.
Britain.
"Your Highness," he said, voice lowering slightly, "our navy grows. Rapidly. But so does theirs. Faster."
Oskar didn't look surprised.
"There are reports," Tirpitz continued, "that British yards are pushing men beyond reason. Twelve-hour shifts are no longer enough—fifteen hours in some places. Mines. Foundries. Shipyards." He shook his head. "That sort of pace invites disaster. Accidents. Collapse. But they're desperate for output. Desperate for more money, more of everything."
He paused.
"And it's because of this that the gap between our fleets… it hasn't gotten smaller."
Oskar nodded slowly.
"You worry too much," he said mildly.
Tirpitz shot him a look. "I worry exactly as much as my job requires."
"Yes," Oskar agreed, "but you worry about the wrong thing."
He set his cup down.
"There's no point losing sleep over what we can't control," Oskar continued calmly.
"If something lies within our power, then we change it. If it doesn't, then worrying about it only drains the strength we need elsewhere."
He met Tirpitz's gaze.
"People confuse anxiety with strategy," he added. "They're not the same thing."
He set his cup down.
"We cannot catch Britain in numbers," Oskar said. "Not realistically. They have the yards, the experience, the empire, the financial machinery. Competing ship-for-ship would bleed us dry."
Tirpitz frowned, but did not interrupt.
"So we don't play that game," Oskar continued. "We don't try to match them in hulls. We surpass them in performance."
He leaned forward slightly.
"One ship doing the work of two. One weapon changing the entire calculation. That's the only way this ends favorably for us."
Tirpitz exhaled slowly.
"Qualitative superiority," he murmured. "Yes. But numbers still matter. Quantity becomes quality at scale."
"I know," Oskar said easily. "And that's exactly why I've been preparing something… different."
That caught Tirpitz's full attention.
"Different how?"
Oskar smiled—but said nothing.
Inside his own mind, however, the sea was already crowded.
Steel hulls slipping beneath waves.
Silent predators hunting shipping lanes.
Flat decks instead of turrets. Aircraft instead of shells.
Capital ships burning without ever seeing their enemy.
Germany would never outbuild Britain.
So Britain would have to be outthought.
Submarines.
Carriers.
A war fought in dimensions the Royal Navy had not yet learned to fear.
Tirpitz watched him closely, anticipation practically radiating from the man.
"You enjoy this," the admiral said. "Keeping me in suspense."
Oskar shrugged. "I enjoy arriving prepared."
The train surged onward, rails humming beneath them, German Works drawing closer with every passing mile.
Tirpitz leaned back, eyes bright now—not worried, not angry, but eager.
"Very well," he said. "I will wait."
Oskar smiled into his tea.
He had exactly what Tirpitz wanted.
He just wasn't ready to let it loose yet.
By the time the train reached the final stretch, Tirpitz had stopped pretending he was merely "making conversation."
He had a notebook out now. Pencil tapping. Eyes bright with the restless hunger of a man who measured the world in tonnage, gun calibers, and steel schedules.
Outside the window, the countryside slid by—fields, forests, small towns. Inside the compartment, the air was full of ships that didn't exist yet.
"We've stabilized the line," Tirpitz said at last, voice low but satisfied. "Two tiers of battleships in service, battlecruisers commissioned, and the next classes nearly complete. When Moltke enters service, and when the Kaisers follow… the fleet will look very different."
Oskar watched him with faint amusement. Tirpitz could talk about keels and rivets the way other men talked about poetry.
Then the admiral's eyes sharpened.
"Your Highness," he said, "what of the next class? What comes after?"
There it was.
The real question.
The question every navy man asked when he finally trusted that the last class would actually be built: what is the next step?
Oskar let the silence sit for a moment, not because he didn't have an answer, but because it was useful to remind Tirpitz who controlled the tempo.
Then he nodded once.
"Bigger," Oskar said simply. "The next class needs more displacement."
Tirpitz's pencil paused. "For armor?"
"For armor," Oskar agreed. "And for guns."
The admiral's brows rose slightly.
"Our newest designs are already carrying 34.3-centimeter guns," he said, careful, as if testing the idea with a fingertip. "You mean to go beyond that."
"Yes," Oskar replied without hesitation. "Thirty-eight centimeters."
For a heartbeat, Tirpitz didn't speak.
Then his mouth tightened the way it did when he was trying not to look too pleased.
"Thirty-eight," he repeated quietly. "Krupp can do it?"
"They're already working on it," Oskar said. "I asked for it some time ago. We should have a breakthrough next year. If the gun is ready, the ship can be ready. We lay down the next class as soon as the schedules allow."
Tirpitz exhaled, long and slow.
For a navy minister, agreement was not a nod.
Agreement was the look of a man seeing his life's work grow teeth.
"I have no objections," Tirpitz said at last, as if anyone expected him to.
Oskar smiled faintly.
Inside, though, his thoughts were colder.
A 38-centimeter ship in German service before the British had their own… that was not merely prestige. It was leverage. It was the difference between a duel and an execution, if the world ever forced fleets into decisive battle again.
If war came in 1914—and Oskar could not stop thinking in that date—then Germany would not be fighting as history remembered it.
Germany would be fighting ahead of the curve.
And if the curve could be bent far enough…
…even Britain's numerical advantage might not matter the way Tirpitz feared.
---
The train finally hissed into the station near German Works.
Tirpitz stood so quickly his chair scraped.
He didn't even try to hide it now. He was nearly vibrating.
Oskar stepped out onto the platform, and the smell hit him instantly: tar, salt, hot metal, coal smoke. The air of a shipyard was its own weather—industrial and coastal at once.
Escorted by the Eternal Guard, they moved through the site, past cranes and stacks of steel, past half-finished hulls sitting like sleeping beasts. Workers paused, stared, saluted, then returned to their labor with renewed urgency.
Tirpitz, however, barely saw any of it.
He was marching toward the slipway like a man being pulled by a hook.
"Where is it?" he demanded. "Show me."
Oskar didn't hurry. He let the admiral walk himself into anticipation. Let the excitement build until it became almost painful.
Then they rounded a corner.
And Tirpitz stopped.
Dead.
On the slipway was a shape unlike the proud, towering silhouettes he lived for.
No high bow. No broad deck. No turret housings like clenched fists.
Just a long, dark body—low, smooth, and wrong. A steel creature built not to dominate the surface…
…but to disappear beneath it.
Tirpitz stared at it as if someone had placed a coffin on his altar.
Then he turned slowly to Oskar.
His face did something complicated—amusement, disbelief, and the first edge of exasperation.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "isn't this… a submarine?"
Oskar's smile sharpened.
Tirpitz gestured at the sleek hull as if it had personally offended him.
"This," he said, "is your secret weapon?"