Disclaimer: All character's, worlds, terms, etc. belong to (light and praise) Lois McMaster Bujold, not me. Except for Lady Vorhalas.

This is now updated, all of it, so re-read the first chapter for genealogical developments and other fun stuff. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!

Caramina

Winterfair

Miles observed Gregor and Laisa's Winterfair party with infinite experience, monitoring the copious numbers of counts, countesses, lords, ladies, soldiers, guards and Vor; admiring the splendid show that Empress Laisa had organized, and paying careful attention to the tall lady beside him: his wife of two years, Ekaterin Nile Vorvayne Vorkosigan. While carrying herself with more natural assurance than she had attempted to masquerade last year, Ekaterin was still finder her sea legs. Though Miles was still slightly puzzled about exactly—well, she had already met his parents, and Gregor…what else could possibly be intimidating? Then he reflected on his own childhood and recanted. Just because he had grown up in this old pile… He patted her hand, resting on his arm. She returned him a small smile. Their children, safe with their nurse for the night, would be completely non-plused by this sort of thing. He would see to that.

Miles wasn't sure what first called him out of his thoughts, but what finally gathered his full attention was excessively obvious. In the midst of the colorful gowns, house uniforms, and military red and blues, a young woman in black stood in stark contrast. Her posture was tense—a random muscular tremula in her upper arm revealed just how tense. Drawing a breath, and setting her expression to one of calm determination, she walked straight across the ballroom to the Glass Room, where Gregor and Laisa were spending the first part of the evening—collecting the symbolic bags of gold from the Counts. Most of the ballroom's occupants followed her—discretely—with their eyes. Miles glanced at Ekaterin, and she shrugged minutely. Together they set off after the girl.

As they moved, Miles made a more careful observation. She was small, for a Barrayaran—taller than he by mere inches. Thick, blonde hair had been twisted into some sort of elegant bunch; Miles couldn't quite tell where the ends went. Her formal gown, what he originally thought to be solid black, actually consisted of embroidered gray silk sleeves and a velvet black overdress—the colors of mourning. He couldn't tell, but he bet that she rustled when she walked. She was definitely Vor. Her step faltered slightly when she passed the threshold to the Glass Room, but she did not stop. If only he could get a better view of her face. Then he might be able to tell whose daughter she was, anyway.

Miles and Ekaterin slipped in behind her, moving off to a point on the right. Sitting in two simple chairs at the head of the room were Emperor Gregor and Empress Laisa. They just finished their business with Count Vorsmythe when the girl reached them. Long stares followed her all they way to the dais. She curtsied deeply to them.

"Your majesties," she said in a soft voice. She swallowed and continued more loudly, "In the name of my great uncle and my family and my district, I present to you the Vorhalas taxes for this year." Into Gregor's hand she placed a crested bag.

Miles took a deep breath. Oh. This was Isolde Vorhalas, the last living descendant of the Vorhalas line—except for the current Count. The current, conservative Count. His father's enemy of decades standing. Oh, my. Miles pulled Ekaterin closer.

Gregor took the bag without batting an eyelash. "In the name of the Imperium I accept." The girl curtseyed again. Gregor beckoned her closer, and bent his head to speak into her ear. Miles couldn't quite hear what was said, but did see Lady Vorhalas nod several times. With a slight twitch of the finger Gregor dismissed her. She curtseyed once more and turned to leave the room. Miles nearly stared.

Her face…She was a kid. She couldn't have been more than fifteen, if that. God, what pluck she had. The Vorhalas blood was definitely there, along with some Vordrozda and Vorpinski. Blue-blood Barrayaran Vor-child oh, yeah. Miles looked beseechingly at Gregor. Although he did not acknowledge him, Gregor did cast and eye to an unintruding armsman positioned at the far wall. Miles took the hint.

"Come on," he said, and tugged Ekaterin along with him. They backed out of the Glass Room, and Miles led Ekaterin to a more secluded hallway. He pushed open the door to a small library.

"Miles," said Ekaterin, exacerbated, "What is going on?"

"Mmm. Ha! That," he said, "Was Count Vorhalas' great niece. The last living member of the line besides him."

"And a couple of other Vor scion idiots."

"Ah, no. That's where things get interesting. There are none."

Ekaterin blinked. "None?"

Miles shrugged. "The family's had…well. They've always been very—outspoken—about their loyalty to the Imperium. To a fault. The Cetagandans and Mad Yuri didn't appreciate it, much. I don't know who took the leaf from whose book, but the general reaction was to slaughter everyone with a drop of Vorhalas blood except the Count and his immediate family."

Ekaterin stiffened slightly. "Oh, my. Why did the Count's family escape?"

"He never offered open military resistance. If the Count was killed, it would make a very large political stink that would more damaging than the obnoxious Count."

"But…the Vorhalas family is older than the Vorkosigan's Miles,"

Miles nodded. There were a number of only children, or, I should say, only breeding children. Some died before procreating. So old Vorhalas has two options. Appoint someone outside the line to inherit, or, " Miles smiled. "Force the largest social and political change on Barrayar since…since I don't know when. And it appears the old Count has decided where to place his money." His smile grew to a wolfish grin. "I'll bet he sticks around just long enough to see her confirmed as his heir, too, and then kick off."

Ekaterin stared at him. " Is that what you think he's planning?"

"Has to be. Otherwise he had no reason to have her give Gregor the bag. He would have given it to whomever he thought—outside his bloodline, that is—should be his heir, or wouldn't have shown at all. He has been very ill ever since his nephew died. She however… Oh, my. I hope he's not really screwing up."

Ekaterin blinked. "Oh?"

"Well, the far right will try to eat her alive. The left and some of the moderates will try to put her up on a pedestal—you know, the 'first' woman count. The rest of the moderates will babble and drivel about how they're not really sure whether Barrayar is ready…"

"That seems to me more of her problem than his." She looked at Miles thoughtfully for a few long (very long from his points of view) moments. "Do you think she can pull it off?"

Miles paused. "She's awfully young…" he began.

"Is she?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Would she be to young…if she was a he?"

"Er…"

"Miles! You're letting your Barrayaran sensibilities get the better of you again!"

"She's still young! Male or female, it doesn't matter!"

"True. She could be given a ward. But that's only if Vorhalas dies before she reaches her majority."

"And there are a thousand ways for him to push this should he try."

"Yes. But that's not what I care about, particularly."

"Oh?"

"Mmm. What I care about is whether you're going to help her or not."

"I…" Miles thought for a few moments under Ekaterin's stare. "It depends on her."

She smiled. Out of the dog house for now, a voice I his head came, unbidden. "Good," she said.

A knock came at the door. A Vorbarra uniformed armsman stepped though. "Milord, milady, would you please follow me?