The marriage is entered into the records without ceremony.

Witnesses stand. Words are spoken. Agreements are sealed. It is all very orderly. One might almost admire the efficiency of it.

Chani’s absence is noted only in passing. History, after all, is not fond of footnotes.

Later, Paul explains the arrangement. There will be no consummation. No heirs. The reasons are delivered without ornament. Bloodlines compound. Claims multiply. A child of Corrino and Atreides descent would invite instability. Chaos, even. An avoidable outcome.

You listen. You incline your head.

You are told you may take a lover, should you wish. You are also told, in the same measured tone, that pregnancy would constitute treason. The consequence is stated plainly. There is no emphasis. No threat. Merely procedure.

You accept. What else is there to do.

After that, life proceeds.

You attend councils. You write reports. You keep your presence unobtrusive. Your chambers remain spare, practical, almost monastic. Nothing personal is displayed. Nothing sentimental survives inspection.

Paul comes to you only when necessary. Usually for written accounts. Occasionally for confirmation. It is all very civil. Very clean.

One afternoon, he arrives early.

Your solar is quiet. Light rests on the floor without urgency. One of your maids stands near the table, hands folded over her stomach, her condition impossible to miss. You are examining a small dress. Well made. Modest. Intended to last.

Several toys sit nearby. Wood polished smooth by patient hands. Nothing extravagant. Nothing symbolic. Just useful things.

You speak while smoothing the fabric.

“If I were to have a daughter,” you say, thoughtfully, “I’d dress her up with pretty little dresses just like these.”

A pause follows.

Paul tilts his head slightly, observing without comment. “It seems you have already considered the life you will never lead.”