Two days after the great coming-of-age banquet in Berlin—after the talks with his family, the whispering court, and the public training sessions where young women fainted if they so much as brushed his hand and half of Germany's men began trying to stand straighter "like Oskar"—he finally did what he'd promised himself he would do.
He went south.
Not as a conqueror.
As a guest… and as a warning.
On 29 July 1908, an imperial train carried him toward Munich, guarded by the Eternal Guard—not because Bavaria was hostile, but because the world demanded it now. A Crown Prince could no longer walk through a station like a man. He walked through it like an event, and events attracted crowds the way ponds attracted ducks: noisily, greedily, and in unmanageable numbers.
Oskar sat in a private carriage with a glass of milk in hand, looking less like the most important heir in Europe and more like a man commuting to a meeting he would prefer to finish quickly. The windows trembled softly with the rhythm of rail joints. Outside, summer slid past in green bands: rye and wheat fields, orchards, hedgerows, and—more and more often—tractors.
Not many yet. Not enough to make the old farmers stop talking about horses. But enough that the land itself looked like it had begun to believe in the future.
New roads appeared too, wider than they used to be, edged with young trees planted in disciplined lines. Where the rails crossed villages, smoke rose from chimneys, but the air was cleaner than it had been only a few years ago. Oskar's fingerprints were everywhere, even when his name wasn't.
Inside the carriage, the Eternal Guard sat in silent discipline—steel in human form, men who moved like they had been trained to block bullets before they learned to smile.
At one point Oskar glanced at them and sighed.
"This is absurd," he murmured, tilting his milk glass slightly. "I'm going to meet Bavarians, not invade France."
One of the Guards didn't blink.
"Your Highness," he replied, flat with devotion, "we will always do as you wish, even invade."
Oskar stared at him.
"…Please don't," he said. "That would be very awkward."
The Guard nodded solemnly, as if filing it under tactical guidance.
Munich greeted him with summer heat and Bavarian pride.
The station platforms were busy with travelers and uniforms, the air smelling of coal smoke, fresh bread, and warm stone. Beyond the city, the land rose in gentle waves—green meadows dotted with cows, darker patches of forest, and far away, like pale teeth under the haze, the Alps.
Here the churches had onion domes. The people spoke German differently. The city carried itself like a place that had been important long before Berlin decided it was the center of the world.
And Bavaria remembered that.
Oskar stepped down from the train—two meters of broad-shouldered inevitability—and the crowd reaction was immediate: a ripple of attention, a tightening of space. Not panic. Not fear.
Recognition.
He did not linger.
A new car waited for him at the platform, and it made even seasoned officers pause.
The Muscle Motors A-Class.
It looked like something the century had not earned yet.
Long and low, with flowing coachwork that curved like poured wine, fenders swelling smoothly over whitewall tires, chrome catching the station light in sharp flashes. The grille was tall, proud, almost ceremonial—less a car's face and more a declaration.
At the front, centered above the grille, was the emblem:
two interlocked M's, cast in polished metal, and above them a small crown—the royal mark of the Crown Prince's personal fleet.
The same crowned double-M sat at the rear, discreet but unmistakable.
The windshield was thicker than normal glass—subtly bullet-resistant, with metal framing that looked elegant until you realized it was built to survive violence. The engine note was not loud, but deep: a steady, confident purr that sounded expensive and slightly predatory.
Oskar's driver was not a normal chauffeur. He was armored under his coat, rifle stowed close, face calm with the expression of a man who had been trained to die professionally.
Oskar climbed in as if it were a simple carriage.
The door shut with a heavy, final sound.
The convoy formed instantly.
Motorcycles first—six of them, military machines with sidecars, riders in hard helmets, boots planted wide, eyes scanning. Then Oskar's A-Class. Then more Muscle Motors behind—three additional A-Class cars, black and gleaming, their engines humming like satisfied beasts.
Two military trucks followed as well—one front, one rear—each with a hatch partially open, each with a machine gun crew visible, not aiming, but unmistakably ready.
It was, objectively, ridiculous.
It was also a message, written in steel:
Do not test me.
He had learned the hard way that fame without some caution was an invitation.
The convoy rolled out of Munich and into greener country. Roads lined with trees. Farmhouses with neat gardens. Stretches of meadow where children paused to stare, mouths open, as the future passed them with crowned double-M symbols glinting in the sun.
Even the horses noticed, turning their heads as the cars went by.
Soon the Wittelsbach residence came into view—white stone and dark timber accents, broad roofs, orderly gardens, and the quiet scale of an old house that did not need to prove anything to Berlin. Lamps stood along the drive. Guards waited at intervals. The place carried Catholic discipline and centuries of pride in its bones.
Because Bavaria was not a province like the others.
Bavaria was old, stubborn, and still half a kingdom in its own heart. A place that smiled politely at Berlin while quietly remembering it had once resisted Prussia with real armies.
