The fisherman did not speak on the first day.
That silence unsettled the court more than any demand could have.
He was granted a seat in the outer council hall, a place usually reserved for guild leaders and foreign envoys. The nobles tolerated his presence politely, but their eyes followed him with open curiosity. His clothes were fine by any ordinary measure, but they hung awkwardly on his frame, as though he had been dressed for someone else's life.
Satyavati sat beside him.
She listened.
When trade routes were discussed, she noted which ministers leaned forward and which leaned back. When grain levies were debated, she watched who spoke quickly and who waited. She learned the rhythms of power without ever touching it.
The fisherman spoke only when addressed, and then only in practical terms. He spoke of river tolls, of how seasonal floods altered passage, of how the kingdom's prosperity depended more on water than walls.
No one disagreed with him.
That night, Shantanu did not sleep.
He dismissed his attendants early and sat alone with a single lamp burning low. The palace was quiet, but not at rest. He could feel the weight of expectation pressing in from every side.
He knew the man would speak soon.
The demand arrived the next morning, not in the council hall, but in private.
Shantanu received the fisherman in a smaller chamber overlooking the river. The space was deliberately chosen. No witnesses. No court protocol. Only truth.
The fisherman bowed deeply before speaking.
"My king," he said, "I did not come to bargain."
Shantanu gestured for him to continue.
"I came because you asked me to," the fisherman said. "And because my daughter's future cannot be left to uncertainty."
Shantanu nodded. He had expected nothing less.
"She is not a woman who will live quietly in the shadow of another's household," the fisherman continued. "Nor will she accept a position where her children stand behind others by birth alone."
Shantanu's gaze drifted to the river beyond the window.
"You speak of inheritance," he said.
"Yes," the fisherman replied. "Plainly."
Shantanu turned back to him. "My son is my heir."
The fisherman did not flinch. "Your son is your heir by blood," he said. "But kingdoms do not pass by blood alone. They pass by agreement."
Shantanu felt the trap close.
"What do you want?" he asked.
The fisherman straightened.
"My daughter will be queen," he said. "And her son will inherit the throne."
The words were spoken without flourish. Without apology.
Shantanu said nothing.
"If this cannot be guaranteed," the fisherman continued, "then she will return with me to the river. I will not condemn her to a life where her children must compete for legitimacy."
Shantanu closed his eyes.
The demand was not unreasonable. That was the cruelest part.
In another circumstance, he might have accepted it without hesitation. In another life, perhaps, Devavrata might have been one son among many.
But this life had been shaped by loss and silence.
"You ask me to displace my son," Shantanu said quietly.
"I ask you to decide," the fisherman replied. "Not to drift."
Shantanu dismissed him shortly after, his expression unreadable.
When the fisherman left, Shantanu remained seated long after the chamber had emptied.
He did not summon Devavrata.
That absence did not go unnoticed.
The court sensed tension immediately. Ministers gathered in small clusters, voices low. Rumors spread quickly, sharpened by uncertainty.
Some argued privately that Devavrata's position was secure, that no common man could alter royal succession. Others pointed out, cautiously, that kingship depended as much on alliance as lineage.
Satyavati remained silent through it all.
She moved through the palace halls with measured steps, neither avoiding nor seeking attention. Servants watched her carefully, gauging her mood. She gave them no guidance.
That evening, Devavrata stood with the guards overlooking the outer grounds.
He listened.
Soldiers spoke freely around him, forgetting at times that he was not merely one of them.
"They say the fisherman wants his grandson crowned," one murmured.
"Impossible," another replied. "The prince stands right there."
A third lowered his voice. "Kings do stranger things for women."
Devavrata did not react.
Later, alone in his chamber, he considered what he had heard.
He did not feel anger. Not yet.
He felt something colder.
Understanding.
Satyavati stood by the river that night, watching the water move past her feet. Her reflection wavered with each ripple.
She knew what her father had asked. She knew what it meant.
She also knew what it cost.
She had not asked for this life. But she would not accept one built on uncertainty.
Behind palace walls, Shantanu sat alone again, the crown resting beside him on the table.
For the first time since Ganga's departure, he felt truly cornered.
He could refuse and lose Satyavati.
He could accept and wound his son.
There was no choice that did not break something.
And Devavrata, standing at the center of it all, had not yet spoken a word.
---
End of Chapter 8