It was said that winter in the northern lands was particularly long—snow began falling each September and didn’t thaw until March or April of the following year. Compared to such harsh conditions, the central plains’ temperate climate truly qualified as earthly paradise.
Willow branches sprouted tender buds, their newborn leaves soft yet resilient, suitable for weaving many patterns. Xiao You was skilled with her hands, weaving a flower basket while Wanwan could only weave flower crowns. Wearing one on her head, she danced for Dong Li in the bright spring light.
Dong Li was already six months old. Unlike his father, he was very lively and loved to laugh. Seeing his grandmother make funny faces, he laughed until his whole body trembled. But children truly couldn’t be overstimulated—otherwise they’d laugh endlessly, practically unable to catch their breath. After playing with him awhile, Wanwan took him in her arms, singing nursery rhymes: “Spinning lady, long her song…” After listening briefly, Dong Li grew tired, nuzzling against her chest seeking milk.
Wanwan only laughed: “This child—are his intestines straight? Just finished urinating and already hungry.”
The wet nurse loosened her clothing and gathered him in her arms, rocking back and forth: “Of course he must eat—eat then sleep, that’s how he grows. But the Qi people have one bad custom: when young lords grow up, they’re not allowed full meals but kept hungry to know life’s hardships. The Rong family on Ma Mansion Street had an incident—their young lord grew so hungry he caught grasshoppers to eat. Later he somehow contracted malaria and died just like that.” She stroked Dong Li’s little head under his tiger cap: “Fortunately our family isn’t like outsiders—we love letting young lords eat their fill. Feed my precious master plump and strong, marry a consort at ten years old.”
Wanwan laughed despite herself: “You’re even more impatient than me—ten years old…”
“His hair hasn’t even grown fully,” Xiao You blurted out, earning unanimous disdain from everyone.
The sun grew intense, its direct rays uncomfortable, so they moved inside. Recently Tala Shi visited less frequently, seemingly also feeling unwell. Wanwan sent a maidservant to check on her; reportedly nothing serious, she was sitting up normally again.
With spring at its peak, Wanwan reclined on the curved-end couch, directly beneath a moon-shaped window. Bird cages hung under the corridor outside—she loved hearing birdsong, which brought liveliness even to her dreams. The days were too long; she couldn’t think what to do with herself, like Dong Li, alternating only between eating, drinking, and sleeping.
She dozed pillowed on a cushion, dreaming bizarre dreams—seeing the emperor pounding tables, cabinet ministers arguing red-faced. Then a sharp voice cried out: “The Andong Guard army rests entirely in my hands. Why fight northern barbarians? Strike directly at the capital!”
She startled awake with a jolt, her heart pounding, momentarily unable to distinguish dream from reality. Sitting up, she looked around in confusion, seeing Tonghuan’s shocked face staring outside toward the parrot perch.
Wanwan felt an ominous premonition, as if dark clouds had descended, lowering even the sky. She slipped on shoes and walked over, hesitating: “How strange—someone seemed to be speaking just now… Tonghuan, did you hear it?”
Tonghuan remained silent, then said stiffly: “Summer’s coming—bird droppings fall everywhere, creating odors later. We should hang it elsewhere.”
She started to leave but Wanwan stopped her: “Was it the bird? I didn’t hear clearly—make it repeat.”
She gripped the window sill, nervous sweat covering her palms. The bird didn’t disappoint, flapping its wings twice before laughing: “Haha… I and all generals conspire for the realm!”
Her mind buzzed, then vast winds rushed destructively past. Her legs went weak; she could barely stand. What was this? What was happening? Tonghuan came to support her as she clutched her wrist, asking: “Is this parrot the one just moved here? Where was it kept before? From where did you move it?”
Tonghuan lost her composure too, calling back to ask the attending servants about the parrot’s origins. A maidservant stammered: “From… the prince’s study… we moved it.”
Tonghuan was greatly alarmed but feared upsetting her mistress, hastily explaining: “It’s just a bird—you can’t take its words seriously!”
Her eyes fixed steadily, face deathly pale. At this moment she couldn’t articulate her thoughts, only feeling her legs trembling and body shaking like a bow drawn to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
A bird moved from Liang Shi’s study, speaking of rebellion—who had taught it this?
She was terrified, almost unable to believe any of it. She had kept convincing herself to trust him, feeling endless gratitude for his loyal devotion during national crisis—was it all false? He performed before her while speaking freely before the parrot. This small bird understood nothing; it was merely a copy, learning and parroting whatever was said before it—this was its specialty and means of pleasing people.
