Miles, tired and twitchy as he is, flinches at that despite himself. That strikes a bit more of a nerve than he was really prepared for. He turns the gesture into a jerky rub of his hand over the back of his neck.

"It's...not about fame." Barrayaran programming. The implication invokes a kneejerk indignation, but Miles bites the inside of his cheek. "It's not quite that simple. It's about..." He tries to pick the right word, can't seem to settle on just one. "Recognition, maybe. But not fame. For all that my father is, indeed, a political-military monolith -- " For all that I want to escape that shadow. " -- It's about service, too. It's about proving that I can serve Barrayar just as well as anyone else can."

That feels painfully honest, and it is, and Miles is fully expecting this confession to be met with further scorn and skepticism. But if he was anything less than honest -- that'd only blow up in his face too. The trust is what's important here.