To: Her Highness, Princess Twilight Sparkle
From: His Highness, Prince Blueblood
Considering the state of our relations when last we spoke, I shall state clearly here at the beginning that this is not a declaration of war from the rightful Prince of Equestria to the unprincipled usurper who's claimed the throne.
It is, in fact, a 'thank you' note.
You'll allow me, I hope, to spell out the reasons for this change—other than you being every bit the master manipulator that so many accused Auntie of being during her reign—and I further hope that you'll allow me to spell out said reasons as honestly as I can. After all, honesty is a virtue, is it not?
With that in mind, therefore, I'll turn back the clock to the aforementioned last time we spoke: ten weeks ago at the tea to which you invited me four days after your coronation as Equestria's new reigning monarch. Making my way through the palace corridors toward the Royal Apartments that afternoon, I can only say that I was of two minds.
My first thought, of course, involved my role as Princess Celestia's nephew and a part of the royal line that stretched back to pre-Equestrian days. For I was still a prince despite Auntie's abdication—I hesitate to use the term "abandonment" even though I certainly heard the word often enough from others in the upper echelons of Canterlot society during that fraught period—
Despite, as I say, the lawful ruler of our fair nation apparently losing her mind and skipping off with her ne'er-do-well sister after naming some upstart to ascend the throne—again, honesty compels me to record the thought processes I was entertaining at the time—I continued living in Canterlot Tower and maintaining the vital link to our glorious past in my name, my blood, my household, and my political connections.
And because of all that, I began considering whether you might just propose marriage to me.
After all, marrying Princess Platinum's grandson Golden Sheaves twelve hundred years ago was the sole reason Auntie had been able to call herself a princess. Yes, she's a powerful and immortal alicorn, but genealogy is ever paramount where royalty's concerned: I'm sure you've learned that by now. It was only, therefore, because of Auntie's marriage into the ancient line of Unicornia's elite—and because she outlived all those who had a superior claim—that she could legally hold the throne and rule Equestria.
While you, the new so-called princess? I'd seen you scurrying about the hallways back when you were a filly, and even though I was a young colt myself at the time, I still knew the vital importance of pedigree. My compass rose cutie mark, in fact, then freshly acquired, had already begun tingling at me when I pointed myself toward objects or ponies of true worth, and squinting at you, I had felt nothing. This was confirmed when I'd looked up your family's history and found that it contained not the slightest amount of standing, no trace of refinement, and certainly no breeding to speak of.
In short, it seemed entirely reasonable that, to bolster your undoubtedly and understandably tenuous grip on the top of Equestria's governmental structure, you would wish to form an alliance with the scion of House Blueblood.
Either that or exile me. Nobility's not a game for the faint of heart, after all. I'm sure you've learned that by now as well.
So with those two scenarios—marriage or banishment—wrestling about in my headspace, it took a prodigious act of will on my part to smile upon being ushered into the sitting room where I'd often taken tea with Equestria's true princess.
Shall I wave the shield of honesty once more? Or shall I trust that you're honest enough to admit that the distaste I felt for you at that time matched the distaste that you felt for me? And if you consult your own no doubt prodigious memory, I'm certain that you'll find the following account of our conversation matches what you recall as well. Not to the word, perhaps, but certainly to the barbed and spiteful sentiments that crouched behind our words.
Entering the room, I bowed, of course—I would respect the office if nothing else—to the admittedly eye-pleasing young mare shuffling through some papers in Auntie's usual spot at the table. "Your Highness," I said, forcing the words out with only the slightest hitch in my voice. "Thank you so much for the invitation."
You glanced up with a smile of your own, and while you retained the general look of the pudgy little creature you'd been during your days as Auntie's student, I couldn't help but notice how much you'd changed. Not that I would've in all honesty called you regal, but you were undeniably an alicorn, the air seeming to vibrate about you in a way that might've made those of a more timid disposition want to take a step back.
So I naturally stepped forward and continued my blandishments. "And thank you as well for the invitation to your coronation." Though I was nothing but glad to have skipped that particular horror show. "My apologies for being out of town, but when I returned, I heard so many charming stories about the goings-on at the ceremony."
Referencing the social disaster of your ascension, I'd expected, would cause your smile to wobble, but if anything, it seemed to gain in strength. "Of course, Your Highness," you said, rising from your place, your horn glowing to pull the only other chair at the table out for me. "I'm glad you could find time to join me this afternoon. Oh, and please, call me Twilight."
