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They bring her to him in one of the formal receiving rooms at the Residence, the walls covered in rose damask silk and the floor elaborate parquet wood tiles. Whatever else she is, she is a visiting dignitary as well, and the representative here of an entire planet no matter their relationship to it. She's accorded all the respect she's due from that.

Gregor is wearing a plain black military-cut suit, a concession to try to make things less stiflingly formal, though he doesn't expect her to understand the distinction that he's not in uniform. She is also to be his wife; presumably he's going to have to sleep with her at some point, or what is the purpose of this whole affair...

God. The whole concept makes him feel slightly ill just thinking about it. She's not hugely younger than him, but she's enough younger that Gregor is highly conscientious of it. If not for him, she'd be in the peak of her romantic explorations, most likely, free to make all of her own choices. Now he's tying her down as surely as he is, a sacrifice they're both making for the Imperium and for New London.

None of this shows on his impassive face. He's seated in an ivory tufted wingback armchair, a matching one set at an angle to face his. One long leg is crossed over the other, his hands neatly settled on top of them. One of his Armsmen shows the lady in, then fades back into a corner to nominally attend them, but really to stand guard. It's as private as Gregor could afford to make it, given his intended's known political dissonance and history of violent action, however well-justified.

"Thank you, Arkady," he says to his Armsman, voice quiet, eyes resting on Kitty. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss."

He at least manages to sound smooth, all stiltedness polished out of him by this point in his reign. There is a small table between the chairs, with a sleek decanter of water, two glasses, and a flimsy with their marriage contract on it. A highly political document labored over for months upon months to the final details, and yet he still finds himself unwilling to sign it without discussing it with her personally. One last gasp of independence, he supposes glumly. The flimsy is a stark anachronism in such an archaic room.

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Kitty Jones is the daughter of a shopkeeper and a washerwoman. She's a no-account, uneducated girl from the gutters, who's not even a decade away from the month she spent sleeping on the streets after her parents kicked her out. She's been arrested multiple times, committed crimes both major and minor. And now she stands in this fine room, with its silks and its exquisite parquet floor (and she'd had to look up that word, parquet, and embroidery and piece montee and about a hundred other terms unknown to her), facing down the Emperor of three planets and Protector of hers, contemplating her strategy for not getting bloody eaten alive by this quiet man and his ravenous Counts.

It's been five years since the Barrayaran-assisted revolution that overthrew her oppressive former government and installed her - in absence of other viable candidates - as President. In return for their assistance, Kitty and her compatriots had been compelled to negotiate a treaty with Barrayar that had placed them in a vassal relationship with the Imperium. It's not, all things considered, a bad relationship: Barrayar collects some tribute, have a presence on their planet, get free use of their (strategically very advantageous) wormholes, get their airspace for staging military actions when necessary. In return they provide military aid - including those initial, crucial troops. But bad relationship or good, New London is still in a subordinate position. Kitty had sworn to herself, at the time of the treaty and when she'd taken the Presidency, that she would find an opportunity to change the terms of that agreement. Work that compromise into something for them. Something for the New Londoners alone, Barrayar be both blessed and hanged.

The opportunity, though, has come more...quickly than she'd anticipated. See, about eight months into her Presidency, an exploratory project had discovered enormous deposits of the metals needed to produce Necklin rods around the south pole of New London. Unheard-of deposits. It was a bit of irony that this was a project that the last administration had put into place: they'd been exploring that area for resources for the past decade or so, and it was pure dumb luck that the metals had been discovered with her in charge rather than them. Incredible luck, really: if they'd found these resources, they'd have had enough money to buy the mercenaries to crush the rebellion a hundred times over. Instead, Kitty lucked into this money, and the uses she'd put it to...Schools, schools to equal those found on Beta; an end to contract-slavery and reparations for all those forced into it; infrastructure, roads, solar mirrors to warm her cold planet long after she was dead - a wealth of social programs that dragged her planet and her people, in just half a decade, out of the dark ages into at least the dim ages. And her in charge, and elevated to the position of a modern saint for her efforts.

Barrayar, of course, found its casual acquisition - the small addition to their empire, the planet of no great consequence that needed no great expenditure of force to rescue - suddenly looming rather large in terms of its strategic and economic value. And that was when they'd come calling with a proposal for a closer alliance. And who else but Kitty could take that on? Kitty, who even no longer President still had enormous symbolic value. Kitty, whose union with the Emperor would be, for Barrayar, a coup. A strategic subordination, in their patriarchal structure, of her government to theirs. In return, better protections, more freedom for New London - and in return a right of first refusal on all products of mining operations and therefore the potential to choke off the supply of Necklin rod production to the Cetagandans and the Jacksonians and whoever else they chose....

