Arthur's "Three Axes of Reform" had finally been passed by Parliament—though not without a suspenseful struggle.
The process, of course, had been far less effortless than he later made it seem.
After dropping those three "irresistible proposals" on the assembly, Arthur still had to drag Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, into several rounds of closed-door negotiations with the Conservative aristocracy, whose interests had been deeply wounded. There were bargains, concessions, and the exchange of various quietly promised favours.
Only after Arthur agreed to "suitably favour" certain family businesses in upcoming government contracts—combined with the Queen personally bestowing a handful of decorative new titles—was a fragile compromise finally reached.
The bills squeaked through by only a few votes.
Once again, Arthur Lionheart had demonstrated what he had long told Victoria: politics is the art of compromise—and of calculated exchange.
The path was messy, but the results were undeniable.
Under the combined drive of Queen Victoria and her Prince Consort, a sweeping Victorian Reform surged through the British Empire. The repeal of the Corn Laws sent bread prices tumbling; compulsory education opened bright, clean classrooms to tens of thousands of slum children for the first time; and the ambitious construction of London's underground sewer system provided work for nearly a hundred thousand unemployed men.
The nation felt alive—prosperous, changing, awakened.
Meanwhile, Arthur's lightning victory in the East and his decisive reforms at home struck Europe like a storm rolling over stagnant waters.
Across the continent, kings and ministers watched Britain with a mixture of astonishment and unease. Under the leadership of this young Queen and her enigmatic Prince Consort, the Empire seemed to be transforming—its old lion's shape shifting into something fiercer, more unpredictable.
Thus began the quiet spread of a continental trend: "Learn from Britain."
The first and most energetic to respond was the rising Kingdom of Prussia.
A few weeks later, Buckingham Palace glittered with light as Queen Victoria hosted a grand reception for the Industrial, Commercial, and Military Friendship Delegation sent personally by King Frederick William III of Prussia.
Arthur, as host, naturally could not withdraw from such diplomatic theatre—though privately he was exhausted by these cultivated rituals, these rooms filled with stiff courtesy and empty smiles.
He wandered through the banquet hall with a glass of Bavarian dark beer—served in honour of the German guests—and found himself observing the Prussian officials in their immaculate uniforms with the detached curiosity one might feel toward a collection of finely carved marionettes.
Then, in a shadowed corner of the hall, away from the orchestras and conversation—
He saw him.
A young man, massive in stature, his Prussian uniform visibly straining at the seams, sat alone at a small table. Before him stood not a plate of delicacies but a small army of seven or eight empty beer steins. He held the ninth, draining it with the casual power of a farm ox.
Every so often he muttered under his breath, in a coarse Pomeranian accent, "By God, this British beer tastes like horse water."
His behaviour was entirely out of place in such a polished diplomatic setting.
Arthur Lionheart's eyes gleamed with sudden interest.
He signalled for a fresh stein—rich, dark, still frothing—and set it down with a distinct thud upon the young man's table.
The Prussian looked up, blue eyes sharp even through the haze of drink. Upon recognising the host of the evening, he stiffened slightly, attempting to disguise his unease.
His features were not handsome, but they carried a rugged, weather-beaten strength, like uncut stone.
"Prince Arthur?" he asked hoarsely.
Arthur did not answer immediately. Instead, in fluent—if lightly rustic—German, he smiled and asked:
"Tell me, sir—does Prussian beer truly surpass ours so easily?"
The young man froze, startled by the unexpected burst of perfect German. His eyes softened with surprise.
"Of course it does," he replied bluntly.
Arthur laughed and pulled up a chair, delighted.
"You sound like a man who speaks from expertise. Tell me—what is your name, friend?"
"Your Highness… Otto von Bismarck."
Arthur's heart jolted.
Bismarck.
Here he was—the man who would one day forge the German Empire, the Iron Chancellor who would redraw the map of Europe.
Yet now, he was merely a 26-year-old Junker—rebellious, unfinished, recently withdrawn from public service, spending his days hunting, drinking, and raising hell with disreputable companions. He had been added to the delegation purely because of his family name.
To everyone else he was an uncultured squire with an impressive thirst.
But Arthur saw it immediately: beneath the drunken exterior, a slumbering lion.
"Tell me, Herr Bismarck," Arthur continued casually, "your accent is Pomeranian. I have heard that your roast pork knuckle and blood sausage, served with sauerkraut, are the finest in all Germany—is it true?"
The simple, grounded question disarmed Bismarck completely.
He discovered that this Prince Consort was unlike any aristocrat he had met. He did not drone about high art or parade his wealth. He spoke of beer, sausages, and pork knuckle—as if they were equals in a country tavern.
For a man who despised pretension, this was a revelation.
"True!" Bismarck slapped his thigh with enthusiasm. "The blood sausage from our own pigs—its flavour—well—"
And so, in the most inconspicuous corner of the banquet hall…
One was the future architect of Britain's global supremacy.
The other, the future Iron Chancellor and founder of the German nation.
Two titans of history—who one day might stand as rivals—now became, for a fleeting hour, nothing more than two lively country drinkers.
They discussed "horse-water" British beer, Prussian pork knuckle, English fish-and-chips, the boars of the Black Forest, and stag hunting in the Scottish Highlands.
The more they spoke, the more astonished Bismarck became.
This British prince knew everything.
Not merely customs and cuisines—he knew the soil composition of Pomeranian farmlands and the crop rotations best suited to each region.
Was this truly a man?
Or a walking, speaking compendium of Europe?
And Arthur, for his part, was quietly impressed by Bismarck's mind. Beneath the bluff exterior, every question the young Junker asked cut straight to fundamentals: land, food, taxation, population.
The instincts of a statesman—raw, pragmatic, natural.
"A hero recognises another in humble form," Arthur thought, watching this rural Junker boast proudly about his estate's potato harvest.
And a mischievous idea began to form in Arthur Lionheart's mind.