Two weeks later.
A "high-society luxury delegation" from Prussia arrived at the port of Dover.
At its head stood Prince Wilhelm of Hohenzollern, younger brother to the reigning King of Prussia.
His mission was transparent: to uncover the British Empire's miraculous "black technologies" and, more quietly, to take the measure of the British Prince Consort—Arthur Lionheart, the man who had outwitted the Tsar, the King of France, and even the President of the United States.
Accompanying Wilhelm was his wife, Princess Augusta, famed in Berlin for her open mind and graceful bearing, and their shy twelve-year-old son Frederick William, whose features already hinted at the handsome emperor he would one day become.
And, tucked into the least conspicuous corner of the delegation, stood a tall, slightly awkward man—Otto von Bismarck, newly appointed "Court Councillor," though still very much the lone wolf he had always been.
Prince Wilhelm, a soldier of the old Prussian school, valued discipline and tradition above all else. He harboured a genuine disdain for Bismarck—this rumpled "country Junker" who drank too much and spoke too loudly in taverns. In Wilhelm's view, Bismarck had earned his royal favour merely by entertaining his melancholic brother with coarse jokes. A buffoon, nothing more.
If not for the King's personal insistence, Wilhelm would never have brought the man at all.
Arthur Lionheart and Queen Victoria welcomed the delegation with full ceremony. Military bands thundered beneath the palace's marble arches.
"Welcome, Your Royal Highness Prince Wilhelm, and Your Royal Highness Princess Augusta," Victoria announced, clad in a deep violet court gown—the highest expression of royal protocol. Her smile was polite, distant, impeccably controlled.
"The honour is ours, Your Majesty," Wilhelm replied, bowing with parade-ground precision. His sharp blue eyes assessed the Queen who, to his surprise, was even younger and lovelier than rumor suggested.
Arthur stepped forward, offering Augusta a graceful kiss upon her gloved hand.
"My lady, your arrival has dimmed the gardens of Buckingham by comparison."
The compliment, delivered with effortless charm, delighted Augusta—an admirer of art and romance—and warmed her toward the legendary Prince Consort at once.
The diplomatic courtesies progressed smoothly—until Wilhelm prepared to introduce his entourage.
For in that moment, Arthur Lionheart's gaze drifted past princes, scholars, and dignitaries… and fixed directly upon Bismarck, the man Wilhelm valued least.
Before anyone could comprehend what they were seeing, Arthur strode forward and enveloped the astonished Junker in a powerful embrace.
"Otto, my Friend!" Arthur laughed, in flawless, hearty German, striking Bismarck's broad back. "You're finally here! The best casks of Steinhäger gin in my cellar have been waiting for you—another week and I would have drunk them all myself!"
Bismarck froze only a moment before roaring with laughter and returning the embrace.
"Your Royal Highness Arthur Lionheart! I only feared your English beer was too weak to put me under the table!"
The hall fell silent.
The Prussian officials stared as though witnessing the collapse of natural law.
Bismarck—the oaf, the tavern loudmouth, the unwanted appendage at the back of their line—was apparently the "Friend" of Britain's most formidable political mind?
For the first time in his life, Wilhelm felt something very un-Prussian: confusion.
At the banquet that night, Wilhelm regained his political instincts. Raising his glass with fervour, he addressed Victoria and Arthur:
"Your Majesties, my royal brother, King Frederick William IV, has long admired Britain's triumphs in industry and science—and the extraordinary foresight of Your Royal Highness the Prince Consort. I have come to witness them myself, and to learn."
He drew his son forward.
"I have brought Frederick as well. The boy devours books but sees too little of the world. London may cure him of philosophy."
Encouraged, young Frederick addressed Arthur shyly:
"Your Highness… is it true you built a steel ship that cannot sink?"
Laughter rippled through the hall.
"Yes, young prince," Arthur said warmly, ruffling the boy's hair. "Tomorrow I shall take you onto the Thames to see the Queen's Revenge. I promise it is grander than any tale you have heard."
Wilhelm exhaled, pleased.
He clinked glasses with Arthur—but leaned in, voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur:
"Forgive my boldness… but regarding Otto von Bismarck… how did you two become… 'friends'?"
His tone carried the unmistakable disdain of a soldier toward an undisciplined subordinate.
"In Berlin we consider him little more than my brother's jester. A teller of crude country jokes."
Arthur's smile sharpened. He did not answer at once. He sipped his wine, then murmured:
"You are correct. He is very skilled at telling 'jokes.'"
Wilhelm blinked.
Arthur's voice dropped further, velvet-soft and lethal:
"But have you considered this, Your Highness?
If a man's jokes are compelling enough that a king listens to every word…
perhaps they are no longer jokes."
Arthur withdrew, raising his glass to the room.
"To friendship between our nations!"
The line struck Wilhelm like a blade slipped between ribs.
He looked toward Bismarck, who was blissfully absorbed in a plate of roasted pork shank.
But now, Wilhelm's gaze held a new weight—solemn, troubled, uncertain.
For the first time, he wondered whether he had misunderstood not only Bismarck…
but the entire political world he inhabited.
Victoria, ever perceptive, had observed her husband's whispered remark—and the unease it provoked in Wilhelm. She could not hear the words, but she sensed the effect.
Arthur Lionheart had unsettled the rigid Prussian prince with barely a sentence.
The realization amused her more than she cared to admit. She let slip a soft laugh and masked it by delicately cutting a perfect slice of roasted venison.
Then, in a gesture half-maternal, half-playful, she placed the morsel gently upon young Frederick's plate.
A Queen's subtle kindness—and a wife's quiet delight in the mischief of the man she loved.