Well. The wrinkle, of course, is that they didn't get Kitty's government. They got Kitty. Daughter of a washerwoman and a shopkeep, uneducated, unmannered, standing in this room facing down a man with seven more years of life experience and thirty more years of diplomatic experience than she's got. Facing down the bloody Emperor. With no guarantee that he's not going to marry her and then murder her, or conveniently find some evidence of treason and leave her to starve in the town square while using her treachery as pretext to conquer her poor home completely. Welcome to Barrayar. Watch your step.

But: sure. Gregor's got the armies. He's got all the strategic and legal advantages. Hell, he's got the armed guards. But Kitty overthrew a planetary government based on the force of her personality alone. What melancholic Vor will ever be a match for her?

She's come dressed quite fetchingly, in a suit, well-tailored, symbolically embroidered with Barrayaran-style patterns around the sleeves and waist. Silver and black. She sits, but with no great ceremony, and at once she speaks. Her speech is rapid and ferocious, in contrast to his quiet thoughtful tone.

"Too right we do," she responds. "Traditional Barrayaran law is through verbal contracts. This contract is good as a concession to my governmental systems - " She reaches out and taps the flimsy - "But I want some binding oaths from you. Personally. The first one is that you will not join in on this utter nonsense of calling me my lady. I'm Kitty. Call me that. Agreed?"

It's all a complicated mess that Gregor is attempting to balance precariously with minimum loss to life or sanity. Unfortunately, the neatest way to clip through the whole snarl is to just marry the woman-- the only sacrifice then is his own, and hers. His he can speak for; not hers. That was the purpose of this initial interview, in his mind, only she's already taken it wildly off track.

Gregor's eyebrows shoot up at her, and he gives her a newly assessing look, taking his time in answer. The lack of skirts was statement on its own (no attempt to fit in, here, but Vorbarra colors, which has to be intentional-- acquiescing without losing herself; interesting) but this is another thing altogether.

"I'm afraid there will be occasions where I must," he says mildly, "formal ones, largely; and furthermore I would not swear an oath over anything less than dire matters. It is all too easily interpreted as Our oath to other ears." Then he nods, gracious. "But I agree that in private there is no sense in us pretending distance. I have no argument with calling you Kitty."

He decides not to add that the written contract is not really a concession, as he's trying to move Barrayar away from such a heavy reliance on verbal. It's a nasty business with the witnesses, sometimes. But it's probably best to let her feel some measure of power was granted to her, because he has no intention whatsoever to demean her in any way.

In fact, he expects that he'll have to be extraordinarily careful, and step rather quickly, to avoid it, but he is grimly determined.

Okay. Good. That was about the right mixture of reactions she wanted. He had to pause to think about things, pause for a little while at that - she likes a slow and deliberate thinker as her opponent; she has a very good track record against slow and deliberate thinkers. He didn't dig in his heels altogether, though, or act particularly scandalized, though nor does he entirely give way - that means she has a little bit of traction, but he's not completely flexible. Her ideal imagined Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, Her Future Husband is someone who's about 30% flexible, 70% stiff - just enough bend for her to get into position to exert pressure, but with enough rigidity so that she can break him without too much effort.

Break him. Sure. A man who can verbally distinguish between "us" and "Us." She can feel a little prickle of sweat on her back. It reminds her of how terrified she is right now. How much is at stake in this little dance. But she doesn't let herself feel her nerves emotionally - there are just these little symptoms of them.

"Occasions where you must?" Her lips quirk upwards. Her smile looks warm and genuine, like she's teasing him - the fondness of a young bride for her young groom. But her eyes are sharp and watchful. "Would there be repercussions if you didn't? If I was just Kitty even at state occasions."

Many people do indeed get an impression of Gregor as cautious and deliberate. It's not at all mistaken-- they just tend to get the associated impression of him as reluctant to make leaps, which is exceedingly not the case. But it suits him to be underestimated and he always lets his political opponents learn on their own.

Kitty is not necessarily a political opponent, but he doesn't know that for sure yet. He'd dearly like her not to be, with perhaps more fervent passion than is right for such a ruthlessly negotiated, contractual marriage. But it's the truth. Gregor is inwardly despairing over the whole issue and can only keep himself together, denying his private grief (grieving for a woman he's never met, his true wife he'd been waiting all this time before, is ridiculous, he reminds himself) by maintaining that Imperial facade.

He doesn't fall for the act for a second, of course, but he's not cruel either. "Repercussions, perhaps. More that I am not willing to give you a sign of public disrespect. I fear you will have enough to contend with without your fiancé adding sniping to the lot."

He can't quite bring himself to say husband yet. Another state of denial, maybe. But Gregor does try to show some tiny part of his hand here, that he is not so cold as he can well imagine she might believe. He cultivates that image intentionally, after all. Cold is not weak.

