Oysters for Vitality, Counsel for Remarriage
I woke up one morning to a new message. King Munjong must rise far earlier than I did. Yesterday I attended lectures with the Crown Prince. He is intelligent. Two short sentences. The Crown Prince. Yi Hong-wi. The future Danjong. Currently twelve years old.
I opened my browser and searched. Danjong. Sixth king of Joseon. 1441–1457. Reigned 1452–1455. Executed in 1457. His father, King Munjong, died, and at twelve he became king. Prince Suyang's Gyeyu Coup. Exile. Poisoned. Dead at seventeen. If only his father had lived a little longer, none of it would have happened.
I opened another tab. Queen Hyeondeok of the An Dong Kwon clan. Born 1418. Crown Princess Consort of Joseon, posthumously honored as queen. King Munjong's third crown princess consort. Wife of Joseon's fifth king, Munjong, and birth mother of Danjong and Princess Gyeonghye. Originally entered the palace as a court lady, Sukhwi, then elevated to crown princess consort after the previous two were deposed. Gave birth to Danjong in 1441 and died the next day of postpartum complications. Age twenty-four.
I couldn't tear my eyes from the screen. Twenty-four. Died one day after giving birth to Danjong. Munjong had married three times, and each ended in tragedy. His first crown princess consort, Lady Hyebin Kim, was deposed after being caught using sorcery to win his affections. The second, Lady Sunbin Bong, was deposed for relations with a palace servant. The third, Queen Hyeondeok, died one day after Danjong's birth. And Munjong never married again.
There was a reason he didn't remarry. He never had the chance. Right after Queen Hyeondeok's three-year mourning period ended, his younger brother, Grand Prince Gwangpyeong, died. The next year, another brother, Grand Prince Pyeongwon, died. In 1446, his mother, Queen Sohyeon, passed. In 1450, his father, King Sejong, died. Munjong ascended immediately after emerging from mourning, but died just two years into his reign. There was no room for a wedding amid the endless bereavements. In Confucian culture, celebrating joyous events during parents' three-year mourning was impossible.
I set my phone down and thought for a moment. What if Queen Hyeondeok had lived? If there had been a queen dowager when Danjong ascended? An adult to handle regency? Could Prince Suyang have launched the Gyeyu Coup then? Even historians speculated on her survival. Analyses suggested Suyang wouldn't have dared attempt it.
The key difference between Munjong and Danjong: Munjong was named crown prince at seven and served twenty-nine years. As King Sejong's health declined, he began shouldering royal duties, formally regenting from 1445 and handling state affairs directly for five years. Danjong was named crown prince at eight. His mother died the day he was born. His father died two years after ascending. He became king at twelve. No time to prepare.
I opened Gatong. How was the Crown Prince at lectures? Lively?
King Munjong replied swiftly, as if every father ever. Few words, but deep thoughts. He takes after his father.
I chuckled briefly. What sort of woman was the Crown Prince's mother? Too direct. I meant to probe, but regretted it after sending.
Read receipt. No reply. Five minutes, ten, twenty, thirty. I set my phone down and opened the fridge. A second-year resident's fridge: predictably empty. I hit the convenience store, tore into a triangle kimbap, and checked my phone. Still nothing. Regretting my words, I drifted toward sleep around midnight.
I stared at that sentence for a long time. "Ask no more." I didn't reply. Couldn't.
Next morning. Half-day shift today. A bit of breathing room. Since last night's Gatong, one thought consumed me. Not just emotional—politically, Munjong having no queen was a massive problem. No queen dowager for regency when Danjong ascended. No royal elder. It wasn't personal; it tied directly to the Crown Prince's future, Joseon's future.
Urging remarriage outright would be too abrupt. I'd already touched on Queen Hyeondeok yesterday, and he'd shut it down. Delicate territory. Besides, to Munjong, I was just a physician of sorts. So I pivoted. While writing clinical notes this week, I'd planned to expand on nutrition. Zinc activates immune cells, protects respiratory epithelium. Helps suppress tuberculosis. One oyster has roughly 6–8mg—nearly a modern adult's daily requirement. And it was December. Oysters' peak season. Getting them from the West Sea to the palace shouldn't be hard.
