It's Prince Xav in the flesh. Prince Xav Fucking Vorbarra, helping around camp as enthusiastically as Miles had pictured, given the the man's reputation. His great-grandfather. Dead long before his time, of course. Miles can't help but stare openly at the man as he roves around the camp. He had been prepping supplies for the infiltration of Vorkosigan Vashnoi; he's still holding an MRE as he watches the man.

Shit. He's stared too long, hasn't he. He ducks his head abruptly, apologetically. "Your highness," he says, rising to his feet so that he can bow properly. "You must be Prince Xav."