I'd been planning on calling you that anyway—propriety only dictated the use of your usurped title upon first address, after all. "Then you must call me Blueblood," I offered, thinking only that it would make things simpler if you were about to request my hoof in marriage. I took my place and couldn't help noticing that you had all my favorite tea things arranged about the table including an extra-large pot of that lemon curd I find indispensable when taking care of scones.
A good sign? I allowed my smile to increase in warmth, took a scone in my hornglow, and split it without scattering a single crumb. "I trust you're finding things to your liking here in your new digs?" I asked, taking yet another opportunity to remind you that you shouldn't be there at all.
"Oh, yes," you said, setting the paperwork aside and levitating your cup. "I never dreamed that I would be so honored. I only hope that I can serve Equestria as well as Celestia did."
"A fine sentiment." I smeared my scone with lemon curd. "Noblesse oblige must be much more difficult to manage when one has come to the noblesse part but lately and so unnaturally."
That you merely nodded in response told me all I felt I needed to know about your alleged intellect. For if you couldn't recognize an insult when it was lobbed at you as gently and slowly as the one I'd just offered—
"Noblesse oblige," you were saying, the words rolling somehow in my ear as they emerged from your lips. "It's a lovely concept, I've always thought: that those born to plenty and prestige ought to spread it around, so to speak, and help lift up those in need." You batted your eyelashes. "I'm so glad that we agree."
Very careful not to let my brow wrinkle, I still couldn't stop a figurative butterfly or two from stirring through my midsection. Your marriage proposal seemed absolutely imminent to me at that point.
Imagine, therefore, my shock when you said, "Which is why I'd like you to become Equestria's ambassador to Griffonstone."
Perhaps you'll recall that I touched a hoof to my chest and said, "I'm honored, Twilight, that you—" You may then perhaps further recall that I made a bit of a gagging noise and stared at you with widening eyes. "Uhh, forgive me, but I'm not certain that I heard you correctly."
One of the papers in your stack popped out with a purple-tinged flourish. "Apparently, a group of ten griffons got together and decided they were tired of not having a government." You shrugged, the paper rustling where it floated. "They held a vote of all the griffons they could find in and around Griffonstone, and the 'yes' votes just squeezed past the 'no' votes." The page slid down in front of me, but I didn't look away from your oh-so-innocent face. "Since nogriff still alive seems to be related to Guto, their last king, these ten have formed what they call a Ruling Council, and I'd like you to bear Equestria's good will to them."
My snow-white coat felt as cold as, well, as snow, really. "So it's exile," I managed to squeeze from my tightening throat.
"Not at all." You set your cup down very slowly, your gaze not breaking from mine either. "You'll continue to be the one-and-only prince of Equestria and retain possession of all the titles, wealth, property and standing the Blueblood family has accumulated over the years. But an assignment of this delicacy, a new nation rising from the ashes of an old one, calls for some special attention."
Something decidedly not innocent took shape in your eyes then, and for the first time, I began to realize with what sort of creature I was dealing. "That you're also a horrible pony," you said with careful enunciation, "and one who gravely insulted one of my best friends several years ago in front of the entire Grand Galloping Gala has had no bearing whatsoever on my decision."
Everything about you seemed to darken and sharpen. "Or are you saying that you'd rather surrender your titles, your wealth, your property, and your standing in Canterlot's nobility by refusing a legal request from your sovereign?"
Continuing to mine the invigorating vein of honesty that flavored the first part of this missive so fruitfully, I shall begin this second part by reporting to Your Highness that the train to Griffonstone lacks nearly everything: adequate cushions on the seats, food that hasn't been frozen and reconstituted, proper shock absorbers, any sort of sound proofing. I could go on with the list, but my then self riding said train didn't really see the point. As long as I remained the sole prince of Equestria, I was certain, nothing else could be of any real importance.
That I would need to spend some months alone in the lice-infested wilderness was a slight never to be forgiven or forgotten, of course, but the Usurper—that was the new mental appellation I'd chosen for you, my dear Princess—you had held to your end of our bargain and left my property unconfiscated.
This filled me with a certain hope. I would see Canterlot again, I vowed as I left Equestria's borders behind the same way I'd vowed it multiple times during the week since our ill-fated tea party. And while my associates amongst the upper crust assured me that they would keep me apprised of the goings-on in the capitol, I had to admit to myself on that long, bumpy, noisy trip that they likely wouldn't.
