Author's note: Made up a story to entertain myself with while I'm reading the Prelude to Dune books. Decided to try and write it because I had a fic craving and couldn't really find anything that fit and of course you should always write what you want to read. I don't really think there's much call for this kind of story, but I thought I'd go ahead and post the first few chapters to check for interest.
Contains Dune and Prelude to Dune spoilers, but tbh I'll be explaining most of the references as I go so you don't technically need to read any of the Dune books to understand what's happening - maybe do some light Dune wiki reading though if you feel lost. Cross posted to tumblr and Ao3.
.
~0~0~0~
Chapter One: Messengers
~0~0~0~
.
Eleven years. Six years of war. Four of rebuilding. One of grief.
Rhiannon was angry.
She cut a noble figure, framed against the pale evening light filtering in through the tall windows. Her poise was that of a soldier, head held high and spine perfectly straight, but her alabaster skin cloaked in fine silks marked her as noble-born. Although the room was warm, she drew her fur lined cloak tighter around her as she watched the snow float soundlessly down onto the watery gray courtyard.
It was the last snow of the season, and she knew she ought to be enjoying it, especially since this very well could be the last one she experienced for a very long time. Instead, every angle of her willowy form was set in static fury. Through the screen of falling snow, the lights of Plateau City glittered. Smoke rose merrily from distant chimneys. Her cold brown eyes took in the peaceful scene, but she felt none of it.
Angry at her idiot brother and his council of vultures, angry at the godforsaken planet she'd put so much effort into, angry at the situation, but most of all, angry at herself. At how careless she'd been. Not even the snowflakes drifting idly on the other side of the council room window could ease her mood.
The result of her carelessness lay innocuously at the end of the great table behind her. A letter. Meticulously written on thick stationary in an elegant, swirling hand. Not so much as a smudge or stray drop of ink betrayed the speed at which it must have been drafted and sent. Even the way it was folded indicated great care: trifolded to fit within a sealed envelope, each seam separated by precisely a third of the paper's length, each perfectly straight. The only imperfection was in the drop of red wax, a slight splatter that made the hawk of the Atreides seal look as if it were dripping blood.
Every seat at the great table was occupied by a member of the House Dering council, but none of them dared move, let alone speak. The lush, carpeted room was dead silent, save for the cracking of the fire in the hearth. Less than a year prior, many of them had been working for her, and knew just how dangerous she could be when cornered. Because even though she actively commanded the room, she was in a corner, and they were the ones that had backed her into it.
Rhiannon intoned a sigh, feeling a bit of the righteous anger boiling in her blood slip away, replaced by the fog of resigned indifference that had consumed her every waking moment for the better part of a year.
Everything had been different since Hetta's death. Rhiannon had been different.
As far as the Landstraad was concerned, House Dering had brought peace to the planet Iro. Those who lived on Iro, however, who were in the know and had survived the last decade of politics, knew the driving force behind the carnage to be the Dowager Countess.
The Imperial fiefs for Iro had been small and scattered across the planet's surface like crumbs cast out for birds, each left to establish order and to tap the precious resources hidden beneath the planet's surface. Because of this, there was more than one Countess of Iro, and a few of those also happened to be widows. But on Iro, if someone referred to the Dowager Countess, you knew exactly who they were talking about.
The letter's authors were not from Iro. They had specified. Repeatedly. '— House Atreides respectfully appeals to The Honorable Viscount Larion Dering, Head of Minor House Dering, Guardian of The Honorable Dowager Countess Rhiannon Varvara, to inquire as to the eligibility of The Dowager Countess Rhiannon Varvara — '
The Dowager Countess Rhiannon Varvara. The Dowager Countess Rhiannon Varvara. Over and over again, they referred to her by her full title. No she. No her. No simple Dowager Countess or Lady Varvara. Like if they weren't incredibly specific there would be a misunderstanding and they would accidentally agree to marry their stupid Duke to the wrong woman.
