Prince Blueblood

The problem with being at the top of Canterlot society is that one spends most of one's life looking down. And while Blueblood does enjoy heights, such a view grows wearisome when the ponies below insist on being so terribly same.

He stands near the entrance to the grand ballroom, a crystal champagne flute dangling from his telekinesis, a bored look on his face. His position in the hall is a carefully chosen one. If he is too near the centre of the room then it is too easy for ponies to approach him, and that can cause problems. On the other hoof, if he is to stand over at the sides of the hall or in a corner somewhere, then it appears too much like he is aloof, or worse, snobbish, and he doesn't really want that.

Perhaps he could develop a headache. A tasteful one, nothing dramatic. Just enough to justify an early retreat to—

Now this does look interesting!

Gracefully, Blueblood trots up to the newcomer, then pulls his very best smile.

"Prince Blueblood. And you are?"

Old laws and customs are mostly a boon to House Platinum. Old tax exemptions, historical claims to land, rights dating back to the Unification Era… Alas, old laws and customs can also be a nuisance.

As Blueblood checks his appearance in the mirror one more time, he has to remind himself that this marriage might not be as archaic and barbaric as it sounds. He merely has to humor his fiancée with an official meeting here at the Canterlot palace, and then they will have a whole year's engagement to find common ground. A marriage doesn't need to be romantic or even happy to be beneficial. Whether she is a bumbling yokel or a refined lady, he will find some value in this union.

A knock on the door interrupts his deliberations.

"Your Highness," the voice of his personal valet calls, "The Lady has arrived and she is ready to be received."

"Let her in."

Of all the indignities Blueblood has suffered in his life—and admittedly, the number is comparatively small by any reasonable standard, but that doesn't stop each one stinging more than it has any right to—being physically grabbed and wrestled into a sack is not only humiliating, but makes him angry.

The sack smells of dirty potatoes, a plebeian smell he only knows because of his nightly, secret inspections of the Royal Kitchens (for his Aunt's safety—poison can be anywhere!).

Bump-bump, bump-bump.

Clearly, a lifetime of expensive lessons and fine breeding means nothing to his assailant, who, as the sack begins to swing to and fro in a way that leaves poor Prince Blueblood feeling quite nauseous, is moving at an alarming rate in some unknown direction. Not a mode of transportation to which princes are accustomed.

Despite this situation, Blueblood continues to maintain the highest degree of decorum, which is to say he does not scream, thrash, or otherwise lower himself to the level of a common foalnapping victim. A Prince of Equestria does not flail.

Besides, his horn is presently wedged at an awkward angle against what feels like a knot in the burlap, and any attempt to charge a spell results in an uncomfortable pressure that threatens to give him a headache. He has a very delicate horn. His personal physician says so. It is a sign of refined magical sensitivity!

And even if he could manage a spell, what then? Blast his way out mid-gallop and tumble onto cobblestones? Levitate himself while still inside a sack like some ridiculous ghost at a Nightmare Night party? No. The dignified thing to do is to wait, bide his time, and then express his displeasure to this ruffian in terms that will leave no doubt as to the severity of their mistake.

"This is quite unacceptable. I demand you set me down at once, or I shall have Auntie banish you to the moon! Do you even know who I am?"

It isn't that Blueblood dislikes his second Auntie. One can't dislike a pony one barely knows. But Luna has returned from her thousand-year banishment with certain... expectations. Expectations that belong to an era when princes grew up not only with training in etiquette and court management, but in warcraft.

"Thy defensive stance is abysmal," Luna declares, circling her 'nephew' in the training courtyard of the palace. "A foal of six could topple thee, and easily at that!"

"With respect, Auntie, I don't anticipate being toppled by anypony." He's never been in a fight in his life, and can't imagine why he would ever have to. "Unless you count an overly enthusiastic dance partner or—"

A midnight wing sweeps out like a blade. For a moment Blueblood is wondering why he is looking at the sky. Then his perfectly coiffed mane touches the dirt and the world makes sense again.

"Or that?"

"'Auntie'!" Luna roars. "We are not thy 'Auntie'! My sister may permit thee to address her as though she were thy nanny..." A flash of her horn, and Blueblood is yanked unceremoniously to his hooves. "But thou shalt show Us proper deference!"

"Yes, Your Alicornial Highness," he sighs.

But his sarcasm is lost in the hiss and whir of a wooden quarterstaff slicing towards his head. If Luna keeps this up, there will be nothing left of him but Blue jam.

"Mark Our words," Luna growls, pressing the attack. "Thou shalt attain a level of mastery in combat before another fortnight passes." Another strike, narrowly dodged. "We have even found thee an appropriate teacher."

She what?

"There she comes now," Luna continues with an evil grin, halting her assault and looking toward the training gate.