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Dec. 30th, 2025 09:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticityPrompt - caveat emptor (let the buyer beware)
Would also accept caveat imperator (let the emperor beware)
The moment Gregor heard Miles' voice he knew that he had chosen wrong. Not just wrong, no, it was not so easy as that. Not just wrong, he thought, but wrong so deep in the pit of his stomach he was glad he was sitting. Not wrong in one of Count Vorkosigan's strategy games, but wrong in real life. He had been wrong about Miles, about Count Vorkosigan, about Captain Illyan, about everything.
He was wrong and all the Counts were watching.
Miles and Hessman and Vordrozda were arguing and he could not hear them. The world was turning black and hard and his fingers were clenching his blue pants. He considered screaming, or maybe jumping up from his chair and letting his Lord Regent handle it as he always had. Count Vorkosigan would fix this. Count Vorkosigan could fix anything. His grandfather the Emperor could fix anything - his father, tragically struck down --
He stared at Miles, and then at Vordrozda.
Count Vorkosigan had told him this would happen. The Count had drilled him endlessly: your advisors will feed you what they want you to hear, Sire, even me. Your advisors must never be trusted, even me. You must always ask yourself why they are telling you anything, why they are telling you this story, even me, me more than anyone. What do they want, for what things they are telling you? Why do I make the suggestions I make? Why do I point out all the details? What do you know about me, my aims, my district, my history?
He had succeeded sitting in the cozy Residence armchairs and failed here, now, for real. He had let Vordrozda feed him without question. He had not asked all the questions he needed to ask. He had accepted, without doubt, that everyone wanted the best for him, like Count Vorkosigan had. He had been given advice he had assumed was good. He had been sold a beautiful new Imperium, his Imperium, and he had not looked under the hood.
He has been handed whatever he wanted, made comfortable, told he was right --
He blinked, slow, several times. He was the emperor. Not Vorkosigan, not Vordrozda, not Miles, not Hessman. Miles had come at his demand. Miles -- now that Miles was here he could find out what the fuck Miles was up to this time. He could ask Miles. That was what good emperors did: find out what the fuck happened and decide how it benefited the Imperium and stop it if it didn't.
He inhaled and exhaled. Miles was defeating Hessman and Vordrozda at Strat-O as easily as he had defeated Gregor and Ivan a decade ago. He had defeated them so soundly that Gregor found himself oddly insulated from terror at the sight of Vordrozda pulling a needler.
He was the emperor and they threw themselves between him and the needler. Not between Count Vorkosigan and the needler; not between Miles and the needler; not between Hessman and the needler.
This was, in the most impossible of ways, oddly steadying. It was just him and Miles, in that moment.
He called for a recess, so he could find out what the fuck Miles was up to now. He would find out if Miles served the Imperium - if Miles served him. That was what emperors did. He would not let himself be led, not again, not by anyone. He mentally grabbed for his diagnostic tools, committing the feel of them to memory.
Would also accept caveat imperator (let the emperor beware)
The moment Gregor heard Miles' voice he knew that he had chosen wrong. Not just wrong, no, it was not so easy as that. Not just wrong, he thought, but wrong so deep in the pit of his stomach he was glad he was sitting. Not wrong in one of Count Vorkosigan's strategy games, but wrong in real life. He had been wrong about Miles, about Count Vorkosigan, about Captain Illyan, about everything.
He was wrong and all the Counts were watching.
Miles and Hessman and Vordrozda were arguing and he could not hear them. The world was turning black and hard and his fingers were clenching his blue pants. He considered screaming, or maybe jumping up from his chair and letting his Lord Regent handle it as he always had. Count Vorkosigan would fix this. Count Vorkosigan could fix anything. His grandfather the Emperor could fix anything - his father, tragically struck down --
He stared at Miles, and then at Vordrozda.
Count Vorkosigan had told him this would happen. The Count had drilled him endlessly: your advisors will feed you what they want you to hear, Sire, even me. Your advisors must never be trusted, even me. You must always ask yourself why they are telling you anything, why they are telling you this story, even me, me more than anyone. What do they want, for what things they are telling you? Why do I make the suggestions I make? Why do I point out all the details? What do you know about me, my aims, my district, my history?
He had succeeded sitting in the cozy Residence armchairs and failed here, now, for real. He had let Vordrozda feed him without question. He had not asked all the questions he needed to ask. He had accepted, without doubt, that everyone wanted the best for him, like Count Vorkosigan had. He had been given advice he had assumed was good. He had been sold a beautiful new Imperium, his Imperium, and he had not looked under the hood.
He has been handed whatever he wanted, made comfortable, told he was right --
He blinked, slow, several times. He was the emperor. Not Vorkosigan, not Vordrozda, not Miles, not Hessman. Miles had come at his demand. Miles -- now that Miles was here he could find out what the fuck Miles was up to this time. He could ask Miles. That was what good emperors did: find out what the fuck happened and decide how it benefited the Imperium and stop it if it didn't.
He inhaled and exhaled. Miles was defeating Hessman and Vordrozda at Strat-O as easily as he had defeated Gregor and Ivan a decade ago. He had defeated them so soundly that Gregor found himself oddly insulated from terror at the sight of Vordrozda pulling a needler.
He was the emperor and they threw themselves between him and the needler. Not between Count Vorkosigan and the needler; not between Miles and the needler; not between Hessman and the needler.
This was, in the most impossible of ways, oddly steadying. It was just him and Miles, in that moment.
He called for a recess, so he could find out what the fuck Miles was up to now. He would find out if Miles served the Imperium - if Miles served him. That was what emperors did. He would not let himself be led, not again, not by anyone. He mentally grabbed for his diagnostic tools, committing the feel of them to memory.