“There is winter in your soul, Morgana,” he tells her.
It’s an insult, a jibe, a cruel slight the pretty knight meant to rile her up. But she won’t be riled. So what if she was ice and bitter cold? All the better to be numb from it than to feel. What good did feelings ever do for her? They weakened her. She had once cared for father, for her mother, for Morgause, but one by one each was taken from her. They tried to trick her to care for them, but she realizes now that that was all Uther’s trickery. So no, she will not let Gwaine and his glib tongue shake her. She was indeed winter, frigid, and cruel. It’s what they’ve made her to be.
“It must be why I adapt so well to these mountains,” she replies with a sneer, before waving her hands for the guards to take him away.
“Until we meet again, my lady!” he shouts after her, still always a jester even at the worst.
She turns her back to him, but in the drafty air, she catches his whisper.
“Even long winters eventually thaw into spring.”