That someone new lived in the Shaw Manor was plain to see before Jon was within 100 yards of the front gate. The building itself hadn’t changed much save for a darker color of trim, but the grounds in front had been altered substantially. Where before the gate had been a simple wooded affair that was always more of a symbolic separation than an actual barrier, now it had been replaced by a wrought iron affair that was attached to stone walls of brick that were as tall as a man. For all that extra defensiveness they stood unlocked and unguarded though, and Jon was able to ride all the way up to the house, taking in the thousand little changes that the new warden had made to his home. Jon took every single one of them as a personal affront.

The lawn behind them had changed every bit as much too. Jon’s father had left behind a functional home, not a gaudy one, and even if the lawn had been neat and tidy, the focus of the groundskeepers and other hired hands had always been on the orchard, the garden plot, and all the little out buildings that made the home an example to the smaller homes and freeholds of the valley. Now those outbuildings had withered and decayed - an obvious sign of disuse. Instead the current occupants had chosen to focus on topiaries along the main path, brightly colored flower beds around the house itself. Jon couldn’t even see a garden plot anymore. That soured his mood more than anything else as he dismounted and tied up his horse. What was the point of having a manor in the country if you weren’t even going to try to make use of the land? Why not just stay in the city where you belong. 

The door opened before Jon could knock. He’d hoped that behind it would be a familiar face, perhaps even old Harven to fill him in on everything that had happened in the last few years. That was not to be though. The man answered it was dressed like a manservant, but the crooked nose that had been broken and rebroken combined with the beady little eyes spoke of cruelty, not service. 

“Ain’t seen you around before,” the stranger asserted, instantly dismissing Jon as unimportant. “What do ya want?”

“I’ve come to see the Warden,” Jon said flatly.

“You ain't in his book for today,” The man answered, “so you’ll have to come back another time. His lordship is indisposed and not accepting any visitors today without no appointment.”

“I’m sure that if you tell him that Lord Shaw is here to see him he’ll make an exception.” Jon smiled as he delivered the line, feeling like some story book hero back from the dead. He was very disappointed when his line went right over the head of the door man though. 

“Shaw? That name supposed to mean something?” the manservant asked. “As to you being a Lord, maybe you should steal some better clothes before delivering such an obvious lie.” He went to shut the door then, and Jon only just managed to wedge his boot in the door before that happened. 

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Jon warned the larger man. He needed no warning though. He just opened the door, cudgel in hand and smiled a crooked smile. 

“His Lordship pays me extra to throw bums like you off his property, so if you want to buy me and the boys an extra round or two the hard way, I ain’t gonna complain.” Jon considered drawing his sword, but he hardly saw the need to draw the blood of another man just yet. If he wanted to deliver a beating, then a beating he would get. Jon stepped back just enough to make the bigger man lunge forward before moving inside of his reach and delivering a short sharp blow to the servant’s solar plexus. 

For a normal man that blow would have been enough to drop him. This tough had clearly been around enough that he just gasped at the impact as he dropped his cudgel and used his already extended arm to put Jon in a sleeper hold as he moved around to the side. Grappling like this was how dwarves fought though, and Jon wasn’t the least bit concerned by the choice. Instead he turned with him and slammed his forehead hard against the manservant’s nose, spreading in a little wider. 

“You bastard!” the man yelled, blood running down his face as he stepped back. “I’ll break your gods damned arms for that!” Jon didn’t think that was such a bad idea, so when the manservant swung out wildly with a haymaker, Jon used that momentum against him to twist his right arm half way behind his back before wrenching it sideways. The goal was to break it, but his opponent knew that too, so he moved with it, turning what would have been a compound fracture into a major strain. Jon countered by using that control to ram his head into the doorframe, stunning the man with the impact. Jon dropped him in the doorway and then finished him off by slamming the door on his head a couple times hard enough to knock him out. 

“I’ll just see myself in then,” Jon said, stepping over the sprawled out body. None of the exterior changes, however drastic, prepared Jon for what he saw when he finally entered his old home. As with so many other things in his life, it had been changed to the point where it was almost unrecognizable. Simple chairs had been replaced with overstuffed couches with finely embroidered fabrics, sideboards and bookshelves had been replaced with dark stained hardwoods that were intricate and beautiful, but undoubtedly expensive. In every room there were rugs and tapestries depicting what were probably famous victories of a house that Jon didn’t recognize. This was where the wealth of the valley had gone. Jon was sure of it. The landlord grew fat on the rents of his peasants while the fiefs in his care withered and died. It was enough to make him even angrier than the defacement of the manor already had. 

