I'll hold the reins. No horse will veer from true:
no slacking trace to round the nearing pole
nor speeding rim to graze and risk one prole
or Vor or subject old or conquered new
without cause more than just. And if a few
resist your bit I'll weep and curse that old
unshaken oath, but wield your whip. My soul--
No. That were luxury. I hear and do.
Though here's no blessed golden child king,
no easy salve, no medic for the scars
you wrought, my liege, and I, if hope there be,
for even stagnant misery surviving,
I swear it stays.
You, boy, be Barrayar.
Your smile's for your mother: frown on me.