Chiêu Hoàng stepped into the library located deep within the forbidden palace—a place reserved only for those wielding the highest authority over life and death in the court, where the lingering scent of incense seemed to carry the weight of political machinations.
The dim light from a dragon-etched bronze lamp hanging from the ceiling reflected off the square marble tiles of the floor, its flickering rays dancing like the souls of the departed drifting over the still waters of Lục Thủy Lake.
She had expected to meet her father—the emperor, the man she had been taught to revere as a towering mountain peak, forever touched by sunlight yet unreachable. A figure she could only gaze upon, never touch; worship, but never understand. But the man standing there, his form as if carved from the stone of Mount Tản Viên, motionless and solemn, staring intently at the map of Đại Việt, at the sinuous "S" curve at its northern edge—was not Lý Thánh Tông.
It was Trần Thủ Độ.
Chiêu Hoàng did not kneel. Nor did she bow deeply. She stood upright, tilting her head only slightly as required by court protocol for a high-ranking minister, even one who held supreme military power, capable of commanding soldiers to draw their swords with a wave of his hand or making scholars bow with a single cold glance.
"I am here. Where is His Majesty? What counsel does the Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor have for summoning me at this hour?"
It was not an easy task to recite the litany of titles belonging to this man, the court's foremost military official, whose single word could make soldiers unsheathe their blades, scholars lower their heads, and the entire realm tread cautiously.
Her voice did not waver. It was clear, lofty, yet sharp like a newly drawn sword. Those lengthy titles—if not wielded as a subtle blade—served only as a polished veneer for some scheme she had yet to discern.
Trần Thủ Độ did not answer immediately. He looked at her, pausing as though peeling back the layers of thought behind her gaze, weighing her sharpness, her loyalty, and the unspoken wounds of a young woman thrust into the heart of a political chessboard not yet fully revealed.
"Does Her Royal Highness Princess Chiêu Hoàng know what I am looking at?" he finally asked, his voice deep and firm, like the limestone cliffs of Yên Tử Mountain.
"Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor, it is the map of our country - Đại Việt."
"Indeed. That is precisely why I wished to meet you here—not in the main hall, not amidst the verbose civil officials or the crude military ones, but in the quietest place in this court, to discuss matters that even His Majesty, though the ruler of a nation, cannot speak of himself."
"What matter is it that my father, the emperor, cannot discuss with me?"
Trần Thủ Độ did not respond immediately. His gaze shifted from the map to her face—a face still so young yet hardened like iron forged through countless court rituals and intrigues. Then, slowly, his voice softened, almost like the breath of an aging father:
"I need your help with two things…"He paused as if allowing his words to sink into the listener's heart. "First, let us dispense with these cumbersome titles. Between you and me, this conversation is not about protocol or court politics. It belongs to a deeper realm, where the fate of the nation rests on a single person."
She hesitated briefly, then nodded lightly. After all, he was advanced in years. She understood that when a man like Trần Thủ Độ informally called her, it was either a plea that transcended propriety or a gamble he was making with himself.
"And… Grand Imperial Tutor… the second matter?" she asked, her voice softening, though her eyes remained wary, like someone concealing a sword behind the folds of their robe.
Trần Thủ Độ nodded, offering a gentle smile. "The second matter is something only you can do. Not for me. Not for His Majesty. But for Đại Việt - our young country."
She did not respond. She only looked at him, her gaze as cold and still as the surface of Lục Thủy Lake at dawn.
Trần Thủ Độ pointed to the large map hanging on the wall, its red ink lines tracing the borders between Đại Việt, Northern Song, and Champa.
"Do you know how many years it has been since Ngô King won this land, giving our Vietnamese people a foothold after over a thousand years of northern rule?"
He began the "second matter" with a circuitous question, a stark departure from his usual directness in court.
"It has been exactly 131 years since Đại Việt broke free from more than a thousand years of northern domination, starting from the year 939 under Ngô Quyền," she replied immediately.
