The cigar lounge was thick with smoke, the warm perfume of whisky clinging to the air like a velvet curtain. It was a room built for confidences—soft lighting, polished oak, and the unmistakable weight of men who believed the world must bend to their will.
Prince William stood at the map table, staring at the "Prussian Rise Route Map"—chalked in bold red strokes by Arthur Lionheart, a man who carried ambition with the ease of one holding a wine glass. William's face was unreadable, but the stillness of his posture betrayed an inner storm.
After a long silence, he exhaled heavily.
He returned to the sofa, emptied the expensive whisky in a single swallow, and a half-bitter smile—resigned, admiring, yet utterly defeated—tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Your arguments," he said in a hoarse voice, "are… painfully sound. And painfully useless."
Arthur Lionheart raised an eyebrow.
"It is useless," William repeated, shaking his head with a tone that reeked of weary affection and familial despair. "You do not understand my royal brother. He is a good man—a devout Christian, a hopeless romantic. Speak to him of railways and tariffs, and he flares up like a startled horse. Mention medieval Gothic arches or Wagner's operas, and he will trap you in a three-day lecture without a drop of sleep."
"To rouse him into war? Merely to reclaim that 'key' to Holstein?" William let out a dry, self-mocking laugh. "I assure you, he would sooner commission a new opera house in Berlin."
His eyes briefly flicked toward Bismarck, who lounged nearby, lazily exhaling a perfect smoke ring with an expression suggesting he might as well be listening to a sermon about gardening. William's voice sharpened with a hint of irritation.
"O tto, you're far too clever for your own good—but crude jokes and sarcasm will not wake a king lost in romantic fantasies."
Bismarck merely shrugged, puffed his cigar, and said nothing.
Arthur Lionheart smiled.
He stood, refilled William's and Bismarck's glasses with deliberate calm—an act that felt strangely ceremonial.
"My dear William," he said, addressing the future Iron Chancellor by name just as casually as he did Bismarck, "you are correct. His Majesty is indeed… an artist."
"But you overlook one thing."
A knowing glint lit his eyes—sharp, penetrating, as if he could peer straight into the marrow of a man's soul.
"Before anything else, he is a monarch. And secondly, he is an elder brother."
"As a monarch, he needs victories to justify the crown upon his head—to Prussia and to all of Germany."
"And as an elder brother…" Arthur's gaze softened as it settled on William, "he relies upon the counsel of his family. Especially the guidance of his most capable and honourable younger brother."
He handed William a fresh glass.
"He may ignore a stranger's voice. But the esteemed Prince William—Prussia's most respected soldier—together with Otto, the only man His Majesty calls a true equal of mind and spirit…"
"One playing the genial voice of reason, the other the cold herald of national glory—both tugging at different strings of his nature…"
"Do you truly believe he would remain unmoved?"
William's hand trembled around his glass. He looked from Arthur to Bismarck, and for the first time, clarity—cold, sharp, undeniable—lit his eyes.
"The rise of Prussia," Arthur murmured, touching his glass to William's with a crisp chime, "is not the work of a single moment."
"Tonight, I am merely a friend sharing drink and conversation."
"But how you persuade your king—how you forge a new age for Prussia—"
He smiled, deep and enigmatic.
"I trust the two of you will devise methods far more brilliant than mine."
He emptied his glass.
William studied the young man before him—who had not only mapped out their future but had also taught them the very art of steering kings. Whatever resentment or suspicion he once held dissolved completely.
Prussia owed Arthur Lionheart a debt that could scarcely be measured.
After the official "visits and studies" ended, a small and utterly unofficial garden tea gathering was held in Buckingham Palace. Free of aides, ministers, and the suffocating machinery of protocol, the atmosphere turned warm, almost homely.
Arthur Lionheart, Prince William, and Bismarck remained in deep discussion over railway expenditures in a nearby pavilion.
Meanwhile, Queen Victoria and Princess Augusta sat together, sipping dark tea while watching the children play on the lawn.