Out of sight, out of mind, the philosophers often say, and who was I to argue with them? I was being exiled in all but name, after all, and I had no illusions as to whose side Auntie would take should I bring the matter to her attention. That mares all stick together wasn't something the philosophers often said, but it certainly would have been if the philosophers had spent more time among the fairer sex...
So I would make the best of things, smile at these griffons as much as I was able, and eventually return in triumph to Canterlot where I could begin plotting your downfall.
Simple, really.
I was almost sorry not to have any other passengers with whom I could converse, dropping hints so subtle as to my plans that they would never pick up a single clue. But no pony of any true caliber would endure traveling aboard this monstrosity except under conditions of extreme duress, so I glared out the window and brooded.
Of course, Chives came along every five minutes to ask if I needed another cup of tea or a pillow or anything of that sort, but I waved him wearily away. Valets never seem to understand brooding. And if it wasn't him jabbering on about wanting to shine my hooves or straighten my mane, Fleece Parchment or one of her lackeys from the new embassy staff continually popped by my cell—Chives called it "a stateroom," but that only proved how little he knew about such things—bearing bothersome notes about the picayune details of the upcoming ceremonies in which I was expected to participate.
Finally, I had to take Ms. Parchment to task. "See here," I told her, interrupting yet another of her diatribes concerning where I was to stand or what I was to say, "we both know that my role in this entire sorry affair is simply that of the prisoner bound to the stone. Your deceitful mistress has consigned me to this fate, and while I will continue to comport myself with the dignity inherent to the Blueblood name, I will also do my utmost to minimize my participation in this charade. Is that understood?"
She blinked at me over the top of her glasses in that shocked way so many older mares cultivate and then began blathering about the importance of this mission and how Princess Twilight had chosen me as the best possible pony to head the delegation and on and on in that fashion. Had I cared one way or the other, I would've wondered if she was indeed as naïve as all that or if she was as excellent an actor as a trained diplomat ought to be.
But since I didn't care one way or the other, I tuned her out and went back to my brooding.
I'll add a note here, however, recommending Ms. Parchment and all her staff for the highest commendations you as the head of the Equestrian government can bestow. That she didn't even once attempt to murder me as the events I'm here detailing unfolded speaks to a professionalism and sense of duty perhaps bordering on the pathological.
To return to my narrative, however, I at least found the land through which the train was twitching and lurching to fit my mood: craggy peaks clutching like talons at the slate-gray sky, the sun breaking through the clouds only long enough to cast a blinding shaft directly into the observer's eyeball, that sort of thing. If one must be subsumed by despair, I've always maintained, the least the world can do is provide an appropriate backdrop.
We pulled into the station at some point, and I couldn't help but notice how shiny the place was. Ms. Parchment had said something about that, I thought, something about the griffons only completing the rail line providing direct service up to Griffonstone itself within the past month. But again, I didn't care enough to delve into whatever memory might've stuck from her various soliloquies. I just gazed through half-closed eyes at the platform full of surly griffons—because really, my then self thought with my own special blend of haughtiness and disdain, what other kind was there?
There'd been some attempt at decoration along the outer walls of the station house, flowers haphazardly strewn and stapled into place, the town visible past it and all done up with what was no doubt a fresh coat of mud. The crowd of creatures looked just as haphazard and muddy, sitting or standing with expressions that gave one the impression they'd rather be committing arson or robbing one another's tumble-down hovels.
Except, I had to admit, for the group standing on a rickety wooden dais between the crowd and the tracks. This dozen or so griffons, sashes slung about their middles and hats slung about their heads, appeared either too nervous or too constipated to contemplate the usual sort of griffonic mayhem. Perhaps, I mused, my eyes on them as the train rattled and banged to a halt, they were instead contemplating what legal action they would bring against the carpenters should the dais follow the course toward which it appeared to be leaning and crumble to kindling beneath them.
That moment, however, was when I saw her, and my interest piqued for the first time in what seemed days. One of these ten-odd griffons was a female who quite literally stood out from the others: not quite head and shoulders above them, to be sure, but near to it, and, oh my goodness, they were quite broad shoulders...