Servants scattered at Jon’s approach, and he left them be, not recognizing any of them. It wasn’t until he got to the parlor that he finally found the lord, sitting out back drinking tea with a woman while a man servant and a maid looked on from the shade. He watched them for a moment, taking in their demeanor as they whiled away the afternoon. They obviously had no regard for the hard work it took to keep them so comfortable while everyone else toiled. The warden hadn’t just grown fat of the people figuratively, he had a bit of gut. His guest across from him might be a daughter or a niece. She was much younger, and pretty in that courtly way that involved four layers of skirts. The important detail for both of them was the dirty blonde hair and the blue eyes. One or both of them could be airblooded enough to have a few tricks up their sleeve, but Jon doubted it as he strode out the back door to ruin their day. They screamed aristocracy, and people like that wouldn’t be caught dead putting in the hard work that was needed to have half the mastery of their bloodline that Marcus had. 

When he arrived at their table, he spotted their attendant immediately as another tough, but ignored him. As long as he kept standing in the shade waiting for his lord’s command he was no threat. When the Shaw’s had lived here his father and brother had been the only muscle they’d ever needed. That left Jon wondering why they needed so much protection for such a quiet valley. While he stood there regarding the group, they stared back at him. In their case though they looked at him like he’d tracked manure all over the carpets on his way in. 

“And you are?” the Warden asked finally, tired of the awkward silence. 

“You may address me as Lord Shaw,” Jon smiled, finally able to enjoy the flicker of recognition as it drifted across the older man’s face. 

“Yes yes, very droll,” the Warden answered, “And I’m the king of Carpigia.”

“Well it’s very good to make your acquaintance your majesty,” Jon said, giving a the hint of a mock bow as he enjoyed the look of growing consternation on their faces. 

“Well if you aren’t going to tell us your name, would you at least care to tell us why Clive let a dullard like you in here,” The Warden said, giving his manservant a meaningful look, causing the second man to start slowly drifting slowly around behind Jon, “or at least what you hope to accomplish by ruining our afternoon?” 

“Sure,” Jon said simply, “Why don't you send everyone else away and we’ll see if we can settle this with words before things get ugly.” Jon could practically see how all this was going to play out. The noble was going to underestimate him because his outfit wasn’t worth at least five kings, his manservant was going to die trying to follow orders for what?  Two princes a month. It was all madness, but he didn’t know how to make them see that without a little blood. 

The warden’s only response was to laugh. It was strained and nervous though - more to distract from what was about to happen then to dismiss what had just happened. That was the moment the man servant was supposed to draw his blade and knife Jonathan in the back. He would have done it too, if Jon hadn’t pulled all of the heat from the teapot and the steaming cups of tea and heated the metal on that small blade until it was too hot to hold. At the same moment the would be assassin fumbled the blade Jon unsheathed his shortsword and thrust it backwards between his arm and his torso, just underneath his armpit. There was a moment of resistance as the tip of the blade glanced off some cartilige in the sternum, but then it was past and the first four inches embedded deeply enough to be almost instantly fatal as it grazed the heart. 

Jon stepped forward, pulling his blade free in one quick motion, flipping it around to point the bloody tip at the Wardenand letting the body of his would be assasin fall to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Both father and daughter looked on in horror at what happened too quickly for them to process. One minute a servant that they obviously had confidence in was about to take out the trash as he’d no doubt done many times before, and then he was just dead. No flourish. No preamble. No fancy dual. Just dead. 

“With that ugliness out of the way maybe now would be a good time for that conversation,” Jon suggested, “Or maybe you have a few more guards you’d like me to cut through before I get to you…” 

The threat lingered in the air for a long moment before the Warden finally bellowed, “Everyone - leave us. I—” 

“Father, I can—” the woman protested before she was quickly cut off. Jon wondered if it was an idle boast, or if she really had enough magic in her decadent bloodline to have a trick or two up her sleeve. He’d never fought an airblood, but he’d heard the stories the same as anyone else. 

No one argued after that, and seconds later the two of them were alone. Jon picked up the seat closest to him and flipped it around, and then stabbed his blade into the grass as he sat down on it backwards before resting his hands and chin on the back of the chair. “Finally,” Jon said, “Now let’s try this again. I’m Lord Jonathan Shaw, and you are…”