The convoy passed through the gates.
Gravel crunched under tires.
And then the cars came to a stop before the main entrance, the crowned double-M shining like an insult and a promise.
Prince Rupprecht greeted him there—soldierly correct, expression controlled, a careful smile carrying a thousand calculations. His eyes flicked—once, involuntarily—to the trucks, the motorcycles, the men fanning out with disciplined speed.
Oskar's Guard were already moving, unloading and spreading like a practiced net, securing corners, sightlines, entrances. The Bavarian household guard—lighter in armor, less aggressive in posture—did not interfere. They simply watched, stiff-backed, as if trying to decide whether this was protection or occupation.
Rupprecht's mouth tightened just slightly.
Oskar stepped out of the A-Class.
The Bavarians were tall men.
Oskar still made them look up.
He greeted Rupprecht with the same tone he used for competent officers: respectful, brief, calm.
Then more cars arrived—his cars.
Three A-Class vehicles rolled to a stop behind him like black animals coming to heel. Chrome flashed. Whitewalls gleamed. The crowned double-M symbols caught the light again and again, impossible to ignore.
They weren't merely transport.
They were an announcement:
I can move.
I can build.
I can fund.
And I can bring the future with me as luggage.
One of Rupprecht's men, unable to stop himself, murmured under his breath:
"That's… the future."
Oskar heard it and almost laughed.
Yes, he thought. And it's expensive.
He knew Bavaria still loved its horses, still loved the old rhythm. Even here, the Wittelsbach household maintained stables like a point of pride. They had Muscle Motors vehicles already—some lesser models—but nothing like this. Nothing like an A-Class that looked like a sculpture made drivable.
For them, this wasn't just a car.
It was proof that Berlin's strange Iron Prince wasn't merely loud.
He was real.
Inside the Wittelsbach Residenz, the whole Bavarian royal family received him the way old dynasties received anything new:
with manners first…
and judgment afterward.
The halls were heavy with tradition—portraits that watched like ancestors, tapestries that had survived too many centuries to be impressed, lacquered wood polished into quiet arrogance, and the faint, comforting smell of wax and old money. It was the kind of place that could make modern ambition feel childish.
Oskar did not let it.
He arrived without bluster. No theatrical entrances. No "steel prince" performance.
Just calm.
And gifts.
Not vulgar piles. Not bribes disguised as generosity. Symbols—carefully chosen, quietly terrifying in what they implied about his reach.
From the Oskar Industrial Group: refined household devices that made servants' work easier and sickness less likely. Things that didn't scream luxury so much as efficiency. Illustrated books printed on thick paper—beautiful, readable, made for children and adults alike, because Oskar did not believe power should remain illiterate. Discreet AngelWorks items for the women—tasteful, high quality, unmistakably new-century.
Then came the gift for Princess Gundelinda.
And because he had actually listened when she spoke, it wasn't jewelry.
It was a simple leather collar—soft, strong, plain, made with real craft. A working collar, not a trophy.
A few brows rose. A few mouths tightened in confusion. For a heartbeat, the old court nearly misinterpreted it.
Then an old sheepdog trotted forward with the stubborn dignity of a veteran and planted himself before Gundelinda as if he had come to receive tribute.
The moment snapped into place.
Gundelinda's eyes lit like lanterns.
"Oh!" she breathed, laughing under her hand, and knelt to fasten the collar with careful fingers.
The dog—Sheepy, she called him with embarrassing affection—accepted the collar as if it were a medal, then bounded away at once as if the entire estate had suddenly become an urgent battlefield of sheep.
That, more than pearls or diamonds, was Oskar's first true victory here.
The days that followed were… strangely pleasant.
Oskar did not rush.
He didn't treat Bavaria like a project to be conquered, nor Gundelinda like a prize to be secured. He watched. Listened. Felt the household's temperature.
He wanted to see what the Wittelsbachs valued when they weren't performing for Berlin.
To see whether Bavaria was proud… or poisonous.
And he wanted to see Gundelinda without chandeliers and politics warping her shape.
So he behaved, deliberately, like an older brother rather than a predator of alliances. He asked her simple questions. Teased gently. Explained things plainly. He didn't lean close. He didn't corner her. He didn't demand emotion like a tax.
He simply stayed near.
Gundelinda—caught between girlhood and duty—began to relax.
She showed him much the way she understood it: not as a recited list of facts, but as a world she genuinely loved. Gardens where fountains murmured like secrets. Quiet halls where history felt like a living thing. Shaded paths that smelled of summer leaves and stone.
She even took him to a ballet—her voice bright with careful excitement, as if she was offering him a piece of herself rather than an itinerary. Helmtrud came too, stubborn as ever, never quite willing to let her sister stand alone in the light.
Oskar noticed Helmtrud's orbit and pretended not to.
