"Prodigy" was not the correct word to describe his abilities, but the term had been stuck during his tenure at the Rashaillion military; there were certainly mages more powerful than Alreis in many ways, and many cryomancers capable of far more impressive feats.  None, however, came close in sheer combat ability; a typical ice mage might lock his opponent in ice or pierce him with a rain of icicles, but the long-armed warrior had developed an amazing breadth of ways to kill a man with his magic or his might, or even the intermingling of the two.  Some countries still told tales of "Jotun", the Frost Giant who stole away evil men and disobedient children and turned them into fragile ice sculptures with his icy touch.  Others knew him as The Longhanded, Slayer of Armies; a soldier of fortune who appeared among the ranks of the righteous and smote legions of the enemy with his spear of ice like a mighty hailstorm.  Of course, he was certainly above average in his pure strength when it came to magic, but not so much as to be notorious for that alone; where Frost's father would likely hold far more raw power, Jotun wielded subtlety like a surgical instrument.  It was this man, so focused and practiced, so battle-tested, that watched his reluctant wife-to-be flutter back to her seat, looking vaguely unpracticed as though she had never been given the chance to soar the open skies.  Her being a princess, it came as no surprise; the open skies were easy prey for arrows or spells, gone amiss or "amiss".  Perhaps he might keep himself in her good graces with tales of his wanderings, the countless leagues he had walked as he followed clue after clue, selling his skills in exchange for the coin that greased the palms of looser lips.<br/><br/>"I suppose it would, at that."  He rumbled in agreement, taking his own seat and sprawling somewhat carelessly.  "Then, whether we shall enjoy it or not, I suppose we shall be wed."  He turned his head towards the door, barking out "So now you can cease your eavesdropping, Arthur, and fetch the King and the weevil."  The weevil being Alreis' term for the Lord Chamberlain, reedy little insect of a man that he was, tired of the protocol he nonetheless determinedly enforced.  The man's contradictory convictions perplexed and annoyed the chafing prince.  A heavy thud was heard through the door as Arthur's balding head impacted the door handle, the man no doubt having been bent nearly double in his efforts to listen in on their conversation and now surprisedly leaping to his feet.  A flustered and pained "O-... of course!" was all that came in reply before the sound of footsteps hurriedly moving away signaled the Lord Marshal's departure.  The return of their royal host and Neville was swiftly foreshadowed by the same sounds, albeit in triplicate, and the Lord Chamberlain opened the door before bowing to the King as they re-entered the stage in sequence.  "So then, old men," the callous soldier began, "when is this wedding to be?  Presumably soon, so as not to give either side time to reconsider their side of the bargain."  His cold eyes froze the Lords Chamberlain and Marshal in place, passing over the Snow King this time in his ire; Alreis knew an old soldier when he saw one, and old soldiers were men of their words when they could be.  Bureaucrats, however... bureaucrats were another story in the trust department, and the two men who were fixed with dread by that steady, unflinching gaze knew what he would do to whoever screwed this up.  Or, at least, knew enough that they didn't want it happening where they could know of it.  "But presumably not too soon as to appear distrusting of the other."  He shifted his attention to the King, then; Alreis did not pretend to know what Frost's father thought of him or the country he had been paid to fight for, but he knew that the courts of Rashaille were prone to forgetting their obligations if it was most convenient to do so at the moment.