I prowled through the ballroom, ignoring the flashing of white and silver, ochre and gold -- dresses and jewellery of every kind, far richer than any I could afford -- as I nursed a tulip of champagne in my magic.

Outside the glass ceiling that covered the Grand Hall of Gormenghast the autumn was turning to winter and as it was outside so it was within the hall, where golds and greens of Equestria were crowded by the dull browns and stark silvers of Griffonstone. Ponies and griffons occupied the hall; all wearing their fanciest outfits; all feigning importance as they made pointless small talk; all staying pointedly each on their own side of the room.

The perches and poles, customary to the griffon courtyards, were removed out of respect for the pony delegation. Instead, tables were scattered through the yard and liveried Diamond Dog servants scurried between them carrying drinks and savouries to the guests.

"...you may talk of beer and wine, while we're spending time out here - and the most excellent vintage at that, thanks to our gracious hosts." A white unicorn raised his glass, toasting the griffon company he regaled with his story. "But now in sunny Hind, where I used to spend my time in service of Her Majesty Celestia..."

White coat, blue mane, all glossy and overdressed I recognized him -- or at least I thought I did. Sir Fancy Pants, Count of something-or-other, a permanent fixture in Canterlot’s most eligible bachelors’ list, if Cadance’s incessant prattling was to be believed. Judging by the number of tittering featherbrains of either species hanging onto his every word, it could very well be.

I shrugged and moved on, pushing my way through the crowd of ponies towards the buffet and another tray of champagne. For all that I ignored the chatter, I could not help but be painfully aware of every look directed at me from behind the veil of the golden fans, picking out every derogatory word and every insulting whisper of the ponies around me:

"... a stray."
"...what is she doing here?"
"Celestia's little mongrel."
"I do wonder, why wouldn't the Princess have taken a proper Canterlot pony?"

I finished the glass in one long swig, wondering briefly if I could murder all of them and tell my Princess they just fell down the stairs, and I gave them a look. The gathering behind me withered away under my gaze -- they knew better than to say something to my face.

And yet, they were not wrong. There was no place or need for me here. I missed my notes already, the experiments I had to stop halfway, the sweet pain of my nightly trips. But there was a thing here, that power that gathered the winds on the border of my country, and so there I was too, trying to not murder the pompous buffoons who looked down on me like a spider-monkey someone let into the Grand Galloping Gala, and wasting my time swallowing tiny canapes and drinking champagne in a vain hope of getting at least a tiny bit buzzed.

With my glasses in tow, I moved past the invisible demarcation line that separated Equestrians from Griffons. Away from the gathering of nobleponies, hoping to hide them away from my sight, before I'd do something my Princess would not approve.

I cared little for the griffons shuffling around me, their wings flashing and gesturing to each other furiously as I walked between them. A lonely little pony, hardly seventeen, all alone in the crowd of predatory birds -- the reaction followed immediately, as one of them separated from the group and swaggered towards me.

There was no need to even look away from my champagne -- I could not have missed him even if I were blindfolded. He fixed his sight on me, undoubtedly seeking my eyes to stare me down as he walked with his wings half-unfurled to make himself bigger and scarier. His coterie, meanwhile, imagined themselves sneaky as they surrounded me, hiding me away from other ponies, and herding me into a cul-de-sac away from any help.

I kept to my glass and my course, making no effort to avoid him until he slammed directly into me, shoulder first, making me rock on my hooves and almost causing me to spill my champagne, were I not holding it inside the glass with magic.

“You pushed me,” he said, his nasal, screeching voice raking across my eardrums. “Why, I demand you apologize.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” I suggested amicably, my sheepish, shy smile putting him at ease.
He clearly thought me an easy mark, used to the politeness of Equestrians, and there was no reason not to use it.

“You see, if I pushed you, it would look like this.” A modest effort of my magic supplementing my weaker physique rammed into him like a freight train, and he landed on his haunches like a sack of bricks.