She pushed Tonghuan away, walking step by step to the bird perch. Hopefully she was mistaken—this matter was too serious, requiring careful confirmation. She tried controlling her voice, mimicking the bird’s words to entice repetition: “Strike directly at the capital…”
The parrot hopped excitedly, saying in a coarse voice: “The Andong Guard army rests entirely in my hands. Why fight northern barbarians? Strike directly at the capital!”
Wanwan collapsed to the ground, her heart bleeding, her mind empty of all thought. She didn’t even know why she remained alive at this moment—she should become a handful of ash, her soul scattered to the winds.
So she had been taken for a fool—was this all real? Was it real…
While he plotted intensively for the throne, she remained in the dark, dreaming of marital harmony. Her bedfellow was an ambitious schemer with world-swallowing desires, disguising himself with loyalty and righteousness, ultimately seeking to have his cake and eat it too. Such a deeply calculating traitor—she had never noticed before, taking him for a worthy lifelong companion.
What bitter irony! She laughed through tears, staring emptily at Tonghuan: “The good days… are over.”
Tonghuan had long communicated with Yu Qixia, tacitly understanding Prince Nanyuan’s treasonous heart. She had hoped to conceal it temporarily, prioritizing the Grand Princess’s safety above all, never expecting it would be exposed this way. To blame anyone seemed impossible—only Prince Nanyuan’s carelessness in forgetting that parrots could speak and leak secrets.
Heaven had collapsed, with nowhere to turn. She still tried comforting her: “Don’t panic yet—confirm it first before hating. Don’t wrongly accuse good people.”
Wanwan only shook her head: “Raised by his side, learning his words—what more confirmation is needed? I was blind, mistaking him for a loyal minister. Now remembering those common people’s curses, I deserved it—fitting punishment.”
What Tonghuan most feared was seeing her blame everything on herself. What did this have to do with her? She was also a victim. Compared to people like them who cared little about ruling dynasties, she suffered personal injury—her worldview differed from theirs in ways they could never understand.
Wind dried the tears on her face. Having loved and hated, boundless pain remained. Had she never harbored illusions about him, she wouldn’t face today’s heartbreak. Recalling her time in Beijing, all past events became perfect evidence of her foolishness. Her former righteous words struck like merciless slaps, leaving her disheartened. She had even lost a child over this, hating the emperor and cabinet officials—who knew the instigator was entirely him? How could she accept this reality?
Lost and devastated, she summoned tremendous effort to steady herself, mustering strength twice before standing, pointing at the bird: “Dispose of it—it cannot remain.”
Tonghuan looked at her hesitantly: “Your Highness means?”
She walked inside with hanging arms, saying as she went: “What happened just now must not leak out. If it reaches the prince’s ears, bring me your head.”
Tonghuan didn’t know her plans—apparently she wanted to conceal it, acting as if nothing had happened. This was good too—marry a chicken, follow the chicken; marry a dog, follow the dog. With the situation dramatically changed and her powerless to reverse heaven’s will, better to preserve herself. At least Prince Nanyuan’s feelings for her were genuine.
Tonghuan obeyed and left. Wanwan sat alone on the couch for a long time, her mind spinning like a windmill, considering what to do next.
She must remain composed, not alarm him. He had hidden well, thinking he could deceive forever—then let him have his way. But her dignity as an imperial princess couldn’t be lost. She had once said that whoever plotted rebellion, she would be irreconcilable with them—even her bedfellow husband was no exception.
She summoned Yu Qixia to carefully inquire about outside conditions. The court’s deployment of armies to suppress rebels was indeed true—this way he could very likely use this opportunity to send troops into Beijing. If truly so, it was terrifying. Prince Ding still needed to overcome obstacles, but he could proceed unimpeded—no wonder he’d say “strike directly at the capital.”
Such deep calculation! Perhaps his confused brother still dreamed of peaceful times while someone’s blade already rested at his throat.
Wanwan closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Yu Qixia asked worriedly: “What does Your Highness plan?”
She clenched her hands, saying tearfully with determination: “However worthless my brother may be, he’s my blood sibling from the same mother—I won’t allow others to harm his life. How many of Liang Shi’s words were true? He clearly said departure was before New Year, yet when I asked the young lady, she said Lan Zhou had just left recently. If I’m not mistaken, the Andong Guard army should be split in two groups—one long since departed, Lan Zhou in the second group which is the main force to capture the capital.”
Yu Qixia was somewhat amazed that a delicate woman possessed such thorough reasoning. Truly her bones contained innate extraordinariness, not losing judgment despite long pampering.
He confirmed: “According to this minister’s knowledge, the Andong Guard army far exceeds two hundred thousand. For court deployment, the apparent departing numbers comply with court orders, but without cabinet-sent commissioners for inspection, the actual numbers—even deploying four hundred thousand—would be unknown.”
