Anger
People seemed to be under the impression that anger was a warm emotion; that it boiled and churned one's blood, lit a fire in one's stomach, and burned and scorched one's heart. People thought anger was raised voices, the heat of another's body in a fight, warm salty tears dripping down cheeks. For them, anger was warm.
Not for him. To him, anger was the cold stone that dropped in his gut when both his sisters left him behind to rot. To him, anger was the dull pain between his ribs when his father locked him in his room to practice on frozen ivories for hours on end. To him, anger was the wave of frigid water that drenched him when his mother downed glass after glass of ice wine, and left him alone while she sought her own escape.
Anger was the chill of his father's blue and white manor that he roamed silently, with marble tiles that echoed almost painfully loud and dozens of large windows that leaked in the artic air. Anger was the feeling of his fathers cold fingers wrapping around his wrists, striking against his cheek, yanking on his hair. Anger was the shards of glass in his hands when he stared at his broken reflection, and the sting of antibiotics on his cuts.
Anger was not warm in him. Anger was cold. It did not build and burn inside him or fuel his actions with bursts of energy. Anger crept over him, sluggish and slowly but surely, and it clutched at his soul and drug it down to drown. Anger was frigid and frozen, and damn it if it wasn't freezing him from the inside out.
Masks
Winter had her strategic mind, Weiss had her voice, and they both shared a talent for glyphs and swordsmanship. But he? He could make masks.
How easy was it for him to shape and mold his expression to display just the right emotion? To pitch his voice to add that genuine tone of interest or respect or whatever the occasion called for? A few second was all it took to sculpt the perfect mask to wear, to show his audience exactly what he wanted them to see (exactly what they wanted to see from him).
He could even mask his body, holding himself and posing his limbs in ways to fool anyone that watched his movements. His body was a puppet that he had perfect control over, and he used that to his great advantage.
Unlike his sisters, he didn't flaunt his talents blatantly for everyone to see. He was far more subtle in his methods. Crafting an attentive look in a boring class, feigning total agreement in a meeting with his father, projecting indifference when shouts of protesters hurled insults at his personage. Everything was seamlessly applied so that no one would know there was anything but truth there, so that no one could see through the cracks. So that he could not see through the cracks.
Because although he may not show off his skills like his sisters did theirs, he most certainly used them far more often. He had learned that if he wanted to survive in the house, he could never show his real feelings. Every nod of agreement saved him a furious shout; every expression of submission saved him a slap; every refusal to show any hint of rebellion spared him a day locked in his room.
But any slip? Any sign that he wasn't going to fall in line as his daddy's perfect little boy?
Well, he had learned to cast his masks early on. It wasn't too much harder to craft them around bruises and limps.