His first memory of his prince was of watching him ride. No one could ever keep pace with him, so his generals learned quickly how to fan and flank, their horses unwilling to take the paths that Luca Blight drove his mounts down. In campaign, in good conditions, he killed a horse a month. In bad conditions he would go through as many as three in a week.

Seed was not alone in thinking that perhaps they were driven as mad as their rider, their eyes rolling white and the foam on their bits blood-flecked. But even then, there was a grace to watching Luca Blight ride, a kind of lupine fury that surpassed the wildness in his eyes and the feral sharpness of his grin.

They called him a mad wolf, and he did not scorn the name.

But he was strong, and above all, Seed respected strength.

His first memory of his best friend was the shape his cloak against the morning sky, torn and bloodied and fluttering like a pennant. The battle had gone badly, but the wise actions of one cavalry captain had given them the day. Solon Jhee had lost a lover, a friend, a father, and a brother on that wretched battleground, but he had earned his rank. Seed, then Antares Blight's Aide de Camp, had been the one to ride up and tell him.

Seed was not the last man to predict that Solon Jhee's noblesse oblige would be the death of him someday, but there was a nobility to him that a bastard son of a rich father might have learned to hate, if he had not been drawn to it instead.

They called him a fool, and the edge of his words would make them wish they had not.

But he was honorable, and above all, Seed valued honor.

His first memory of his King was the sound of his voice, muffling a cry of pain. There was a quickness in his eyes and Seed knew that Jowy Atreides never, not for an instant, stopped thinking. His intelligence would shatter the blunt sword of Luca's mad strength, and Seed, a dull ache of loss under his breast, began to consider the value of different kinds of strength.

Jowy was a boy, but Seed had been one once too, and never had he seen fire like the one that burned cold in Jowy's face, that burned black in his hands. He promised nothing, but respect seemed to flow from Seed outwards, willing or no, to swirl in the whirlpool spun by the black sword rune.

They called him unpredictable, calculating, and let his will bend their own.

He was dangerous, but above all, Seed craved danger.

His first memory of his lover was the feel of a strong arm around his shoulders, cool water across his lips. Culgan's border patrol had been spending an idle winter on the far fringes of Highland when raiders found Seed's unit, on reconnaissance in the hills. Seed had heard the name, but had never seen the elusive general until the day he stumbled out of the edge of the forest into Culgan's watchpost, and collapsed from cold and hunger. Nine days he had been in the woods and wounded, stumbling over his own blood trail in the snow, running blind from the ghosts of wolves. Culgan had brought him to his own tent, wrapped him in his own blankets and furs, watched over his fitful sleep.

Culgan was everything Seed was not; the lean difference in their ages seemed to mean little. Seed never stopped to wonder why they should fall so into step, the cool calculating nobleman and the hellcat from the ranks. Highland sang the same melody in their hearts, and they marched to it in time: cool steel and the fire to temper it.

Culgan would never have given his life for him, through all the heat of their bodies and the comfort of their silences. The one true love of his life was Highland.

But to Seed, Culgan was all the Highland he had ever loved, and above all, Seed would die for love.