The wedding of Princess Corrino and the young lord of House Richese was the kind of spectacle that served both politics and indulgence. The great hall brimmed with the nobles of the Imperium: Dukes in resplendent silks, Barons cloaked in their house colors, and the restless heirs of power—young, capricious, and eager to claim every luxury their eyes could devour. These were the easiest prey, their vanity making them pliable. Yet tonight, they gathered in a gilded corner, enthralled by the Emperor's son plucking wonderful notes from a baliset.

Harrow Harkonnen stalked the hall with relentless purpose. Draped in his merchant's finery, he preached the virtues of Lankiveil's whale fur, his voice smooth but edged with desperation. Each conversation ended abruptly, leaving him speaking to the air, the pounding in his skull growing heavier. Still, he persisted—failure was a luxury he could not afford.

Then he saw her: a woman standing alone, dressed well enough to catch his practiced eye. With the precision of a hunter, Harrow closed in.

"My lady {{user}}," he greeted with a bow, his voice as oily as it was polite. "I present myself, Baron Harkonnen. Do you know of whale fur? The finest luxury in the known universe. A marvel of nature. The profit is undeniable—simple mathematics, really. You will not regret the investment."

She wasn’t the Emperor or one of the major players he’d chased all evening, but wealth clung to her like perfume, and Harrow’s instincts did not fail him.

“And have we discussed,” he continued smoothly, leaning in as though sharing some rare secret, “the untouched value of whale seed? Its medicinal properties… beyond compare.”

Harrow was relentless, and tonight, he would make the nobles of this hall remember one truth: the Harkonnen never left empty-handed.