“And that means,” I kept him in the grip of my power as I walked towards him, holding him with a sharp wire weaved of wind and dust, invisible under his feathers. “It was you who tried to push me.”

He struggled, trying to get up, but I pushed him down, hard, sharp magics cutting into his skin and making his bones groan with strain. Leaning over him, my voice level, I said, in a mockery of his own words, “Why, I do believe you owe me an apology.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he squeezed out while he still had air in his lungs, but I was far from done, my other teacher’s lessons still fresh in my mind. Instead, I added more to the power of my spell that kept him down, and he couldn’t even breathe now, his bones a hair’s breadth away from cracking under the pressure of my magic.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I moved my ear towards his beak politely, as if expecting him to talk, and watched the light dim in his eyes as he was trying to force air into his lungs to no avail.

Only when he was on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness did I relent, suddenly releasing my spell, and he gasped for air, barely able to move.

“Oh, you’re sorry!” I smiled to the crowd of his griffons who immediately pretended that they were absolutely not watching the scene with rapt attention. “Well, then there is no problem. Is there?” I gave him a final glance and was satisfied to see the icy fear in his gaze. This one would not dare raise his claw against me.

I considered the remainders of my champagne as I looked at him scramble frantically away. It felt empty and pointless -- the saccharine swill did nothing for me after the high of seeing the terror in his beady little eyes.

Screw this.

I uncorked my flask and took a gulp. The burning, acidic drink took off the edge and slowly I felt the feverish excitement of the previous little scene drain out of me. The griffon caved too fast, gave up too easily… I wanted more. I needed more.

Annoyed, and angry, I found myself a chair and reached for another sip.

“I see you’re well-versed in Griffonian etiquette, Miss Shimmer.” It was Sir Fancy himself who came all the way to insult me to my face. I was not overjoyed.

“It’s Lady Shimmer,” I insisted, baring my teeth in a polite smile and giving him my best glare. Though I was only a Baroness to his title of a Count, and the title I carried was not even in my own right but a courtesy gift of my Princess, it was still mine.

“Is it? Is it truly?” He spoke quickly -- for all his feigned nonchalance he, at least, knew better than to provoke my anger, Count or not, in a foreign castle or otherwise. “I know a bit of you, Miss Shimmer, and of your exploits. You care little for titles gifted and not earned, and I’d rather talk to the mare than to the title she was bestowed with. Especially a mare so unique.”

So he was off the hook… though still I could not say I wasn’t tempted to check if his spellwork was as quick as his honeyed tongue.

"And I think you handled the situation quite well. Not quite the way my..." He made a grimace towards the pony delegation, “...colleagues would, but bravely done indeed.”

"...oh." I felt my eyebrows rise. I did not expect much from the creme de la creme of Canterlot nobility, and praise least of all. "Well. Thank you, milord?"

Disarmed suddenly of my anger, I found myself blushed and not knowing what to say, as he released my confused babbling with a jovial wave of his white fan.

I took the moment to look closer at him as he moved to relieve me of the empty tulip I still carried. He was Canterlot breed alright, through and through, from the well-groomed blue mane to the matching trimmed fetlocks. The way his wide shoulders filled out his fitted tuxedo, the elegant cravat tied around his neck, the cleverly-cut golden cummerbund that almost hid the slight pudge of his belly: everything about him, even the way he held his glass in his magic, golden aura only touching the stem betrayed a dainty Canterlot noble.

“I know you find champagne bland." He smiled and held out a snuff box of old patinated silver, with a large baby blue sapphire in the centre of the lid. “Though that one may be more your speed.”

I looked at it suspiciously, eyeing the unfamiliar black powder.

"It’s just betel nut, slaked lime and nutmeg. An old recipe, from long ago and far away. It’ll take the edge off "

I tried a sniff. It smelled musty, sweet and a little spicy, tickling my nose and burning my sinuses. The sniff sent a mild jolt of awareness up into my head, making a world spin for a second, and turn just a little bit brighter.

