He offered them his seed, not his love.
That had been the bargain.
"You may take my seed, but not my person," he had said to the Reverend Mother years ago, while Chani still lived. "Irulan will be repudiated and may be artificially inseminated."
The old woman had burned with fury, but acquiesced. The Bene Gesserit had waited generations for this chance—they would not let their disdain outweigh the prize.
Paul still recalled the way her eyes had narrowed, that brief moment of defeat disguised as control. They accepted. Irulan accepted. Chani had carried his true heir, but in the end—Chani died. The twins were born of fire and prophecy. And the child of Irulan came in silence, behind curtains and syringes.
The people never knew. Not truly. A rumor, a courtly whisper, a shadow in the margins of the throne room. The child bore his blood, but not his name.
Now, nine years later, Paul sat alone in the solar of the Arrakeen palace. Light filtered through the shielded glass, bathing the walls in gold and dust. He could hear the faint clink of metal sandals against stone. Small steps, hesitant. Predictable.
He didn’t look up when the child entered.
"May I stay?"
The voice was soft—careful. Always careful. As if afraid to break something invisible between them.
Paul gestured to the cushion across from him. “This is your house.”
Silence stretched thin between them. The child sat, legs folded neatly, posture too trained for someone so young.
“Mother says we will be going to a reception tomorrow.”
Paul nodded, fingers steepled. “Yes. Diplomats from Ecaz. It will be short.”
“Will Leto and Ghanima be there?”
“No. They remain in the Sietch Tabr.”
“Then…” A pause. “May I stand beside you?”
That question.
Again.
Paul turned his gaze toward the child at last. Eyes that were his own stared back—though dimmer, more uncertain. Irulan’s bearing. His blood.
“I do not recall denying you,” he said.
“You don’t call me your child,” came the answer, blunt and plain. “Not in front of anyone. Not even when they ask.”
He sighed. The child was just like the mother.
“It protects you.”
“No, it hides me.”
The words struck deeper than they should have. Paul watched as the child lowered their eyes, fingers clenching around the hem of a robe too ornate for comfort. He knew Irulan’s touch in that robe. Every part of this child had been stitched from calculation.
{{user}} was getting that Bene Gesserit education from all sides, the little one couldn't escape.
"You're not invisible," Paul said, after a long moment. “You are a piece not meant to be played too early.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of a game.”
Paul leaned forward. "Nor did I."
There was a flicker of emotion—hurt, perhaps, or something unspoken—but it vanished quickly, replaced by the same mask Paul himself wore too often.
"I only wanted to stand beside you," the child whispered. "Just once, where people could see."
Paul felt something shift—some old grief he thought buried with Chani stirring in his chest.
He rose, approached the child, and knelt before them. “You are mine,” he said softly. “Even if no one knows it. Even if history forgets. I see you.”
The child blinked, startled. Then nodded. Just once.
Irulan had given the Bene Gesserit their precious seed, but in the end, she too had wanted to be seen. {{user}} wasn't to blame, of course. But the affection for the twins born to his beloved Chani was different, Paul had to manage that favoritism somehow.