"And do you know how long it has been since our First Emperor Lý Thái Tổ moved the capital to Thăng Long?"
"Exactly sixty years," Chiêu Hoàng interrupted. "Forgive me, but please get to the point. We cannot converse as though I am being tested on history, Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor."
Chiêu Hoàng's patience was wearing thin. She reverted to addressing him by his full title.
"You have a deep understanding of our history. That is why I chose you. Sixty years. Just sixty years—a single lifetime—and we have only settled in Thăng Long for sixty years…" He nodded.
Then, very softly, he knelt. The air seemed to freeze. He—the man known as the iron hand of the court, who held the dynasty's fate and could shake the realm—knelt before her. The Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor disappeared, leaving only an old man. His head bowed low to the ground, his voice hoarse:
"Princess… please forgive this humble servant. But I beseech you… please agree to help Đại Việt."
She stood stunned—not because he knelt, but because of his voice. Something in it sent a chill down her spine, noble desperation, like a general pleading for the lives of thousands of soldiers behind him.
"Chế Củ is a stubborn king of the Champa Kingdom. He will never submit willingly. But he is still a man. And if he loves you… he will not only yield. He will offer the southern lands as a wedding gift."
She stepped back, her feet light as if barely touching the ground. A wave rose within her—not fear, but a feeling she could not name.
"Are you… proposing that I become the queen of Champa?" she asked, her eyes fixed on Trần Thủ Độ.
He did not look up, his voice trembling slightly:
"He has seen you. At the bell tower of Báo Thiên Temple. I know he was captivated. If you consent… you will not merely be a queen in name. You will be Đại Việt's envoy. Not a drop of blood needs to be shed. Not a single soldier need fall." He raised his head, his seasoned eyes weary. "You will bring peace, Her Royal Highness Princess Chiêu Hoàng. And the southern territories. If you bear his child, that child will carry Đại Việt's blood and rule the Champa Kingdom. Our borders will stretch to Phan Rang. Our people will have space to live and thrive. One princess for the future of a nation—that price only you can pay."
Chiêu Hoàng did not answer. She only looked at him, her gaze as cold as Lục Thủy Lake at dawn—clear, still, yet hiding unfathomable depths.
Then, softly, she said:
"And if I refuse?"
Trần Thủ Độ stood immediately, faster than he had knelt. He brushed the dust from his knees with a gentle sweep of his sleeve. The pleading in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glint of steel—cold, resolute, and dangerous. The old man who had just knelt before her disappeared in the second.
The Grand Imperial Turor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor had returned:
"Then another royal lady will be chosen. Another game will be played. Another fate decided. I know how to make Chế Củ love another woman. He has been imprisoned for a year. He needs a woman. If necessary, I will keep him in the imperial prison for years more until the love grows in his despair. But time is a thing I don't have, now. The Song dynasty army is eyeing our northern borders. I regret to say that no one else is wise enough to grasp the true meaning of what I am telling you, Her Royal Highness Princess Chiêu Hoàng."
Chiêu Hoàng turned slightly. She looked at the map. The red ink lines marking Đại Việt's narrow northern "S" stood stark on the leather of the buffalo as making of the map. It resembled the head of a small dragon, waiting for its slender body to be completed.
"I understand," she said, her voice light as a feather. "This is the fourth chess game no one mentioned in court."
Trần Thủ Độ smiled—a rare smile, like mist on Tam Đảo's peak, fleeting and dissolving into the cold air.
"That is why my father could not speak of this to me." She sighed.
Then, under her breath, she murmured:
"I wish I were not a princess."
Silence.
Her eyes hardened, cold as tempered steel. She turned to him, not with anger, but with tension like a taut string about to snap:
"Is this my father's scheme or yours? No father would sell his daughter for land. No father—unless he is no longer human…"
She stopped abruptly. Her voice cut like a blade as her conclusion:
"One day, if I have the chance… I will take your head, Trần Thủ Độ."
Once again, Trần Thủ Độ knelt down before her. This time, it was not a plea but a bow to fate, even though he had no power to change.