He had seen women stake claims before.
This wasn't that.
This was a sister refusing to accept being moved aside.
Then Gundelinda took him out of the city.
Into Bavaria's lungs.
They rode through countryside estates and farmsteads with Shadowmane beneath Oskar—his black horse moving like a living weapon: calm, obedient, powerful. Gundelinda rode beside him on a lighter mount, posture careful, pride tucked behind shyness. Helmtrud followed too, as if determined to prove she could keep pace.
And there, in the open air where perfume could not hide anything, Oskar saw something he hadn't expected to see so soon:
Greenway.
Not everywhere. Not complete. Bavaria was too large and too stubborn to transform overnight. But the signs were visible—small and undeniable.
New drainage lines cut clean through wet ground. Hedgerows planted with purpose. Demonstration plots where old methods had been replaced by careful rotation. A clumsy early tractor in a field, still imperfect by Oskar's standards, but real—pulling, grinding forward, refusing to tire.
And around it: men watching with the wary curiosity of people who didn't want to admit they were impressed.
Breeding programs had begun too—subtle changes showing in stock: sturdier cows, healthier sheep, chickens that were… absurdly larger than they had any right to be.
Oskar found himself smiling faintly.
Progress had arrived ahead of him.
Not by magic.
By systems.
Somewhere on the edge of the area, he even saw one small synthetic facility—still modest, more workshop than plant—producing fuel and materials for machines and repairs. Nothing grand. Nothing flashy.
Just the quiet infrastructure of the new century creeping into old soil.
Gundelinda watched it all with wide eyes.
"So this is… yours?" she asked softly.
"Not mine," Oskar corrected gently. "Germany's. I just pushed the first stone."
Helmtrud snorted. "That's a very modest way to describe controlling half the world."
Oskar pretended not to hear.
Sheepy followed them everywhere—old, scarred, loyal, the kind of dog that looked as if he had fought wolves and won by refusing to die.
He treated most humans like potential idiots.
Except Oskar.
Sheepy approved of Oskar immediately, which Oskar considered the purest form of endorsement possible.
Dogs, unlike nobles, could not lie.
They visited pens and barns. Sheep. Chickens. Cows. Pigs.
At one point a pig attempted to bite Oskar's boot.
Oskar stared down at it with grave seriousness.
"Even pigs," he said solemnly, "wish to test the Iron Prince."
Gundelinda giggled into her sleeve as if laughter itself were improper.
Helmtrud laughed outright.
And for a moment, it didn't feel like dynastic mathematics.
It felt like people.
On the fourth day they ended up near a lakeside meadow—one of those places painters loved and soldiers secretly envied.
A sheep broke loose and bolted into the grass like it had decided to become a legend.
Sheepy exploded into action, barking commands only sheep could understand.
Gundelinda laughed and ran after them without thinking, lifting her skirts just enough to avoid tripping.
"Oskar, look!" she called, breathless.
Oskar sighed theatrically, nudged Shadowmane forward—then leaned too far on purpose.
He slipped.
And landed in the grass with a dramatic thump.
Gundelinda spun around instantly.
"Oskar!" she cried, running back. "Are you hurt?!"
He opened one eye.
Then the other.
Then grinned.
Before she could react, he rolled once and caught her gently, and they both ended up in the grass—laughing, unhurt, dignity abandoned.
"Got you," he said.
She stared at him for a second… then laughed harder, grass in her hair, cheeks red, the world suddenly simple.
For a few seconds they lay there just breathing, lake quiet nearby, sky wide above them, Sheepy in the distance barking like a general supervising idiots.
Then Gundelinda sat up, brushing her skirt, suddenly serious.
"Oskar?"
"Yes?"
"What do you think about… the marriage talk?"
Oskar blinked.
Then answered honestly, because pretending would only poison the calm.
"I think it sounds… calm," he said. "And sensible. And kind."
Gundelinda considered that as if weighing whether she was allowed to be relieved.
"I don't mind," she admitted softly. "If it's not right away. If I can stay myself."
Oskar nodded.
"That's exactly what I want too."
Her smile was small and unguarded.
That was all.
No promises carved in stone. No pressure. No theatrics.
Just a shared understanding:
A future possibility.
Later that day, the family was informed—properly.
Not announced. Not declared. Not "engaged."
Simply acknowledged.
The Wittelsbachs received it with the calm of people fluent in dynastic arithmetic. Approval came measured, not warm—yet the atmosphere changed all the same.
A bridge had been set in place.
Not crossed. Not chained. But real.
When Oskar returned north, he carried no ring.
He carried something rarer.
Time.
A pause in the court's screaming.
A rumor that steadied rather than poisoned.
A future that could be shaped slowly—instead of forced.
And as the year began to close, life moved beneath the surface: quiet pregnancies, quiet plans, and the next wave of inventions already gathering in Oskar's head.