She tilts her head up, her smile remaining. There's a strange twist of something in the pit of her stomach, though. That's - a strangely kind-hearted reason, isn't it? Not being stiff-necked, not being fussy, but worrying about her dignity. That's -

Kitty, don't lose your head here. Remember who this is. He's a trained diplomat. He knows how to frame what he does so that it sounds good and sympathetic. Just because he says it's for your sake doesn't mean he's actually looking out for you. He wants political advantage - right?

"Disrespect would be contingent on a lack of parity, though, wouldn't it." She leans forward, her smile turning a bit less sweet, a bit more challenging. "I mean - if I were free to call you Gregor, then it wouldn't be demeaning. It would just be equal address between equals."

And she pronounces that word very deliberately. Equals. It's what she wants to be, and it's what - if she gets her way - she will be. But for now, she wants to see how he swallows that word. Just how much sauce it needs to go down.

And here comes the moment where he gets to upend all of her expectations. Gregor can't lie, he takes immeasurable satisfaction from these moments. He doesn't get to do them often anymore, given how canny his advisers and ministers and counts are getting about him, but once in a while he gets to just upset the whole apple cart and veer wildly off-script.

It is absurdly pleasing, to get to be himself sometimes even as he is the Emperor.

"I agree completely," he says pleasantly, meeting her eyes so directly there is no doubt he means every shade of that agreement to being equals, with all further implications. "And please do feel free to call me Gregor. It would border on the grotesque to insist on some title, from you. Yet it will have an entirely different flavor coming from me. There is no one here who would dare criticize my integrity-- well, not openly."

Unsaid is that she will be enduring quite a bit of criticism herself, but surely she must expect that, and, Gregor is starting to think, perhaps thrive on it. She seems ready for battle.

And she is...a little flummoxed. She stares at him. She had good momentum built up, she'd thought - he was supposed to choke a little, blanch a little, get fussy and flustered. He was supposed to be tripped up by the very notion that a woman, and a citizen of a vassal planet, would claim to be his equal. But instead he's just agreeing to it. Like it's some pleasant thought.

She smooths down her jacket. She finds a little heat coming into her cheeks, and a little bit of the nervousness she's not letting herself feel - Well. She feels it. Which she can't. She needs to keep her wits about her. When she gets scared, she gets angry. And when she gets angry she gets reckless. Recklessness was for the young revolutionary. She's Kitty, elder stateswoman, abdicated president, figurehead marrying a man of actual power and looking to subdue him. No chance for any mistakes.

Right. Okay. Well. Keep collected, Kitty. Try another tack. You're smart and you're quick; you won the rebellion through quickness, not brute force. Adapt. "I'm not a lady, though," she says. "You don't think it sounds like condescension, calling me one? And when we're married, I'll be Empress, and a lady by that standard, yes. But those who hear Kitty as condescending also wouldn't see any legitimacy in my claims to ladyship, would they. So they'll hear a sneer either way."

Gregor truly hadn't known what to expect from this meeting. If she was as horrible as the rumors said, a real wild-woman, he'd been prepared to call it off and settle for some lesser method of conflict resolution. He can stomach only so much further sacrifice. But this stopping up short, this baffled awkwardness with all of her momentum blown out of her, serves to humanize her thoroughly. It's the most encouraging thing he's seen all week.

It means she does most likely deserve his protection, which is quite different from being merely owed it. One Gregor does out of obligation, uncomplaining; the other he does fiercely, without apology.

His gaze and tone both flatten. "Normally I'm not much given to Imperial high-handedness, but they will treat you as a lady because I will tell them to. You are far more worthy of being one than many of those who get the title by accident of birth. Whatever we may disagree on, you have done an enormous service to your planet at what I suspect must have been great personal sacrifice, and you have my respect for it."

Finally, his fierceness gentles, and he says quietly, "I would not have this be a trial for you, as much as I can make it so."

Does he really...mean that? Kitty is doubly disoriented, because he sounded like he meant it. Barrayar is a warlike planet, of course. She'd counted on her personal history getting her a bit of traction - after all, they're not so far removed from their days of fighting with knives and swords against the Cetagandans that her history of hand-to-hand combat and sabotage against people armed with proper technology, won't earn some respect. But - it'd just be quiet, she'd thought. A little begrudging and reluctant. He's looking at her with enormous sincerity. No double-talk whatsoever - just earnest bluntness.

She finds herself flushing just a little deeper. She doesn't know how to handle this. Enemies she's had plenty of. Subordinates - yes. Once she'd gotten into the Presidency, subordinates. But allies have been so rare that she hardly knows how to recognize them. And Gregor doesn't exactly resemble her fondly-remembered Admiral Naismith.

