[ He doesn't quite understand. This is...Mark opens his eyes and looks up at Gregor, his confusion plain. Time spent in suffering becomes an act of service. That doesn't make sense. Even though logically he should be nodding fervently, saying yes, thank you, Your Majesty, for your willingness to take that into account, thank you, yes, I didn't ask for it, it's been a long few days. His brain can't quite keep up with what's smart. And so he finds his mouth saying: ]

Majesty...I was trained to kill you. [ He looks very slightly to the side, catches sight of the Butcher's fearsome face, and snaps his gaze forward again. ] And Count Vorkosigan. I wasn't just some...

[ Some harmless pawn. Because that has to be it, right? The Emperor thinks that he isn't deadly. That he's just a hapless piece that gets pushed around. Even now, unbidden, a plan flashes through his mind for how to kill them both (the Butcher first, he's almost certainly slow from the injuries sustained in the flight with Lucifer - get the plasma arc at his belt and use it to blow out his throat, no time for Galen's slow vengeance, then advance on the Emperor and end it quick before he can call for aid) which he quickly pushes to the back of his mind. Far to the back of his mind.

He hunches his shoulders in confusion. ]

I wasn't...held captive, Majesty. Or, at least - [ He was a captive, but not one locked in a room. He had control. He could order his captor-guards around. He had power. Or the illusion of it. ] I - was an active participant in hunting down Miles Vorkosigan. You shouldn't give me any credit. I...hated you.

[ Stop it. Stop talking. ]