Kids interview Lạc Long Quân
by Charactorium · Lạc Long Quân · Mythology · 5 min read
Two young visitors, barely twelve years old, arrived at the edge of a great river. The water rippled, and a gentle-eyed figure rose from the waves. Lạc Long Quân, the dragon ancestor, welcomed them with a patient smile, ready to tell them about the world before the kings.
—Is it true you're a dragon? Where were you actually born?
Come closer, my child, don't be afraid. I was born from the river, yes—part dragon, part man. My father was King Kinh Dương Vương, and my mother came from the great lake of Động Đình, up north. She was the daughter of the Lord of Waters. Imagine a lake so vast you can't see the other shore, with hidden palaces beneath the surface. That's where my blood comes from. So when you see me rise from the water, don't be surprised: I'm simply coming home. Half of me belongs to the rivers, the other half to the land where you walk.
Half of me belongs to the rivers, the other half to the land where you walk.
—And you were the king of which country? What was it called?
My kingdom had a curious name: Xích Quỷ. I received it from my father, just as you might sometimes receive a precious object from your family. It was the country before the country, you see? Long before the kingdom that men later called Văn Lang. The old chronicles of my people keep the memory of that name. Imagine a land still new, with thick forests, rivers everywhere, and very few villages. To rule there wasn't about commanding soldiers. It was mostly about watching over, like a grandparent watches over a sleeping household. I moved from land to water, constantly, to keep everything in order.
—How did you meet your wife? I heard there was a fight.
Ah, you've heard that story! Listen carefully. Âu Cơ was a beautiful mountain immortal, held captive by a lord named Đế Lai. I had just returned from the water kingdom. To approach her, I transformed into a handsome young man, surrounded by a large and joyful retinue. It wasn't really a fistfight, you know. It was more of a trick, like in fairy tales. I took her far from that man who kept her. My heart beat fast, I admit. Sometimes, to protect someone you love, you need both courage and a little cunning.
—And where did you hide her? Did you have a secret house?
Yes, a wonderful place! It's called the palace of Long Đài. The most amazing thing is that it didn't exist before. It appeared by itself, by magic, like a dream that becomes solid before your eyes. Imagine closing your eyes thinking of a shelter, and when you open them, it's there, with its roofs and courtyards. That's where I put Âu Cơ safely. In my world, my child, things don't need to be built stone by stone. When the will is strong and the heart is just, the earth itself offers a roof.
When the heart is just, the earth itself offers a roof.
—I was told you had a hundred children at once. That's impossible!
Ha! I understand your surprise. Yet that's how my tradition tells it. Âu Cơ didn't have babies like other mothers. She gave birth to a large sack, called the bọc trăm trứng, the "hundred-egg sack." Imagine a warm pouch lying on the moss. Six or seven days later, it opens, and a hundred eggs appear. From each comes a little boy! And the most wonderful thing: none needed to be fed. They grew up on their own, strong and vigorous. That's why, even today, my people like to call themselves children of the same brood.
A hundred eggs, a hundred brothers, one people born from the same sack.
—So then, are all Vietnamese people kind of your grandchildren?
That's a lovely way to put it, and it's somewhat true! From my union with Âu Cơ was born, they say, the origin of an entire people. Those hundred sons are like the roots of a very large tree. The eldest later became the first Hùng Vương, the first king of the line. So when children like you come to listen to me by the river, I feel a bit like a grandfather, yes. Not because I deserve it, but because stories do that: they connect those who tell them to those who listen. You hold a thread of my family without even knowing it.
—But if you loved Âu Cơ, why did you separate afterward?
That question touches me, my child, because it is both sad and sweet. You see, I am of the nòi rồng, the "race of dragons," and my heart belongs to the waters. Âu Cơ, she is of the giống Tiên, the "race of immortals" of the heights. A water creature and a mountain creature cannot live long in the same place. So we divided our children. Fifty sons followed me to the rivers, fifty followed their mother to the peaks. It wasn't a quarrel. It was accepting that love, sometimes, must let each one breathe the air they need.
Love, sometimes, must let each one breathe the air they need.
—And you, where did you go to live after the separation?
I returned to my true home: the Thủy phủ, the "Water Kingdom." Imagine a palace deep in the rivers, where light dances trembling on the walls, where you walk without ever feeling cold. That's where my kind live. But I didn't leave forever, you know. Whenever my people needed me, I would rise back to the surface. They say you just had to call me very loudly from the land. A dragon-father never abandons his children; he simply watches from the water, where your eyes cannot follow.
—What did you teach the people of your time to live better?
Many useful things, my child, and I am proud of them. I showed the inhabitants how to cultivate rice in wet fields, and how to weave silk. This is called the nông tang, the work of fields and thread. Imagine people who didn't yet know how to grow their own food or cover themselves warmly. I put tools in their hands, patiently, step by step. Rice so they would no longer be hungry, silk so they would no longer be cold. That's not magic: it's work. And the greatest gift you can give a people is to teach them to feed themselves.
The greatest gift is to teach a people to feed themselves.
—And to make everyone get along, did you make rules?
Yes, because a village without rules is like a boat without an oar: it goes in circles. I helped men understand their place toward one another. How a sovereign and those who follow him must respect each other. How parents and children owe each other tenderness and attention. How a husband and wife support each other. Nothing complicated, my child: just knowing who takes care of whom. Imagine a household where everyone knows their role at meals, at fishing, in the fields. Everything becomes smoother. I laid these bonds like the first stones of a bridge between people.
—If you are remembered in the very distant future, what would you like people to say?
What a beautiful question to end with. I would not want them to remember above all my powers, nor my kingdom of Xích Quỷ. I would like them to remember the hundred-egg sack. Because that story tells a simple thing: that very different people—those of the waters and those of the mountains—all come from the same brood. When you one day quarrel with someone who seems foreign to you, remember my hundred sons. They separated, but they remained brothers. That is my legacy, my child: not a crown, but a kinship. Carry it with you as you go back up from the river.
Not a crown, but a kinship: that is my legacy.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Lạc Long Quân's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.