She sat inside her private chambers, comfortable at the writing desk and deep in thought. These fine rooms no longer felt like a prison to her, or merely a place to store forgotten objects. Though Paul refused to share her bed, Irulan had become more than a trophy won in the old Battle of Arakeen, more than a token wife. Despite the obstacles in her path, she had earned a genuine position in Muad’Dib’s government, and perhaps in history itself. Even Chani could not fill this particular role.

“A story is shaped by the teller as much as by the events themselves.” Irulan remembered the Bene Gesserit aphorism, similar to an old saying the Jongleurs often used. In her hands — and her writing stylus — she had the power to influence what future generations knew… or thought they knew.

Here inside the magnificent Citadel of Muad’Dib, the Princess felt herself pulled in many directions. Her father and the rest of exiled House Corrino, expecting her loyalty, had rejected her for choosing her husband over her own family. Similarly, the Sisterhood still could not believe she would forsake them — refusing their demand that she exert influence over the Emperor, desperately hoping that their long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach was not lost forever to their control.

Irulan was no longer sure where she owed her allegiance. Everyone wanted something from her. Everyone needed something from her. And, she was coming to believe, her husband needed her most of all… in his own way.

Paul-Muad’Dib had died of a grievous knife wound and come back from the other side. Irulan tried to imagine how she would describe this in the next volume of her ever-growing biographical treatment.

I will write that Muad’Dib cannot be killed. And the people will believe that. They will believe me.

How could they not?

Paul had never claimed to love Irulan, had never offered so much as a hint of affection for her, though he had come to respect her knowledge and experience. Seeing him dead and pale in a pool of his own blood had shaken her more than she could have imagined.

The appropriate words were forming in her mind. She would remain here and write, and she would let history decide.

By the holy grace of Muad’Dib.