Chapter 8: The Heir and the Threat

Act II: The Ascent

Hanseong (Seoul), Joseon Kingdom, Spring, 1434 - Winter, 1435

Age 18-20

Zhao Laying discovered she was pregnant in the spring of her second year in Korea.

She’d suspected for weeks—the missed bleeding, the nausea that came in waves, the strange tenderness in her breasts. But she’d waited to be certain before telling anyone.

When the court physician confirmed it, bowing deeply as he delivered the news, she felt a complex tangle of emotions she hadn’t expected.

Fear. A child made her vulnerable in new ways.

Hope. A child could be her path to real power.

And underneath both: a cold, calculating assessment of what this meant strategically.

She was nineteen years old, Crown Princess of Korea, and about to give birth to a potential heir to the throne.

Everything depended on what happened next.

Crown Prince Munjong was pleased with the news.

“A son,” he said confidently, as if he could will it into being. “The court astrologers say the signs are favorable for a male heir.”

Zhao Lanying kept her expression serene, her hands folded in her lap. “This wife hopes to fulfill her duty to the dynasty.”

They were in his private study—a room lined with books and scrolls, smelling of ink and old paper. In two years of marriage, she’d learned to read him fairly well. He was scholarly, cautious, and deeply concerned with appearances.

He’d never been cruel to her. Never particularly warm, either. Their relationship was cordial, respectful, and carefully managed on both sides.

The wedding night had been awkward but not traumatic. He’d been gentle, if perfunctory. Since then, their intimate encounters had been infrequent and dutiful—scheduled around auspicious dates and fertility calculations.

She didn’t love him. She doubted he loved her. But they’d developed a working partnership.

Until now, she’d been careful to remain useful but non-threatening. The Chinese-educated wife who helped with correspondence to Beijing. Who could read Chinese diplomatic documents and advise on Ming court protocol. Who was properly deferential in public while quietly making herself indispensable.

A child would change the equation.

“What if it’s a daughter?” she asked carefully.

Munjong waved a hand dismissively. “Then we’ll try again. But the astrologers are confident.”

Zhao Lanying noted his certainty. Men always assumed they’d get sons. As if will and wishful thinking could determine a child’s sex.

She’d learned in Beijing that assumption was dangerous.

Hope for the best. Plan for the worst.

“This wife will pray for a healthy child,” she said. “Whatever heaven grants.”

The pregnancy was difficult.

Morning sickness that lasted all day. Exhaustion that made even simple tasks feel monumental. And underneath it all, the constant awareness that her body was no longer entirely her own.

Madam Liu had never taught her how to manage this.

Lady Park, the Chief Court Lady, supervised her care with grim efficiency. Special foods. Herbal tonics. Strict rest periods. The entire household revolved around ensuring the Crown Princess delivered a healthy heir.

Zhao Lanying endured it all with outward patience while her mind worked constantly.

She thought about the Empress.

The Crown Prince’s mother was a formidable woman—Consort Kim, elevated to Empress when her son became Crown Prince. She was in her forties now, still beautiful, still influential. She’d spent decades navigating palace politics and had the scars to prove it.

More importantly: she had power.

Power Zhao Lanying didn’t have yet.

The Empress controlled household appointments. Influenced court positions. Had the king’s ear on domestic matters. She was the most powerful woman in Korea, and she’d made it clear—in subtle, unspoken ways—that she saw Zhao Lanying as an outsider.

The Chinese-educated foreigner who’d married her son.

Useful for diplomatic purposes. But not truly Korean. Not truly trustworthy.

Zhao Lanying had spent two years trying to overcome that perception. Learning perfect Korean. Adopting Korean dress and manners. Demonstrating loyalty and deference.

But she knew: as long as the Empress lived and held power, Zhao Lanying would always be secondary.

Unless.

Unless she had a son.

A male heir would give her leverage. Status. A reason for the court to value her beyond her Chinese connections.

But only if her son was the heir.

And that depended on whether the Empress had sons of her own.

She gave birth in the eighth month—late summer, when the heat was oppressive and the palace felt like it was suffocating.

The labor lasted fourteen hours. Zhao Lanying had been trained for many things in Beijing, but not for this. Not for the primal, animal reality of her body splitting open to force another life into the world.

She’d thought she understood pain. The beating she’d taken for stealing food. The discipline of palace training.

This was different. This was being torn apart from the inside.

But she didn’t scream. Didn’t beg for it to stop. Just gritted her teeth and endured, the way she’d endured everything else.

When it was finally over, the midwife held up a red, squalling infant.

“A son, Your Highness. A healthy son.”

Relief flooded through her—so intense it was almost painful.

A son.

She’d fulfilled her primary duty. Given the dynasty a male heir.

The baby was placed in her arms—small, wrinkled, furious at being born. She looked down at him and felt something unexpected.

Not immediate love—she’d been too thoroughly trained to think strategically for that.