Rhiannon knew she wasn't being entirely fair. The wording wasn't intended to offend her in any way. Quite the opposite, in fact. Perhaps she'd been a bit spoiled. Larion was an idiot, and for the better part of the last decade, she had been the power behind his office. Everyone who had wanted to deal with House Dering had quickly learned which sibling they had to win over, and that treating Rhiannon as an extra chess piece and not a fellow player was a quick way to make a dangerous enemy.
That must be it, the source of her anger. Arranging a marriage for political gain didn't offend her, not even when she was the one getting married.
No, it was the fact that these negotiations had been going on for months without her knowledge, to the point where the letter was just a formality. The messenger that had delivered it to them was waiting in the next room, ready to carry back the response so the wedding arrangements could begin immediately.
It was the fact that her enemies had taken advantage of her grief over the loss of her daughter to move against her. Then, to add insult to injury, House Atreides hadn't once bothered to meet with her personally to see if she was actually willing to go through with the deal or even to check if she was suited to be Duchess of Caladan.
To them, Rhiannon's opinions didn't matter. She didn't matter. A means to an end, and nothing else.
Atreides may not have intended to offend, but to Rhiannon, there was no greater insult. And she was pissed.
But it was too late for anger. She had two choices: resist or relent. Even with her dilapidated resources, she still had quite a bit of influence in dangerous circles. Should she choose to try and reclaim what they had taken from her, even though she would almost inevitably lose, it would mean another long and bloody war that would cripple House Dering and threaten the newly established hierarchy.
Her enemies knew that, which was why they were marrying her off into an off-world family instead of trying to kill her outright. In their eyes, this was a solution that benefitted both parties; Rhiannon would be taken far away from Iro and no longer pose a threat to them, and in turn, Rhiannon would climb the social ladder to a previously unattainable position. Widow to wife. Obsolete Countess of very little to Duchess of Caladan. The very things they believed to be every woman's dream.
And, of course, Minor House Dering would gain the support and protection of a Great House, a particularly influential one, at that.
Larion, braver than the members of his council in the face of his sister's wrath, stood and rounded the table.
"Rhia," he beseeched, lifting up a hand with the intent of resting it on one of her narrow shoulders, before thinking better of it. Four years his senior, his sister had often been the guiding force in his life. He didn't like to see her upset, even if he didn't understand what there was to be upset about. "A lot of work has gone into arranging this for you. A new start, that's what you need. You have too many bad memories here. This is your chance to move on. Start again."
Rhiannon could've laughed at his choice of words. She knew exactly which of the vultures at his table had whispered them into his ear. Poor Larion, always such a puppet. There was no telling the ways they would pull his strings with Rhiannon out of the picture.
When she didn't respond, Larion heaved a sigh. "Be sensible, please? Sit down. Read the proposal properly. We need to come to a decision quickly."
"I believe the decision has already been made," Rhiannon said coldly. "And as I am a woman, there is no seat for me at your council's table."
"Nonsense," he said, not understanding. "I'll have a servant pull one up for you."
Rhiannon turned away from the window and surveyed the room almost lazily, the perfect manifestation of haughty disinterest. "No. I'm tired of the company you keep. Do what you must, brother, but I'm going home."
With that, she gathered her coat around her shoulders and swept out of the room. No one tried to stop her.
~0~0~0~
.
.
~0~0~0~
After nearly thirty generations, the planet Iro was finally important.
The mines on Iro were thought to be some of the most bountiful within Imperium space. The planet was brimming with enough iron, coal, gold, silver, precious gems, and other raw materials to build an empire, but the constant infighting between houses made it nearly impossible to reach them. There was always another blood feud. Continuous warfare between the Minor Houses drained resources and made mining extraordinarily dangerous. Borders and territories were established, erased, and redrawn so often that it was impractical for wealthier Houses from other planets to barter for mining rights.
Now, after centuries, Iro presented a united front. Over the course of six years, one Minor House had clawed its way to the top and forced settlement amongst the rest. It was messy. It was brutal. But at last, after centuries, it was over.