Plus, oysters boost testosterone production and sperm motility to some degree. Why they're dubbed an aphrodisiac. Of course, Munjong stays in the dark.
I messaged him. Your Highness, forgive my impropriety yesterday. Today, I recommend a seafood for vitality. Different from eobyeong made from white fish. Oysters—fat ones in shells, seasonal in winter.
Read. I know them. Called moryeo. I'll tell Jeon Sun-ui.
I nodded at the screen. Jeon Sun-ui surely knew oysters. They appear in Donguibogam; no need for "zinc"—he'd grasp the benefits. Question was his interpretation. So far, he adopted my invisible physician's suggestions after results: eobyeong, mugwort sprouts. Curious how he'd take this.
Saturday's half-shift ended smoothly. Sunday morning, lounging at home, chatting with my girlfriend via messenger about a date after ages—then a message. Jeon Sun-ui says moryeo boosts energy and immunity. He'll have the royal kitchen send it daily.
I smiled. As expected. Jeon Sun-ui saw it my way. Balanced, perfect. I enjoyed a fun date with my girlfriend, a delightful holiday.
Monday morning at work, Gatong pinged. Oyster soup again today. Yesterday too. Daily means soup both days, sure. But something felt off.
Next day. Shift ended fine, but on-call tonight. Stuffing food at the cafeteria to survive—Oyster soup for breakfast. Oyster fritters at lunch too. Unease crept in.
Next day too. Jeon Sun-ui ordered oysters three times daily. Breakfast soup, lunch fritters, dinner steamed. He says this will sufficiently restore vitality. I stared at my phone, dumbfounded.
'Jeon Sun-ui, you've caught on.' He and I walked different paths, but arrived at the same point—at least regarding Munjong. Problem: his endpoint was three oyster meals a day. I read his mind. Invisible physician recommends oysters. King has only concubines. Jeon connected those in three days, adding medicine: oyster overload.
I felt a twinge for him. Honestly, not really. Our directions aligned. Oysters are zinc-rich, good for energy. But his aggressive prescription screamed ulterior motive.
I stayed silent. Not my place to meddle from 600 years away via Gatong. He was handling it. I'd watch.
But Jeon didn't stop. Today he had the kitchen grill oysters shells-on too.
Jeon Sun-ui, sir, I just said oysters are good for immunity.
Next day. Pickled baby oysters from the kitchen too. On Jeon Sun-ui's orders.
That afternoon. Oysters at every meal. Good for energy. Keep eating them.
Understood.
"Understood." That curt reply carried a hint of resignation.
Anyway, Munjong was getting plenty of zinc. A week passed. Gatong frequency dropped. Then one after ages. Do-yoon, I now loathe the sight of oysters.
I clutched my phone, laughing hard. Deep breath, then replied. Your Highness, your vitality seems fully restored. One question?
Speak.
Bigger breath. This would tip him off I knew of his lack of wife. For the Crown Prince, and the realm—have you considered taking a queen?
Read. No reply. None by midnight. None next day. I'd urged Joseon's king to remarry. Never imagined saying that to Munjong. Started with ventilation advice for symptoms. Boils? Bosinsijok. Pheasant issue? Eobyeong. It snowballed here. Remarriage isn't medicine. But like medicine: prevention. Preventing political vulnerability sans queen dowager at Danjong's ascension. Preventing the Gyeyu Coup.
Four days after my remarriage message: I shall consider it.
I stared. Not rejection. Not dismissed outright. He'd accepted the question.
"Good enough for now." I leaned back on the sofa, ripping open a convenience store bag. Two canned beers, two triangle kimbaps. Outside, Christmas decorations twinkled here and there, not far off.