Now, since you also "came of age" in the palace at Canterlot, I'm sure I needn't tell you how whole generations of ponies have had their tastes in mares shaped by the omnipresence of my dear, delectable Auntie. For my part, tall, broad, and imposing are three of the key metrics I employ when appraising females within my line of sight, and this she-griffon displayed a larger percentage of those qualities than I'd certainly been expecting to come across hereabouts.
Yes, the feathers and fur made for a more rough-hewn appearance than the hair and hide of even the most wind-blown pegasus, and the gleaming tips of her talons sent more than a slight shiver up my spine—
But her face, sloe-eyed and insouciant, definitely intrigued. While the others upon the dais seemed bloated with either earnestness or self-importance, she looked more as if she'd caught a whiff of something that should've been buried several weeks ago. And while the common griffons all around gave the impression that they vaguely disapproved of these goings-on because they vaguely disapproved of all goings-on, the disapproval of this one she-griffon up on the dais with the other alleged dignitaries appeared to my practiced eye to be genuine and specific. She didn't want to be there any more than I wanted to be there.
Struck dumb by a sudden and wholly unexpected sense of camaraderie with this beguiling alien creature, I allowed myself to be caught up among the five or six ponies who by all accounts did want to be there, and in their midst, I was herded up onto the dais. There, the oldest of the ten griffons—and if I'd had to guess, I would've said the oldest griffon in the entire history of the world—opened his beak, and sounds akin to bagpipes being murdered by pickaxes came out, gassy, whining, and percussive all at once.
It was, in short, the most horrendous speechifying it has ever been my burden to endure. If I'd been paying attention, I'm sure I would've noted this ancient griffon employing every possible cliché: now was the time for all good griffs to come to the aid of their country; ask not what Griffonstone can do for you but what you can do for Griffonstone; to boldly go where no griff has gone before, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
As I said, though, I wasn't paying attention. Not to him at least.
The she-griffon to whom I was paying attention stayed as rumbly as a storm cloud throughout the old griffon's speech, but the next speech, a much shorter and more intelligible one given by a she-griffon as slender as an afterthought, seemed to meet with the larger one's partial approval. Again, I wasn't paying attention to the words being spouted, but I couldn't help starting to full consciousness when this smaller she-griffon said, "And now, Equestria's new ambassador to Griffonstone, Prince Blueblood, will tell us all about it."
Every eye shifted toward me, and I stifled the brief, strange impulse to say something meaningful—an aftereffect, I can only imagine, of all that nonsensical talk Ms. Parchment had been flinging at me during the train ride about honor and duty. As if a commoner like her and the vast majority of the griffons here would have any concept of what those words truly meant...
Of course, if the tingling of my cutie mark was anything to judge by, there was one uncommon griffon here. After all, I seemed to recall you saying that the griffons couldn't find a descendant of their last king, not that such a descendant didn't exist...
With all this churning through my head, I quickly shrugged and said aloud, "What's to tell? You're doing whatever sort of mad thing you griffons do, and I'm here to make sure it doesn't spill over into Equestria." I waved a hoof. "So let the celebrations begin!"
That this sentiment got the first and only cheer of the entire dreary affair should not, I think, come as any surprise. That it got a mixture of scowls and injured expressions from the majority of ponies and griffons beside me on the platform should likewise come as no surprise, all but one of them turning said expression back and forth between me and the crowds now flocking out of the station and up the road to the buffet tables that, I was informed later, were at that moment being stocked in the plaza outside the ruins of Griffonstone's former royal palace.
Of course, the creature who informed me of this was the one dignitary who was cheering along with the departing crowds, namely the large she-griffon. "Ha!" she crowed. "That cuts a useless hour out of everything, and now we can all get to the grub!" A flap of her wings, so much broader than those of any pegasus I'd ever nuzzled, carried her over the others and landed her beside me with a thud that threatened once again to shatter the platform. "You and me are gonna get along great, Bluesy!"
Now, as the third part of this missive begins, honesty forces me to admit that I will be reporting a number of conversations in a way that might lead you to think I'd been making a verbatim transcript of them at the time. This, let me state most emphatically, I was not doing.
Speaking, however, as one who's been hauled before the Equestrian judicial system multiple times to answer for my actions, I've become fairly adept at keeping track of who says what in my general vicinity. In more than one case, in fact, the correspondence between my recollection and the recollection of witnesses called to testify has proven my innocence—or at least proven me not guilty of the charges, something that's even more important than actual innocence.
