Jioren was not ice. Nor had he ever wanted to be. Except, perhaps, once when he was young and had seen the great ceremonies and processions that had preceded each Making. The boys – the men – had been so large it was if they had arisen from the epics just to parade for his enjoyment. Oh, to be one of them was to be greatness itself! But that had been many years and many brothers ago. Even now he remembered when the first of those had surpassed him; he had been enraged -- was he not the first born? Were the rights not his by birth? He had fumed for days, the fire inside him giving vent in explosions of violent temper. The elders, of course, had nodded wisely amongst themselves, whispering in grave tones that this only served to prove his unworthiness. Jioren, however, gave them little notice; they had hated him from the first. After all, his birth had been an omen for evil -- or so his cousin relished in constantly reminding him --and one such as he could never achieve true greatness.
And now? Now he simply watched carefully, noting each flick of the wrist and each wandering eye of the most minor of players. He remained aloof and, as time passed, was hardly noticed at all. Even as a small child he had been a nothing; now, time had acted to bring him even lower. His knees creaked when they bent and his back cracked when he stood. His gut hung heavily over his belt and his hands shook ever so slightly when left to their own devices. How could such a one ever hope for power? Still, he managed to bow and scrape and act the humble supplicant for his brothers. If they did not notice the rage that still burned behind his creased and weathered eyes, whose fault was that? Jioren did not mind -- each bow given fed the fire, each word of praise succored the flames. Yes, he could wait and watch and, when the time came, he could act. And no ice would survive the inferno.