"Keep it," he offered, waving his fan when I tried to return the box. "Consider it a gift."

“I…” I did not need pittance from some random noblepony. On the other hoof, it was good stuff, and the gift seemed to be genuine. Not quite knowing what to say, I hid the gift into my dress. "Thank you."

"You should explore the Griffon side, Miss Shimmer," he said, with a conspiratorial wink. "They'll love you here. Just..." He smiled a tight little smile. "Be yourself."

I was still wondering if that was earnest advice or another little barb when the trumpets called, interrupting my thoughts. A sharp wind ran through the room and along the walls, fresh and cold, making the lanterns wave and the fires flicker. It was no mere draft -- there was magic and purpose behind it that made me instantly forget the silver-tongued lordling and snap to attention, like a hound hearing the hunter’s call.

A second time the trumpets called, shrill and stark.

“Son of Grover, Lord of Griffons, master of silver, master of lead.” The griffons recited, the impossible synchronicity of their voice rumbled through the halls, echoing from the ancient stone walls. “The King has water but bathes in blood. The King has two claws -- one for cutting grass, one for making marks. He wears robes of wind. He wears a shirt of ice. He holds silver in his left claw, he strikes with lead in his right...”

I shivered a bit, listening to the Griffonstonians recite their welcome. It was more than habit or expression of allegiance to their monarch in that monotone, hundred-voiced chant. There was the same subtle pull of the power you feel on the day of Summer Sun Celebration when Celestia raises the sun. The same thing that made the minion-pony eyes go glassy and vacant when they whimpered their obeisances to Ahuizotl.

The trumpets rang again, the third and final time, and in the sudden, stark silence, the heralds proclaimed:

“In the fullness of Winter he comes: Welcome, the swift, the good, the mighty, Guto, King of Griffons!"

The doors opened in the ceiling, joining the howl of the autumn breeze outside, and in a cavalcade of silvers, browns and rust-red gold, the royal family of Griffonstone appeared.

Griffons knelt. Ponies bowed.

Hidden behind the Count’s wide frame, I watched.

The Griffon King descended first from the roof of the hall, held aloft by mighty wings and cold mountain air that wrapped around him like a cape. He held a leaden rod in his right claw, a globe of silver in his left, and a crown of silver filigreed with heavy grey lead laid on his brow. He landed on his high throne, of the same lead and silver as his crown, and the same aged grey colour that marked his feathers.

The king’s sons followed. Three young tercels, three princes in Griffonstone, taking their own thrones, smaller and set lower than their father’s. I knew them from books and newspapers, but it was a different thing to see them in person and to take their measure.

Prince Gideon, on his father's right: an intimidating specimen of griffonkind, shockingly large and crimson-red with his feathers. He was stocky and well built, his beak and jaw nearly square, and his frame rippled with every subcutaneous flex of his rolling muscles and every twitch of his lion-tail. His claws were sharp, and subconsciously he clenched them into a fist when looking at the unprostrated ponies.

Prince Gwyr was a few years younger than him, and perhaps a year older than me, if that. He was tall and dour; thin of body, thin of face. Only his eyes were intense, even hidden behind the low plumes of his dark feathers. He stayed to the left of the king and a step behind his brother, quiet and watchful.

Prince Galad, the youngest of the three, trailed behind the procession. He was fluttering up and down as he flew, looking around and entirely lacking the gravity his siblings and father carried. Though clearly excited to see the gathering, his eyes, wide with joy, jumped from pony to pony, trying to see everypony and everything. His colour was rouge, with a shock-blonde crest.

There was one other thing I found familiar, and this one was not from papers and books. The power that gripped the hall with wind and ice when they entered the hall -- I recognized it before I even turned to look at the procession.

It was the same power that smote into the cloud walls of Baltimare like the angry Prince of Storms.

Three things know a secret
First -- the  Lady of the Dreams
The dog that barks no warning
And the maid that does not scream.

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Drafts, notes, and doodles.