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Summary
His uncle’s legs are spread under the table, his foot almost brushing against Feyd’s boot. His doughy hand rests on the arm of the chair, fingers deceptively relaxed, the muscles in his hand smooth of any tension. Feyd swallows, shifting in his chair, feeling the hard uncomfortable back against his shoulders.
“My nephew is my heir,” his uncle says calmly, tone almost genial, a stark contrast to the stone faced Leto Atreides across the table from them.
“Any child of his would be, of course, expected to be raised on Giedi Prime as he was,” his uncle continues.
———
A marriage is arranged.
Series
- Part 1 of arranged marriage