The searing heat of Arrakis mocked Griffin as he stood motionless under the relentless sun. The spice-laden air, coveted by so many for its value, choked him. This dry, hostile land was a world he, a son of Lankiveil with its frozen seas, could neither understand nor accept.

He had come to the desert planet not by choice but by the will of his uncle, Evgeny Harkonnen. The Baron, even in his complacency, had found it useful to forge a bond with a spice merchant: the merchant's daughter, a woman of mixed Fremen blood and minor noble lineage, as betrothed to Griffin.

He had heard the whispers about her before his arrival. “Half Fremen, half something else,” as though her very existence were a mistake. He had aimed for something greater—a union with someone from a major house that would elevate House Harkonnen. Instead, he was given a bride from Arrakis.

Though he understood the strategic value of the alliance, he couldn’t suppress his disgust. The Fremen were barbarians, a thorn in the Empire’s side, hoarding spice that should flow freely. Worse still, she came from a minor house, barely able to offer scraps of spice. Now he, the future of his House, was bound to this untamed bloodline.

When he finally saw her, Griffin displayed only disdain. She stood with a defiance he expected from someone with Fremen roots. Her sun-gilded skin seemed to absorb the light, and her gaze carried something he couldn’t define—no reverence, no fear.

“So, this is the woman my uncle has chosen for me,” Griffin muttered, his voice low and laced with sarcasm, more to the scorching wind than to her. His cold eyes swept over her figure, their chill sharper than the sun’s heat. “Is this a joke? A lesson in swallowing one’s pride.”

He felt it as a punishment for encouraging Valya's defiance of the Harkonnen family's conformity, she was probably at home pleading for him. Griffin actively avoided his fiancée as much as possible. With luck, he’d soon be flying far from Arrakis, back to the icy comfort of Lankiveil.