This is what Ashe lacks: a heart as hard as ice.
This is what Ashe lacks: the will to take up arms.
This is what Ashe has: a dream of peace and other pretty things that do not exist in their world.
Sejuani could feel her hair pressed thick against the back of her neck. It was getting long. Ashe kept her hair vainly long, so long that it reached down her back and hung just below her hips. That thought alone made her mad. She gripped the dagger so tight, her knuckles turned white as snow. Sejuani sawed at her hair until it fell to the ground in uneven clumps. She felt the raw bite of her short hair on her neck. She could feel the frost settling there, could feel the wind carving furrows as if through snow. And she knew it was right.
She led her people to the highest of mountains, where everything was basalt and ice, where fires sometimes refused to start, and she knew it was right. Let Ashe and her people dream of mountain valleys and sunshine. Let Ashe and her people trust the barbarians. Sejuani took no truce, listened to no plea, let no messenger live and she knew she was right. Ashe would too when the crops did not flourish, when the barbarians raised their blades. She pressed leather to her skin, felt the hard chafe of it against her chest, her thigh, her waist, and she knew it was right. Sejuani sat in her saddle and looked down at her men, and she screamed "War! Blood and death! Victory! Honor!" and when her tribe screamed back, she knew it was right.
Let foolish Ashe dream summer dreams. Sejuani knew that no sunlit peace could fill the bellies of their men. Their people were carved from thousand-year ice, and their Queens and Kings ruled with iron-clenched fists. They won respect through blood. That same blood ran in her veins and she knew, as surely as she felt the hunger for battle in her stomach, that peace was no option. Peace would destroy the Freljord.
Ashe would know this too when there was an iron blade between her ribs. But Sejuani would not let it come to that. She will not let Ashe die on the swords of Demacians, of Noxians, of Tryndamere or his barbarians. That is not right. Ashe is a daughter of the Freljord, and she may be foolish, but Sejuani does not forget. Once they were sisters. Once, they sat around the same fire and sang the same songs. Sejuani did not need memories to know what she would do. She would send Ashe to the Halls of the Dead herself. And maybe, when all their earthly dues had been paid, they could be sisters again in death. It would be right.
This is what Sejuani lacks: a kind heart.
This is what Sejuani lacks: a forgiving soul.
This is what Sejuani has: an understanding of this land and their people deeper than glacier drifts.