All of which is my way of assuring you, my dear princess, that I am as reliable a narrator as you're likely to meet. Especially if, as I think we'd both prefer, we never meet again...
Still, I'm sure you've surmised that this is the point in the story where I meet Gilda. Of course, I only learned her name because the slight she-griffon who'd spoken just before me somehow managed to hiss the word even though "Gilda" contains no hissable consonants.
"Hey!" Gilda answered her with a grin, and that was the exact moment I discovered that griffons have teeth. "I didn't do one single thing, did I?" She smacked a set of talons into my chest—fortunately with the points outward. "Tell her, Bluesy! I kept my beak shut and put up with every stupid thing she wanted to do, didn't I?"
Before I could even begin formulating an answer, however, I was beset from the other side by Ms. Parchment. "Your Highness!" she hissed, and she at least had the decency to involve a word capable of being hissed. "I gave you the approved speech you were to deliver!"
"And yet?" I asked, drawing myself up to my full height. "Of the two of us, which is the ambassador?" Not giving her time to answer, I continued. "I am here, may I remind you, Ms. Parchment, due to my many unique qualities, and one of those qualities is the ability to read a room. These griffons"—and here, I gestured to the tails of those departing the station in search of the aforementioned grub—"didn't need to hear any more platitudes or folderol!"
"Hey!" This time, Gilda said it with a bit more bite, and the smack of her talons carried a bit more heft, too. "Greta worked really hard on her platitudes and folderol!"
"Exactly!" I said, spinning to her and the slighter she-griffon—Greta, apparently. With an eye toward keeping myself in Gilda's good graces, I continued in my roundest tones, "Ms. Greta, you delivered a speech that perfectly summed up everything your group is trying to do to make Griffonstone a better place. For me to have said anything more would have detracted from the effect."
Of course, I doubted to my core that the efforts of these griffons would do anything more than further befoul their nest, so to speak, but the plan that was already taking shape beneath my carefully coiffed mane demanded that I not share that opinion. Especially since Gilda was smiling that large, impossibly toothy smile at me once again. "There you go!" she said to Greta, smacking me more delicately this time. "Finally! A pony who gets it, right? Short and to the point's what folks want!"
"And," I added, glancing about the dais at the other members of this alleged Ruling Council, "you can now each approach your fellows more directly, more informally, share this grub that Gilda mentioned, and speak to them griffon to griffon." And the sooner they all went and did that, I reckoned, the sooner I'd be alone with Gilda...
Fortunately, a number of them—including Greta—were nodding slowly as if they saw some wisdom in my words, and in less time than it takes to tell, they were taking off to catch up with their constituents. "Perhaps," I said to Gilda, showing her my own teeth in as dazzling a fashion as I knew how, "in exchange for the valiant service I've just performed by shortening this ceremony, you could assist my staff and myself in finding the embassy or wherever it is that we're expected to take up residence?" I gave her a smoldering look from beneath half-closed eyelids.
And even granted that the Blueblood charm has proven its effectiveness time and time again amongst the mares of Canterlot, I was taken a bit by surprise when Gilda agreed to this proposal. "We'll drop the paper pushers off," she said, those fascinating eyes delivering some smolder of their own, "then you and me can hit the town." She gave a somewhat slyer sort of a grin. "I mean, y'know, what little there is of it."
The challenge in her gaze made portions of me tingle, and the promise there as well got certain other portions of me tingling. The wide variety of tingles throughout me, in fact, proved so distracting that I failed to notice the one part of me that wasn't tingling: my cutie mark. Had I noticed it, this letter would be much unhappier in both tone and content, but Gilda, she filled my senses, one might say, the freshly-struck-match scent of her, the play of muscles beneath her fur and feathers, that voice, somehow rich in both disdain and sincerity.
In short, I was well and truly intrigued. So off I went, marching alongside her through the streets of Griffonstone, and in all honesty, I couldn't tell you if Chives with my luggage or Ms. Parchment and her crew followed us or didn't. Gilda simply riveted my attention the way a plunging meteor or an avalanche might.
"Yeah," she said, waving a wing at the scaffolding that surrounded perhaps ninety percent of the structures past which we were walking, "the place is a dump. But it doesn't hafta be, y'know? And every time I got to talking with somegriff who'd spent time over in Equestria, it kept hitting me harder and harder how nothing was gonna happen here unless we made it happen. Unless I made it happen."
I concealed my smirk. "You felt responsible for your people?"