"They'll treat me as a lady, maybe, but that doesn't mean they'll think of me as one," she responds, finally, though it takes longer than she'd like before she speaks. "Imperial decree can compel action, but not opinion. The only way they'll end up thinking I'm worthy is if I show them I am." She recovers enough to tilt her chin up and show just a flash of ferocity of her own. There's no uncertainty when she adds, "Which I will."

Edited 2016-01-17 02:35 (UTC)

Gregor is, if anything, understating his respect for her. All he knows is what he's been told, but given that what he gets told is by Simon Illyan himself, already verified and triple-checked before submitted for the Emperor's ears, he trusts it like he trusts that the sun will rise. Cold facts give no information on the motivation or moral character of someone, however; that is what he means to judge for himself, and so far he is finding her someone he reads as overwhelmed, but bold and determined. Also, in his eyes, worthy of respect.

It is true though that she will likely find Barrayarans far more sincerely respectful of her actions than she might expect. Driven, impassioned, and selfless service, personal sacrifice in the pursuit of it, and moreover that she'd won-- Barrayarans eat that up. Just like they'd gained a healthy respect for Cordelia Vorkosigan, in the wake of Vordarian's Pretendership, if of a different nature.

There is at last some bare hint of a smile about his mouth, a tiny concession to humanity if she's looking for it. "I would have it no other way." He lets that rest for a moment, giving it weight, before going on. "Imperial decree should never try to compel opinion in any case. I much prefer you doing that yourself, on your own terms."

Gregor nods toward the flimsy. "Speaking of terms, I wanted to invite you to present your arguments for anything you take issue with." Just another tiny piece of humor there, that he now assumes she will have arguments, and personal ones that her clerks or ministers might have reasoned down and away in the formal settlement process. This contract is for their planets, yes, but it is also for them personally, and he will not proceed without a correspondingly personal discussion.

Edited 2016-01-17 20:40 (UTC)

She doesn't understand what he's doing. What that little smile is. She remembers Naismith telling her just a few words about Emperor Gregor, back when they were first negotiating the treaty that would save her world - the Admiral had called Gregor honorable. Clever. Definitely not someone to underestimate. She'd taken that last bit to mean that he was not someone you'd want to turn your back on, but...What if Naismith had actually meant something rather kinder? Not that he was dangerous. That he was...

Kitty nods once. She confirms his supposition - "The political conditions in that treaty are acceptable to me. I wouldn't have even set foot in here if they weren't." The contract does not include full independence for New London, no; that's something she'll work her way to later, over the course of her tenure as Empress. She's not buying New London's freedom with her slavery; she's gaining enough power to defend her home with full strength.

"What I want to discuss is how we'll be together. You and I." These weren't arguments she had intended to present prior to Gregor's little smile at her. She'd rather intended to let the stiff-necked bore just find out once they were wed just how unbiddable she was. Trap him and then surprise him. But he's turning out to be more interesting than she'd anticipated, and more honest. So she's going to try out honesty of her own. Just to see.

"I was leader of my own home planet for a number of years. I led the rebel forces before that. I'm not accustomed to being ruled. Will you be able to cope, Emperor Gregor, with someone who will not always obey you?"

This is much on Gregor's mind as well, how they'll be together, though really he should be thinking of the vast political implications more often. But he can't help his own humanity and has learned not to try to stamp it out.

What she requests is at once very sad and perversely humorous. He's glad to be able to put this fear of hers to rest, if depressed that he knows too well what real cause she has for it. He'd like to take this humorously, wishes he could laughingly tell her not to worry, he's not like that, but his own nightmares about being like his father spring up out of the dark ether of the recesses of his brain to snap at him.

The hint of smile vanishes into a more natural somberness. "Kitty, the only thing I could not cope with is if you did mindlessly obey me. I could not bear it in my own wife."

Ah, there's the word, finally. Seems easier to say when he's thinking of her living in fear of him. Frankly, if he ever ruled his wife he'd hope someone took him out back and shot him. Probably some of that attitude comes through in his grimness.

She's adapted well enough by now to Emperor Gregor Whom You Oughtn't Underestimate that this answer doesn't take her by surprise. Instead, she listens, and at the end she tips her chin up in acknowledgment and acceptance. Either he's telling the truth about this, in which case things will be rather easier than she'd thought, or he's not, in which case it'll be a fight indeed on this - and on everything. And she knows her abilities when it comes to a fight. So there's nothing to be gained by doubting and by testing. She'll find out soon enough whether he's truthful.

So instead: the terms of this non-obedience.

"I don't want to be pressured to appear to submit, either," she says, leaning forward. "Forgive my lack of diplomacy. I know I should be more discreet about this. But I don't want this to turn into a polite relationship in private and a...conventionally Barrayaran one in public. What we have between us will be seen as symbolic of what exists between our planets. I don't want your Counts seeing New London as some submissive thing with her head bent low."

And, more crucially, though unsaid: I don't want my people thinking we've been brought low. We've come too far.

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