After five years of progress unimpeded by kanly, the existing mines and quarries were more productive than ever and new ones were being built around the clock. Now that Iro finally seemed ready to truly engage with the rest of the Imperium, the larger, wealthier houses were circling once more, citing old treaties and making grand promises, all in hopes of staking a claim to the enormous wealth that was slowly, but steadily, edging within reach. House Atreides was no exception.
As the northern hemisphere of Iro tilted further into spring, the preparations for Rhiannon's wedding were well underway. The ceremony was to take place on Caladan, but both Rhiannon and House Atreides still had a lot of unfinished business on Iro that needed to be addressed first.
For House Atreides, that mostly meant fleshing out business agreements, touring mining sites, conducting land surveys, buying equipment from other planets and arranging it to be sent to Iro, and setting up a central hub from which to conduct it all. For Rhiannon, it meant working out wedding details from millions of light years away, preparing to move her household and staff to another planet, extensively researching House Atreides and its enemies, quietly planting socio-political seeds and spies across a dozen planets, and discreetly monitoring everything House Atreides, House Dering, and the rest of Iro were doing from a safe distance.
Rhiannon still hadn't met her betrothed and was trying hard to not feel insulted about it. Duke Leto was on Iro, and had been since long before Rhiannon had discovered just how interested he was in establishing a firm Atreides presence on Iro. Though, more accurately, he was above the planet, and had been spending most of his time on an Atreides Frigate in orbit for security reasons, but frequently came down to the planet's surface to oversee everything firsthand. This meant that he was a frequent guest of Dering House Hall, but Rhiannon hadn't been back to the family home since she'd walked out on the council meeting the night they presented her with the proposal, and she had no intention of returning without good reason.
Instead, she chose to stay at Black Heron Hall, a beautiful stonework mansion situated on her own property a few thousand kilometers away. It had been part of the dower from her first marriage and was located on the fringe of what used to be House Varvara lands. House Varvara itself had more or less been absorbed by House Dering, but Rhiannon had grown fond of the jagged, snow capped mountains and rugged evergreen forests, and had made it her permanent residence.
And anyway, as the higher ranking individual, it was the Duke's right to control where and when their first meeting would be. If he wanted to meet her, he would either summon her to Dering House Hall or ask to be received at Black Heron Hall — she would comply with either without complaint — but any initiative on Rhiannon's part would be considered socially improper.
It was a bit aggravating, but a personal peeve, and therefore irrelevant. Otherwise, Rhiannon was perfectly capable of managing her affairs from Black Heron Hall through the constant stream of information from her own personal web of spies threaded all across the planet.
That information web was one of the reasons she was at loath to leave Iro. She had people who she trusted to maintain it in her absence, but was also hyper aware of the fact that there wasn't anything like it waiting for her on Caladan. It had taken her years to build, and she was having to start from scratch in order to create the same thing at her new home. Until then, she would be effectively blind.
"It's not that bad," said Aunt Elsbeth as they walked together on a footpath that weaved throughout the grounds, heading for the ponds to watch the fish. "You're hardly the first woman to marry and move to another world. And you'll have twice the resources on Caladan. You're more than clever enough to learn to use them."
Lady Elsbeth Levin wasn't Rhiannon's actual aunt, but the younger sister of Rhiannon's late husband's mother. Elsbeth had moved into the Varvara household after the death of her own husband, the late Lord Levin, some twenty years earlier. She was in her fifties, tall and beautiful. Her soft voice and sweet smile were the first things people noticed about her, but behind them hid a vicious intellect and equally vicious libido.
Rhiannon hummed. "Easier said than done."
Rhiannon had first met Elsbeth at her wedding to Count Bence Varvara. When Rhiannon had been twenty one and still naïve enough to believe that marriage guaranteed a life filled with love and safety, Elsbeth had been nothing but kind. Two years later, when Rhiannon had been battered, pregnant, and terrified for her own life and that of her unborn daughter, Elsbeth had given her the means to save herself.
Since then, Elsbeth had been one of Rhiannon's most trusted advisors, and the rock she had clung to when everything had suddenly fallen out from under her.