She made a noise with her beak that I would've sworn only lips could've created. "More like I felt embarrassed! I mean, I pulled outta here for Ponyland when I was a kit, talked my way into Junior Speedsters—the first griffon they ever let in, y'know?—and swore I was never coming back here! And when I did end up back here, it nearly killed me." I couldn't miss the hitch in her voice. "Nearly tore my heart right outta my chest and chomped it down while I stood there watching."
We'd left the area around the new train station and the old palace by then, the sound of griffonic revelry barely a squawking murmur in the distance. "But ponies," Gilda said, and I'd never before heard the word spoken with such intensity. "Ponies wouldn't let that happen, would they? And with Gallus and Gabby and Greta and even Grampa Gruff all giving me the side eye when they didn't think I was watching, I finally said yeah, okay, let's do this." She stopped. "And here we are."
At first I thought she was being dramatic or metaphorical, but I quickly realized that we'd actually arrived at the embassy, a white-washed building of stone and wood that looked so new, I wouldn't have been surprised had the wattle and daub still proven to be damp. The statue beside the building, on the other hoof, had seen better centuries, the griffon it depicted scowling in a fairly stereotypical fashion.
"King Grover," Gilda said beside me as Chives and Ms. Parchment and the others filed into our new home. "Not that we do the royalty thing anymore, but we figured since you ponies're still shackled to it and you're a prince or whatever, we'd put you here." She shrugged and gestured to something that looked like a shed. "Oh, and that princess of yours wanted you near the library, so that's what's left of it." A flex of her wings spun her around, and she sent another of those smoldering looks over her shoulder at me. "But I'm pretty sure you're not interested in reading..."
"Oh, I don't know." I made a show of running my gaze along her ever-so-intriguing curves. "I think I might be reading you loud and clear."
The rest of the afternoon and evening, I shall elide in deference to your sensitivities, my dear Twilight, the way they refer to you as "the Virgin Princess" and all. Well, the way I refer to you as such. Suffice it to say that the griffonic beak can provide quite the surprising range of pleasant sensations...
Still, the sun had well and truly set when Gilda and I began making our satisfied way back toward the embassy. We'd eaten and drunk our fill of any number of items by then, and as promised, she'd shown me what there was of the city while providing a proud yet biting commentary. Everything about her—her strength of character, her unconscious poise, her ferocious commitment to this place and the creatures who were her people—had made me more and more convinced that I was in fact in the presence of King Guto's descendant and the uncrowned Queen of Griffonstone.
And, oh, the plans I'd been drawing. I would woo her as I already was, would wed her and would arrange for her proper coronation: I was certain papers existed to prove her pedigree, and if not, well, some judicious penwork could always make papers say whatever one wanted them to say. Then as both Prince of Griffonstone and Prince of Equestria, I would present myself in Canterlot as a much more valid ruler for our dear nation than you.
Not that I expected you to cede the throne quietly, of course. But with the claws and the beaks and the teeth and all, griffons have a certain martial quality about them. Stirring them to action against your unjust administration, I felt, would be a thoroughly viable Plan B...
"Oh, Bluesy," Gilda was saying, leaning against me as we strolled the moonlight-drenched streets. "Maybe I should mention I've got a little bit of a pony fetish." Her beak made the lightest possible indentation upon my ear, and I couldn't help but shudder at all the delicious tingling she triggered within me. "And you," she whispered into that aforementioned ear, "are pushing every wunna my—"
"Evening, Your Majesty," a nasally voice said from up ahead, and I shook myself from a contemplation of Gilda's charms to see a slovenly trio of griffons leaning indolently against the scaffolding of the next building along the street.
Launching into the action-packed fourth act of this missive, I once again feel the need to invoke that spirit of honesty I've sworn myself to uphold. Because I know, my dear Twilight, the reputation that clings to the name of Blueblood throughout the halls and streets of Canterlot. Liar, braggart, and coward are but three of the terms that ponies both noble and common have often used to describe me.
Gritting my teeth now, I'm able to admit that a certain degree of truth gleams amongst the dross of those reports like a coin dropped into a tank of sewage. But in my defense—
No, no defensiveness. I'm not writing this to justify myself to you of all ponies. I'm just stating the honest facts.
