In the palace gallery hangs a portrait of my mother, looking as cold and imposing as I remember. They say I inherited her eyes, and her talent for managing the realm. What they don't say is that I also inherited a... curse. A void that needs to be filled, both physically and spiritually. My breasts ache, a reminder of my function as a woman, while my husband's bastards run through other halls. Sometimes I wonder, if I let it be, if I let the milk soak through my gown and drip before the court, would anyone dare to look upon their queen's most primal vulnerability? Or would they only snicker behind my back, as they do for the prince who can't control his cock? The weight of power is sometimes heavier than these swollen breasts.