"Well, naturally," Elsbeth sniffed. "But it's a right smart match, and a far better arrangement than the others you can expect, given your situation."
An uninformed observer might think that the 'situation' Elsbeth was referring to was Rhiannon's state of widowhood, which was partially true. A widow, even a young one, couldn't expect to attract the same caliber of suitors that she had for her first marriage. But as Rhiannon had no true interest in remarrying, Elsbeth was referring to the political situation that had cornered her into marriage in the first place.
If Rhiannon stayed on Iro, she would eventually be killed, one way or another. By marrying a noble from another planet, especially one powerful enough to protect her, she would become untouchable. The guards at Black Heron Hall had already seen their ranks bolstered by a squad of Atreides soldiers. The safety of the future Duchess of Caladan was being taken very seriously.
"A smart match," Rhiannon echoed dryly. "You said that about Bence."
Elsbeth tutted. "Because that's what you're supposed to say when someone marries your nephew. Bence was a brute, and everyone knew it. This one, 'Leto the Just', they call him. He's got a good reputation. I mean it this time. It is a good match."
It was, actually. Political advantages aside, they did seem to be suited to each other. Both were in their late thirties, objectively attractive, had extensive political experience, and, were Hetta still alive, would've both had children that were about the same age. Even though it would likely be a loveless marriage, they would make a handsome couple.
Rhiannon hummed acknowledgement, which Elsbeth took as permission to continue.
"And even if he isn't all that they say, he'll probably be content to just ignore you. Imagine that! You won't even have to carry his children. Or even lie with him, if you don't want to." She paused. "I would want to, though. He's a handsome man, it would be a waste not to."
Rhiannon let out an inelegant snort. "You say that like you wouldn't fuck a troll. And anyway, I don't think it's up to me. They were very clear that I should manage my expectations about… physical intimacy."
They had been abundantly clear. Shortly after the engagement was made official, Black Heron Hall had been approached by an Atreides representative, who, in an effort to make a potentially uncomfortable discussion less awkward, had spoken to Rhiannon through her lady-in-waiting. Which, of course, made what should have been a perfectly reasonable discussion about boundaries and expectations between Rhiannon and Duke Leto into an annoying little game of telephone.
Rhiannon's lady-in-waiting, Mariona, had been a good sport about it. She faithfully presented the representative's statements to her mistress, then gamely returned with the responses, even going as far translating Rhiannon's irritation into professionally composed answers.
The Duke has a son and heir, and does not intend to sire any children by his future Duchess. Will the Countess take issue with this?
(Oh, thank God.) The Countess has no personal interest or need for children. Barring the unlikely event where a child is required for political reasons, she does not desire to bear any more children.
The Duke has expressed the desire to remain exclusive to his concubine, Lady Jessica, and does
not intend to join the Countess on the marriage bed. He hopes she will not take offense to this.
(Whatever.) The Countess understands that the union is political in nature, and respects the Duke's decision to remain faithful to the mother of his son.
The Countess will, of course, be allowed to take lovers, so long as she does not become pregnant by them.
(Fuck off.) The Countess acknowledges this allowance and is quite familiar with safe sex practices.
"Oh yes, Lady Jessica." Elsbeth nodded sagely. "That might be an issue, of course. Humans can be such jealous creatures. But you know what I'd do about that. I'd — "
"You'd fuck them both."
"— fuck them both," Elsbeth went on as if Rhiannon hadn't spoken. "Then there's no room for jealousy. Your husband's concubine may feel the need to compete with you, and that almost never turns out well. It's best if everyone is in love with everyone."
Rhiannon arched an eyebrow, equal parts amused and exasperated. "It's an option, but not everyone likes sharing, you know. I'll play it by ear. Otherwise what happens between them is their business."
Elsbeth didn't look convinced. "Do what you feel is right, of course. Just be sure that you don't get lonely. I still say that you should take one of your lovers from here with you. That way you'll have someone on Caladan that understands what you need."
Rhiannon recognized the concern in her aunt's tone, and smiled fondly. "Don't worry. I'll manage."