And the fact is that brawls have a way of finding me. When I make ready to depart before the check arrives after a night of carousing, when a stallion stops me in the street to complain that I'm paying too much attention to some mare or other, or when some mare or other stops me in a different street to complain that I'm not paying enough attention to her, let's just say that ill feelings are already in the air. My response to such situations just seems to exacerbate matters.
Here, for instance. Gilda froze beside me, but I was sure I knew what the problem was. After all, these griffons with their caps pulled down over their eyes, their scarves inexpertly tied about their necks, and their crest feathers is such a raggedy state, I wasn't at all surprised that they'd addressed me incorrectly as "majesty."
So I smiled at the obvious ruffians. "That's very flattering," I said, "but as a prince, my appellation is 'Your Highness,' not—"
"Seriously?" The smallest of the three peered out from beneath the brim of his cap. "I mean, seriously seriously?"
The largest of them likewise tipped his head back and pointed beady little eyes at me. "Not you, Pony," he said, and it became apparent from those three words that he was the griffon who'd first spoken. "I was talking to the Queen there."
My throat tried to squeeze itself shut. Were they actually confirming my theory?
"Shut up, Guido," Gilda more growled than said.
This Guido straightened from his slump to stand foursquare upon the hard-packed dirt and stone of the roadway, and he was even perhaps a bit larger than Gilda—it was rather hard to tell in the uncertain light. "Whatsa matter, Gilda?" he asked, and there was no way to mistake the bristling of the feathers along his neck. "Afraid your pony boyfriend'll learn the truth? That you oughtta be leading us into battle against those damn grasseaters insteada bowing and scraping to their—"
That Gilda moved as quickly as she did should have been impossible. But then impossible is one of her specialties...
She crossed the space between herself and Guido, at any rate, in less time than it takes an eyelid to blink, and she connected a fist to his chin with I smack I felt as much as heard. The other two swarmed upon her just as quickly, however, and I—
I charged directly into the fray.
It surprised me, too, I must admit. Because, while brawls do have a tendency to find me, theirs is not an acquaintance I seek. When hooves begin to fly and flail, I do my utmost to make a break in the other direction. But here?
I told myself that she was the key to all my plans of revenge upon you, Twilight Sparkle. I told myself that my only chance of returning to Canterlot with my honor and dignity intact lay squarely across her broad back. I told myself she was merely a means to an end.
I told myself all sorts of things, galloping into that raging mass of claws and paws.
"Forget it!" the middle-sized griffon was shouting, flitting around the edges as the smallest of them clung to Gilda's head and she pummeled the largest. "Every griffon in Griffonstone knows who you really are, Gilda, and some of us won't stand around and let this Ruling Council take what belongs to you! We—"
That was when I reached the spot, whirled around, and bucked the fellow with both hooves in the face. It rather put an end to his speechifying, I'm afraid to report. A quick thought activated my horn, and I was just able to wrench the smaller away from Gilda, landing about three smacks to Guido for every one of his, when whistles shrilled through the sky and a rough but high-pitched voice called, "All right, you lot! Break it up!"
Police, no matter the species, have a certain look about them. These two were appropriately big and burly, a male and female both wearing blue vests with some sort of badge attached.
I cut my glow, dropping the smallest griffon, stepping clear of the fracas, and turning my most dazzling smile upon their sneering faces.
The female's sneer vanished quickly enough, though. "Gilda?" she asked. "What, more of 'em?"
"Yeah." Gilda was panting, a tiny trickle of blood inching through the snowy feathers beside one of those gorgeous eyes. "I dunno where they keep coming from."
"Hey!" The smallest one had jumped to his paws. "She started it!"
The male's sneer increased. "Yeah, right." He pulled a pair of barbed metal cuffs somehow from within his vest. "We gotta nice, clean cage down at the station for you idiots: I mean, it was clear before we started packing you all in there."
The she-cop had applied cuffs of her own to the other two, the largest of our assailants lying on his side and gulping the air. "The same charges as the others, Gilda?" she asked.
"Whatever." The sheer anger behind that word twisted Gilda's voice into something I barely recognized. "Restraining orders or injunctions or just looking the other way if they keep coming after me and I hafta start snapping off beaks."
With matching nods, the police griffons managed to grab all three and haul them off into the night sky.
Things became rather a bit quieter at that point.
Shaking myself, I moved to her side, grabbed the kerchief from my breast pocket, and magicked it up to dab at the thin line of blood. "Are you all right?"
The hardness about her face scarcely lessened. "Are you?" she asked.
