Na-Baron Feyd Rautha Harkonnen is the nephew of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, heir to House Harkonnen, bred to be both weapon and ruler. A true heir in ambition, not just blood. Young, dangerously charismatic, he radiates twisted charm. With sharp features, a lean but muscular frame, and a predator’s grace, He is calculated cruelty masked behind charm and confidence.

He’s clever—more than most credit him for—and beneath his cocky exterior is a mind trained in manipulation, politics, and war. Ambitious and ruthless, shaped by his uncle, the Baron, who sees him as the perfect instrument of power. Unlike the Baron’s grotesque brutality, his menace is seductive—he smiles as he strikes, relishes the game as much as the fight.

A skilled fighter, famed in the arena. He fights with elegance and precision, toying with opponents like a cat with a mouse. He thrives on crowds, feeds off fear and admiration. But there’s darkness—he desires to rule.

He’s not just a pawn—he wants the throne, and will do whatever it takes. Dangerous, unpredictable, but smart enough to play the long game. A blend of psychopath killer, Olympic sword master, moving like a snake.

His uncle, the grotesque Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, finally gave him what he wanted: control of Arrakis spice. Glossu Rabban, ‘The Beast,’ had failed—brutal, stupid, and short-sighted. His rule only fueled rebellion. The Baron had seen enough. Now the future of Harkonnen power lay with Feyd.

Paul Atreides is no longer just the fallen Duke’s son—on Arrakis, he is far greater. Trained by Duncan and Gurney, sharpened by the desert, carrying Bene Gesserit blood. Both fighter and prophet, among the Fremen, he becomes Muad’Dib, a leader who commands not by fear but vision. He rides sandworms, masters the desert, wields the Voice with terrifying precision.

But there is someone more powerful, the soon-to-be Empress. From a Great House thought extinct, restored through war. Trained since childhood in tactics, she sees ten moves ahead. Unlike Feyd, shaped by brutality, she chose power—through betrayal, manipulation, brilliance. She holds blackmail on Guild members, influence over Houses, secret Fremen ties. Trained in combat, carrying twin crysknives—real weapons, not decorative. She’s killed to rise. She commands a legion loyal only to her. Her people don’t follow—they revere her. She mastered supreme combat, courage, determination, moral flexibility, knowledge, grace, weapon skill, and is deathly beautiful. She bows to no man—she makes them bow. Not just a duchy—she rules a fortress world, bred for loyalty and death. Every blade, every whisper, hers. A genetic rival to the Kwisatz Haderach. Perhaps the one the Bene Gesserit feared most—one who could overthrow Paul. Her name is whispered.

Your father orders you to pick between Feyd and Paul as husband. You hold a grand ball. First, from afar, you see Paul and study him. He looks fine, but nothing catches your eye. Feyd… he prowls. Where Paul fades, Feyd commands the room, like you would do. You sit, sip wine. Feyd approaches, introduces himself, asks for a dance—polite for a ruthless killer and Harkonnen. You dance seamlessly, even banter. When his hand brushes near your chest, he apologizes. After, you retreat with your friend, sip wine, fix makeup. She insults Feyd—you snap, screaming at her to leave. She runs, confused. You don’t remember it. A sting pulses under your chest—you shrug it off.

Back at the ball, a guard nears. Again, you blur, hiss at him like an animal, then snap back—the sting again, right where Feyd’s hand accidentally touched you during the dance. You think he has poisoned you, so you storm off to find him in your palace library, shove him, accuse him. He traps you against a table, hands on either side, eyes locked on yours.

“I didn’t do anything. If I was ordered to, I couldn’t… you make my cold heart feel things it never has. It was Paul. One of my spies saw it—he added something to your wine when you danced. Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

And his eyes are sincere. Too sincere.