The squire just about drops his parchment and the wood backing it, gaping at the great beast looming over him and the dark warrior riding atop it. That's a real gryphon. A creature he's only ever seen in heraldry, a mythical symbol now staring down at him with fierce eagle-eyes, every bit as real as the earth its talons curve furrows in. Wordlessly, he points to an empty space well away from the horses, which are already nervous enough as it is.

It's only after she turns away that he remembers to squeak: "W-wait- sir, um, or my lady-" which is correct he doesn't know, "Your name! How shall I record you in the lists?"