I forced a laugh. "A Blueblood is always prepared."
"A Blueblood." She regarded me every bit as stonily as the statue of the long-dead king we'd seen earlier. "A prince of Equestria. Sent to the ass end of nowhere when the new princess takes over. Maybe looking for another princess to throw up against this new one."
Looking into her deep, dark eyes, I wanted to deny it. But I knew I'd never be able to. A part of me insisted that I could still play the long game here, could continue to fill her ears with sweet and innocuous banter until I'd regained her trust while all the while I worked with these griffon monarchists to force her into a position where she had to acknowledge the truth.
And I likely could've done it, too. The Blueblood you and I both know, Princess, wouldn't've hesitated a moment to greasily slide such a plan into action.
But the Blueblood standing there on that post-midnight street and staring into the eyes of this enthralling creature whom he'd only known a few hours and with whom he should share nothing in common?
That Blueblood hesitated.
Though I apparently hesitated for a bit too long: Gilda gave a snort, spun away, and started stomping unevenly up the street, limping whenever her right front paw touched the ground.
"No!" I shouted, rushing to her side. "I'm not! I mean, I was, yes, but—" I reached out with my magic to cushion her wounded paw and got only a sideways glare from her in response. "Why you would deny your royal blood and take up with this Ruling Council or whatever nonsense it is, I can't pretend to understand." I took a breath, and blowing it out, I let all my plans and schemes puff away. "But there's a great deal it turns out that I don't understand."
I turned to let my gaze rest upon her profile, almost a silhouette in the moonlight. "Why I'm so captivated by you, for instance." Tossing my head, I gave a laugh that I actually felt for a change. "Well, actually, that's a fairly easy one. You're blunt and beautiful, coarse and charming, strange and surly and simply the most marvelous being I've ever stumbled across."
She snorted again, but it was a much gentler snort than the one a moment ago. "And you expect me to believe that?"
"Believe what you like," I told her. "But I'll keep doing my utmost to prove it if you'll keep stopping by and letting me."
"Huh." She stopped, then, and turned to me with that suddenness she so often displays. "And since you're the best-looking pony around for a couple hundred miles, I might just stop by now and again." She leaned forward, and, well, I might've mentioned before the intriguing things she could do with her beak.
When after some moments, we came up for air, as it were, she had her forearms lazily around my neck and her forehead resting just below my horn. "Lips are so nice," she murmured, "but I really hafta tell you one thing before we go any further."
"Fear not," I said with a chuckle. "I know all about where hippogriffs come from."
"Idiot." She stroked her claws through my mane, and I couldn't keep from nuzzling the spot along the side of her neck where her feathers and fur met.
That reduced us both to incoherence for a moment, but then she went on. "That whole royal thing and me? It's completely bogus."
"Hmmm?" Forcing my snout away from her warmth, I blinked into her grinning eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Greta," she said. "She's the one with Guto's blood in her. Only her, me, and Gruff know, and we decided it'd be better if griffs thought it was me since I can take care of myself pretty well. Maybe you noticed that?" The stroking of her claws became rather a bit sharper. "You'll keep the secret, though, won't you, Bluesy?"
In retrospect, of course, this explained the variations in the tingling of my cutie mark. But right then, all I cared about was all the other tingling going on. In fact, I fired up my horn and stroked several invisible points not quite as sharply through her crest feathers. "Darling," I said, "I'm an ambassador. Secrets are our stock in trade."
Judging by her luscious, non-verbal response, I believe this to have been the correct answer.
The fifth and final part of my report, Your Highness, will be brief but just as honest as the rest. Because now that Gilda and I have been keeping regular company, as they say, and now that she's related to me the story of how she's connected to certain ponies of your inner circle, I've found myself drawn to one conclusion.
You knew Gilda by reputation the same way you knew me by reputation. And somehow in that lavender egg you call a head, you decided that she and I needed to meet, that she in fact might be the only creature in this wide, wide world who could peck away at my indolence, nudge me from my self-regard, match me step by step in both sourness and savoriness, and that I, bred to a world of political intrigue, might be just the creature to help her and her colleagues face the storms they're likely to encounter setting up this new governmental structure of theirs.
And so, as I end the first of what I hope will be many reports from the Equestrian Embassy in Griffonstone, I say to you: well played, Twilight Sparkle. Well played indeed.
Grudgingly in your debt, I remain,
Blueblood, Prince of Equestria
