Princess of Dune – Review
I didn’t enjoy Princess of Dune, and the more I think about it, the more fundamentally wrong it feels.
My main problem isn’t the prose, or even the characters in isolation, but what this novel tries to do within the timeline of Dune. The story takes place just a couple of years before the original novel, and yet we are asked to accept that the Imperium was already on the brink of collapse—again. Considering the Caladan Trilogy happens roughly a year earlier and also features massive threats to imperial stability, we now have two separate moments where the Empire is almost overthrown shortly before Paul Atreides arrives on the scene. That repetition makes the political stakes of Dune feel strangely inflated and retroactively undermined.
In other words: if the Imperium has nearly fallen apart multiple times right before Paul, then his rise no longer feels like a unique historical rupture. It feels like just another crisis in a system that apparently collapses every other year.
The core plot revolves around Zenha, a disgraced high-ranking general. He once dared to seek Princess Irulan’s hand in marriage, something Shaddam IV would obviously never allow. To “teach him a lesson,” the Emperor manipulates Zenha into leading a military campaign to “liberate” a planet from rebels—while intentionally withholding crucial information. The mission predictably fails, Zenha is dishonored, stripped of rank, and cast aside. From there, he becomes the figurehead of a growing military insurrection aimed at overthrowing Shaddam and reforming the Imperium.
On paper, this is a workable premise. In execution, it stretches plausibility. Zenha’s rebellion grows far too large, far too fast, and once again we are told that the Emperor’s position is critically endangered. The novel wants us to sympathize with Zenha, and to a degree that works—he’s one of the more coherent characters in the book—but the scale of his success feels exaggerated for the sake of drama rather than earned through careful worldbuilding.
Alongside this, the book splits its attention between several plotlines. Irulan navigates court politics, insurrections, and her complicated relationship with her sisters—especially Wensicia, who is driven by resentment over always living in Irulan’s shadow. Chani, meanwhile, is involved in increasingly ambitious Fremen raids against the Harkonnen and the Imperium, while being torn between loyalty to her father, Liet-Kynes, and her half-brother Liet-Chih (also called Khouro), a character created solely for the expanded novels.
These two main threads do eventually intersect, but not in a particularly meaningful way. Chani and Irulan meet under extreme circumstances—captured, condemned to death, and forced into cooperation. Liet-Kynes convinces Irulan that redirecting Fremen hatred away from the Emperor and toward the Harkonnen might serve imperial interests. This is an interesting idea, but it arrives late and doesn’t fundamentally change the trajectory of either character.
There’s also a smaller subplot involving the Spacing Guild and the Bene Tleilax, which frankly borders on absurd. The Guild disposes of a dead Navigator by dropping the body onto Arrakis during a spice explosion and then simply leaves. The Tleilaxu recover the corpse and begin experimenting, not to rival the Guild directly, but to create beings with prescient “presence” capable of controlling events across the Imperium. It’s a big idea introduced quickly, handled clumsily, and resolved without much weight.
The resolution of the novel hinges on Wensicia discovering an ancient imperial failsafe: hidden devices capable of destroying Guild ships in the event of a military uprising. This creates a stalemate when Zenha surrounds Kaitain—either his fleet is annihilated, or the capital world is devastated. Irulan ultimately resolves the crisis by agreeing to marry Zenha, only to assassinate him during the wedding. Order is restored. The Imperium returns to “normal.”
And that’s part of the problem. After revolutions, conspiracies, assassination attempts, secret superweapons, and near-total collapse, everything snaps back into place just in time for Dune to begin. Nothing truly changes. Everything important must be reset, because canon demands it.
To the book’s credit, the Atreides are entirely absent, which is refreshing. Brian and Kevin often write them as overly idealized figures, and leaving them out improves the narrative focus. The Harkonnen appear briefly and are used effectively, without overstaying their welcome.
Still, Princess of Dune ultimately feels unnecessary. It doesn’t deepen Irulan or Chani in ways that meaningfully enrich the original novel, and it adds yet another forgotten crisis that the Imperium somehow survived without consequence. For a story set so close to Dune, it asks for too much suspension of disbelief.
If this were set further back in the timeline, it might work better. As it stands, it feels like another example of expanded lore creating noise rather than clarity.