They rounded the edge of the garden and started their way back. There wasn't much foliage to look at this early in the spring, but the mountains were always breathtaking. Ice still floated around the edges of the fish ponds, the marbled orange and white fish wandering lazily from one end of the shallow pool to the other and back again.
As always, seeing the fish sent a pang of loss through Rhiannon's chest. But with it was a comforting ache. Her mind drifted to warm summer days, to the mop of blonde curls dangling just above the water's surface, to small, delicate hands dropping bits of fish food into waiting mouths. One by one.
She couldn't take the ponds with her. Or the fish. Maybe that was the most devastating thing of all. The last real connection she felt with her daughter, and she was being forced to leave it behind along with Hetta's grave.
Rhiannon was jerked out of her thoughts by a flurry of movement from the main house. Loah, one of Rhiannon's handmaids, hurried out the nearest door. She did a quick turn to scan for her mistress, then bustled across the garden towards them.
Upon reaching them, she bobbed a quick curtsy. "M'Lady."
"Hello, Loah," Rhiannon said pleasantly. Loah was Mariona's younger sister, seventeen and still a bit nervous when interacting with nobility. Hopefully in a few years, she would earn the title afforded to her sister. Rhiannon always made a point of being patient with her. "Is there a problem?"
"I'm not sure, m'Lady." Since Mariona had gone ahead to Caladan to manage Rhiannon's affairs from that end, many of Mariona's duties had fallen to Loah. Loah was extremely bright and exceptionally capable, but had yet to develop Mariona's intuition, which came with experience. "We've received word from our sources at Dering House Hall that a 'thopter carrying two high ranking Atreides officials has left there, bound for here. But there has been no word from any official channels."
Rhiannon frowned thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Did they say which officials?"
"Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho."
"The Master of Assassins and the Master of Swords," Elsbeth mused. "Why would he send them here? Why now? And why keep it a secret?"
Rhiannon pursed her lips thoughtfully. "It would make sense if they thought that there was to be an attempt on my life. But I find it doubtful that they'd discover a plot before us."
"Perhaps they suspect you're plotting against the Duke?"
"I've done nothing," Rhiannon reasoned, "and I can think of no one who would benefit from them suspecting me. Not this early. There may be some trouble with that after I become Duchess, but not before."
"M'Lady?"
Rhiannon gave Loah her full attention, causing her to shuffle nervously. "What is it, Loah?"
"I was thinking," she started tentatively, "about patterns, like you and Mariona said to. I've noticed that the Master of Assassins always visits a new place before the Duke. To secure it before he arrives."
The two older women shared a glance.
"The Duke is scheduled to leave for Caladan in a few days," Elsbeth pointed out. "It would make sense for him to visit you before he does."
"Why the secrecy, though?" Rhiannon shook her head, annoyed all over again. "Nevermind. Very nicely done, Loah. Thank you. Inform the staff that I'll be receiving Hawat and Idaho in my study. Then go to the kitchens and quietly inform the cooks that we are expecting the Duke of Caladan by dinner, and they are to prepare a simple meal. Nothing too fancy, but enough to feed all our guests."
Loah nodded and hurried off. Elsbeth watched her go, a frown pulling at the fine lines on her face.
"This isn't the time to be informal, surely?"
Rhiannon started walking again, following after her handmaid at a much more leisurely pace. "Except we aren't supposed to know they're coming, remember?"
"All the same. You don't want your future husband to be underwhelmed, either."
She considered this, plucking a tiny new leaf from a skeletal bush as they passed. She examined it critically for a moment, then rubbed it between two fingers until it turned into a minuscule ball.
Rhiannon flicked the pulp away and said, "If my betrothed wanted to be impressed, he would've announced his decision to visit ahead of time. Clearly, this is to be a casual interaction." She raised her hands in a mock helpless gesture. "Who am I to contradict him?"
"Fine. But I get to help decide what you wear, at least. No niece of mine is going to meet her husband dressed in her lounge wear. I won't stand for it."
"I wouldn't dream of it, El."
~0~0~0~
.