She nodded, slowly frowning: “We must somehow alert His Majesty. He’s now desperately seeking medical help—just hearing Andong Guard has deployed troops, he probably feels completely safe.”
She went to her desk to write, sincerely advising the emperor to prioritize state affairs and prevent bandit assembly and rising smoke of war. Giving the letter to Yu Qixia, she instructed: “Choose someone reliable for eight-hundred-li urgent delivery to the capital, ensuring personal presentation to His Majesty. The letter is for handling inspections without arousing suspicion. The crucial message goes orally—ask His Majesty to immediately mobilize Xining Guard and Taiyuan Prefecture garrison troops for royal protection, preventing Andong Guard army mutiny.”
They were now grasshoppers tied to one rope—the Grand Princess was their master. If she chose resignation, they’d drift with her; if she chose to fight, they’d die for her.
Yu Qixia cupped his hands: “Your Highness may rest assured—this minister will handle it urgently.”
So coincidentally, leaving the sleeping quarters, he encountered Prince Nanyuan head-on. Yu Qixia, having weathered great storms, maintained natural composure, respectfully stepping aside to bow. He only worried whether the princess might reveal flaws for him to detect.
Fortunately she also remained composed, approaching as usual to link her arm through his, smiling: “Returning so early today—truly rare.”
He noticed nothing unusual, stroking her hand: “After being so busy and neglecting you, my duties are complete—returning early today to dine with you.”
She smiled until her jaw ached, still using sweet tones to chide: “Why didn’t you send word ahead? Nothing’s prepared now—I planned to eat simply… Look how busy those two cooks will be…”
Yu Qixia sighed with relief, feeling indescribable emotion. How difficult for her, maintaining such pretense—who knew how long she must continue?
He hurried past the second gate to the duty room, finding Jin Shi and placing the letter in his hands: “Her Highness’s order—the letter is obvious, the oral message hidden. Ask His Majesty to deploy troops from Xining Guard and Taiyuan Prefecture for royal protection—delay means too late.”
Jin Shi was startled: “Her Highness already knows?”
Yu Qixia nodded obscurely: “The news came from a parrot’s mouth… human planning can’t match heaven’s will!”
Jin Shi took up his table sword: “I’ll depart immediately.”
Yu Qixia stopped him: “Don’t make such a commotion. You’re a commander—what urgent correspondence requires your personal involvement? Send subordinates—choose someone clever, same as usual.”
Jin Shi’s men were all brothers who’d shared life and death, trusted completely. But this matter was too serious for carelessness. Currently the Grand Princess and Prince Nanyuan hadn’t openly broken relations—departing now was still relatively safe. After careful consideration, he chose his most reliable subordinate Wu Qu, explaining everything before patting his shoulder: “Can you handle it?”
Wu Qu grinned: “Delivering family letters—what’s the big deal! Not just Beijing—even Yama’s palace, we’d dare…”
Before finishing, Jin Shi kicked him: “Nonsense! Work more, talk less. Go!”
After seeing off Wu Qu, he and Yu Qixia looked at each other grimly: “What must come will come—rather than slow torture, better a quick end.”
Yu Qixia sighed deeply: “Only pity for Her Highness—regardless, there must be choices. Three years ago she might have forgiven Prince Nanyuan, but now it’s probably difficult.”
Indeed difficult—Wanwan was already at a loss facing him. The person who’d promised lifelong mutual dependence had abandoned her midway. He harbored grander ambitions; now it seemed marrying a princess wasn’t so simple—it was preparation for gradually approaching imperial power.
He poured wine for her; she took the pot: “How can I drink? Just keeping you company. You’ve worked hard lately—can you rest hereafter?”
He hummed acknowledgment: “Campaigning against Nuer’gan spans great distances—provisions must be continuously sent. Originally the court should have deployed nearby supplies, but Yulin’s great granary flooded, dropping this thousand-pound burden on us again.”
Normally Wanwan would have felt heartbroken over his toil, but now with him brazenly lying, she felt no emotion—it seemed rather laughable. Was this his so-called love? Long deception, concealing temporarily, then causing her heart-piercing agony. His solemn oaths and firm assertions—didn’t he feel any guilt?
She lowered her eyes, serving him food, saying softly: “You’re capable and hardworking—when victory comes, the court will surely reward Nanyuan. And Lan Zhou…” She smiled somewhat bitterly: “Such a young child charging into battle—truly no weak sons from strong fathers. Having no children myself, I’ll depend on him in future—he must preserve himself well.”
Having no children—now this seemed not so terrible. Bearing children with such a heartless wolf would only produce another Lan Zhou—why bother!