"Look there, Augusta," Victoria said with a fond smile. "Your Frederick is the perfect little gentleman."
Twelve-year-old Frederick stood awkwardly stiff, while little Princess Vicky—four years old and ruling the grass as if it were her private dominion—placed her hands on her hips.
"You! Prussian boy!" Vicky declared in her father's dramatic tone. "This princess wishes to pluck the highest rose! Down you go! Be my stepping stone!"
Poor Frederick froze—torn between princely dignity and sheer terror of offending a tiny, imperious British princess.
"Vicky! That's quite enough." Victoria intervened. "Apologise to Prince Frederick at once."
"Oh…" Vicky stuck out her tongue but obeyed.
"It is… quite all right, Your Majesty," Frederick stammered, red-faced. "Her Royal Highness is… very charming."
Augusta's eyes softened as she watched her son wilt before the tiny whirlwind. Then she regarded Vicky—so lively, so bright—and felt a pang of envy.
"My dear Victoria, your children are delightful. So full of spirit."
"Spirit?" Victoria snorted. "They returned from Balmoral last month full of mischief. The palace has not known peace since. I adore them—but by God, they may yet drive me mad."
Augusta laughed softly, though her gaze dimmed with yearning.
"It sounds wonderful… not like Berlin. Everything there is so rigid. William thinks only of the army. Frederick hides in his books of philosophy. Sometimes I wish… we too could escape for a holiday as carefree as yours."
Victoria squeezed her hand.
"There will be opportunities."
Their conversation drifted toward fashion—Victoria proudly displaying her new Parisian tea gown—and then to a "little invention" Arthur Lionheart had gifted her: a lace brassière.
When Augusta heard it could make one's figure appear lifted while allowing a lady to breathe freely, her eyes sparkled.
Soon they were whispering conspiratorially about "man-management"—how to coax a husband home on time.
Victoria, with a wicked grin, repeated the "little love tricks" Arthur Lionheart had whispered to her—half flirtation, half psychological warfare.
"When he's insufferably proud, push him down a peg—remind him who truly rules the household."
"And when he feels low… wrap him in warmth. A man who melts in your arms will never wander far."
Augusta listened, stunned, cheeks pink, as if the door to an entirely new world had been thrown open.
Meanwhile, in the Men's Pavilion
William and Bismarck were engrossed in a thick German manuscript—Arthur Lionheart's abridged translation of the Geopolitical Atlas of the World. Carefully curated chapters detailed:
the precarious balance of European powers
the inevitable Russo-Turkish conflicts
and a chilling analysis of the Qing Empire
Arthur had departed to attend to other matters. What he left behind was enough to turn their world on its head.
"My God…" William whispered, tracing the hand-drawn illustration comparing Qing Banner soldiers with British breech-loaders. "If this is accurate, the Qing army is not an army—they are relics wielding spears against rifles."
"No, Your Highness," Bismarck murmured gravely. "You misread the true danger."
He tapped another section.
"Arthur suggests the Qing Empire is terrifying not because of strength—but because of sheer numbers, and a blind, absolute obedience to imperial authority."
After half an hour of reading, William shut the book, jaw set with new resolve.
"Otto," he said quietly, "when we return, we must persuade my brother at once. The path Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart illuminated… we must walk it—slowly, carefully, but without ever wavering."
"Indeed, Your Highness," Bismarck said with a thin, meaningful smile.
Just then—
A shrill cry erupted from across the lawn.
Little Frederick had somehow been toppled onto the grass—by tiny Princess Vicky, who barely reached his shoulder.
Frederick did not cry; he pushed himself up, more embarrassed than hurt.
But Vicky—seeing grass stains on her new dress—gasped, lips trembling. And then—
"Waaaah!" She burst into tears and ran to her mother.
"Mama! The Prussian boy ruined my new dress!"
William and Bismarck stared, astounded.
Princess Augusta merely sighed with a helpless, amused smile.