Traveling back to the Northern Song Dynasty: Picking up a princess as my wife

As the year-end chill intensifies, the approach of the Spring Festival can be faintly heard. In the snow-covered city of Wuguo in the north, a former emperor, Emperor Huizong of Song, Zhao Ji, wearing a sheepskin coat worn slightly by the years, walks with a faltering gait, yet exudes an indomitable tenacity.

The warm breath he exhaled condensed into mist in the cold air, then quickly dissipated, like an unfinished dream in his heart, which, though briefly present, could not last long.

Emperor Huizong of Jin (Zhao Ji) trudged through the snow, each step heavy yet resolute and helpless, toward the luxurious and imposing camp of Emperor Wanyan Dan of the Jin Dynasty.

Along the way, the north wind howled, seemingly telling the story of past glory and present desolation. He, the former emperor, could only face the judge of fate as a prisoner.

The warmth of his sheepskin coat was insufficient to ward off the biting cold, but it was like the faint yet tenacious ember of hope in his heart. He knew that this journey might be his last, but his longing for his homeland and his recollection of past glories were like the falling snowflakes—they would eventually melt, but they had once illuminated the entire winter.

As Wanyan Dan's camp gradually came into view, the magnificent palace appeared even more majestic against the backdrop of the snow. Zhao Ji took a deep breath, adjusted his posture, and embarked on this journey that was destined to be extraordinary.

His silhouette stretched long across the snow, appearing exceptionally lonely and desolate, yet exuding an indescribable dignity and strength. At this moment, he was no longer the imprisoned emperor, but an ordinary man facing the final challenge of his life and defending his dignity.

In the past, Bianjing (Kaifeng) might occasionally see light snowflakes, but it never witnessed such a magnificent scene as that of the north.

The snow there, like fine silver sand, gently brushed across the eaves and stone paths of the ancient city, unlike the snow falling heavily and covering the sky before my eyes, and unlike the endless snow, as if it were the most generous strokes of nature, freely splashed across the northern landscape.

The snow in Bianjing (Kaifeng) carries a touch of the gentleness and delicacy of Jiangnan (the region south of the Yangtze River), lightly kissing the long river of history and leaving behind a faint, almost imperceptible chill. But the snowscape of the north before us is a different kind of grandeur and magnificence. Snowflakes as large as goose feathers fall gently, transforming the entire world into a silver-clad fairyland, continuously and firmly speaking the language of winter, making one involuntarily immersed in its purity and vastness.

In contrast, the snow in Bianjing (Kaifeng) is more like a touch of light ink in the writings of literati, elegant and subtle; while the snow in the north is like a splashed-ink landscape painting, majestic and awe-inspiring. Both have their own merits, yet together they weave the most moving poem of winter.

In the fleeting span of less than a year, the joyful cries of infants echoed from the rooms of several of Emperor Huizong's concubines, like heavenly music, yet causing him to furrow his brow.

The arrival of each new life in the emperor's lineage is supposed to be a symbol of the continuation of the imperial bloodline. But behind those layers of brocade curtains, how many truly inherit the emperor's dragon lineage? Perhaps only Emperor Huizong himself could silently ponder this in the quiet of the night. That secret and loneliness belonging to the emperor was something no one could understand, nor did it need to be understood.

When he arrived at the gate of the Jin emperor's palace, the Jin soldiers on guard did not even look at him and allowed Zhao Ji to come and go freely.

Stepping into the magnificent hall, the flickering candlelight illuminated a scene of golden splendor.

The figure of Emperor Wanyan Dan of the Jin Dynasty appeared even more majestic amidst the interplay of light and shadow. He was holding an exquisite wine vessel, pouring out the mellow wine with unrestrained abandon, letting the fine liquor flow into the corners of his slightly upturned lips, as if in this way resonating with the joy in his heart.

As Zhao Ji slowly entered, Wanyan Dan's gaze softened instantly, and a meaningful smile appeared on his lips. His laughter, like a spring breeze, carried a touch of unruliness and sincerity, echoing in every corner of the hall.

"Hahaha... Zhao Qing, you have finally arrived. Today, my mood is as vast and bright as the scenery of the North. I am looking for a masterpiece to record it. You have always been skilled in painting, so today I ask you to pick up your brush and paint a picture of the snowy landscape of the North for me, so that the beauty of this silver-clad, silent place can be preserved forever."

Having said this, he gently set down his wine cup, his eyes filled with longing and anticipation for the beauty of art. It was as if he could already see through the scroll that Zhao Ji was about to unfold, and foresee the magnificent mountains and rivers covered in snow, and the endless stories and emotions contained within them. At this moment, the atmosphere in the hall became even warmer and more solemn because of this sudden burst of refined taste, as if even the air was filled with a faint fragrance of ink and sparks of inspiration about to bloom.

Emperor Huizong parted his lips slightly, his voice of agreement as gentle as a breeze across a tranquil lake. Immediately afterward, several well-trained eunuchs moved silently through the palace, preparing with the meticulous care of a spring drizzle.

Before long, the Four Treasures of the Study were neatly laid out on an antique and elegant table: the warm and smooth ink cup awaited the ink to be poured out, the Xuan paper was as white as snow, waiting for the ink to bloom, and on the brush holder, several carefully selected brushes were arranged in a pleasing manner, each one seemingly containing the talent and story about to be expressed.

Zhao Ji's gaze swept lightly over these familiar yet slightly unfamiliar tools, and a ripple of emotion stirred within him.

He knew that the scenery of mountains and rivers was not something he could easily capture with his brush. That transcendent artistic conception often required a profound fusion of the heart and nature. And he, though he was in the bustling palace at this moment, could not find that ethereal feeling of freely soaring among the mountains and rivers.

But life is unpredictable. Living under someone else's roof, he had to temporarily set aside the pride he had as an emperor and instead strive to do his best with humility.

So he slowly lifted his pen, the tip lightly touching the inkwell, the ink flowing down gracefully, as if performing a silent ritual, announcing the start of his creative journey.

Every stroke of Zhao Ji's brush was made with great care. He tried to use the limited ink to depict his longing and recollection of the beauty of nature. Even if his skills could not fully capture this deep affection, his pursuit and persistence in beauty shone brightly at this moment, becoming the most moving soul of the painting.

Emperor Huizong was immersed in the world of calligraphy and painting. Each stroke seemed to be a whisper of his soul, adding a touch of subtle tenderness to this time of imprisonment.

However, this tranquility was quietly broken by a series of footsteps. Wanyan Dan, his figure slightly unsteady from drinking, slowly stepped into this little world of art.

“Zhao Qing,” Wanyan Dan’s voice was low and drawn out, like the whistling of a cold wind sweeping through withered branches in winter, “your son Zhao Gou has been making waves lately, repeatedly provoking my Jin Kingdom. It is said that his Southern Song cavalry has entered Daming Prefecture Road. Could it be that he is paving the way for your father’s return home?”

Upon hearing this, Zhao Ji's paintbrush suddenly slipped from his hand, splashing a few wet ink stains, just like the ripples that stirred in his heart.

He hurriedly discarded the useless painting tools, and knelt on the ground with all four limbs in an almost desperate posture, trembling as he pleaded, "Your Majesty, please understand, since I was captured and brought here, my heart has been ashen, and I have not had any contact with the outside world. I had no idea that that rebellious son would dare to defy the imperial authority and be an enemy of Your Majesty. I beg Your Majesty to have mercy, see through the truth, and restore my innocence."

As he spoke, Zhao Ji's eyes reddened. The former imperial dignity had turned into endless humility and fear. He knew that in this foreign palace, his fate was like a candle in the wind, which could be extinguished at any moment.