Chapter 13: Sabotage

I do have to give them credit, their camps are well-organized, Jon thought. It was true. With tents in organized rows, latrines dug some distance away from both the tents and the rivers – but still within the area patrolled by guards – and the horses racked up to hitching rails set up in neat lines, the Lannister camp was a model of order and discipline. Men patrolled the outskirts of the camp regularly, palisades of sharpened stakes had been firmly placed to disrupt an enemy charge, and the brush and trees had been cleared back for at least a hundred paces to make it almost impossible for anyone to sneak in.

Of course, these defenses were designed with a regular human in mind, and, as such, provided little obstacle for Tenten. One quick shunshin brought her right behind a pair of guards on their rounds, and she slit their throats before either had a chance to react.

Jon, having only recently begun learning to channel chakra, was nowhere near ready to learn shunshin, so he had to sneak into the camp the regular way. With the guards eliminated, however, it wasn't difficult for him to get close while staying low enough to the ground to avoid detection from the next pair of sentries, who were more than a hundred paces away. By the time he had reached Tenten, she had already sealed the bodies away in storage scrolls, a strange action that caused Jon to frown in confusion, though he knew it was pointless at that time to ask why she had done so.

Once in the camp proper, the duo ducked into a nearby tent, careful not to make a sound. Given that it was late into the night, it was no surprise that the men were all fast asleep, and some quick knife-work ensured that they would never awake.

They'd been at this for over a week, and by now, Jon had become accustomed to killing men in their sleep. Just a few months ago he would have been horrified by such actions, but after so many such kills, he hardly felt the slightest twinge of remorse as he pulled the blade across the throat of the sleeping men.

Tenten's plan had called for a steady escalation in both the frequency and severity of the attacks so that the Western lords did not immediately realize that their enemies were to blame. The first attacks had not involved killing at all, in fact. Instead, on the first night, any Lannister soldiers they found alone or in small groups were knocked unconscious and their valuables stolen. The next night, there had been even more attacks, and a few of their victims had been killed, with even more deaths the night after that.

It was strange to see the effect that their actions had on the camps. As word of the attacks spread, most men traveled in groups and eyed their fellows warily. Some even followed his and Tenten's example, judging by the rumors of attacks that he knew they weren't responsible for. His lover's idea of tearing the Lannister army apart from the inside, making them so suspicious of their fellow soldiers that they turned on each other had seemed like a fantasy at first, but now he could see that it was working.

Jon turned his attention back to the task at hand. With the Lannister men dead, they set to work gathering any valuables they could find, which Tenten carefully sealed away, then they stumbled out of the tent, Jon pulling Tenten close against him, looking to all the world like a soldier and his chosen whore as they walked to a different part of the camp, where they once more slipped into a tent and repeated the process.

They'd just exited the third tent when they heard shouting.

"I think they have discovered our handiwork," Tenten whispered.

"Fight our way out?" Jon suggested quietly as they slipped back into the tent they had just left.

"Let's try clones instead," Tenten decided, flipping through the necessary hand signs. With a small puff of chakra smoke, she transformed into a soldier wearing simple armor and the livery of House Crakehall, then another burst of chakra heralded the creation of four clones, each a perfect duplicate of her disguised form. Though the clones were just an illusion, it should be enough to draw the attention of any pursuers.

The decoys set out at once, sprinting for the palisades bordering the camps, careful to avoid any physical obstacles that would indicate they were completely incorporeal. Not for the first time, Tenten wished that she had learned something besides the basic Academy bunshin, but there was nothing she could do about that now.

Making no attempt to be stealthy, the clones were spotted almost immediately, judging by the angry cries of, "There they are!" and "After them!". Jon and Tenten (now wearing the colors of house Greenfield) waited a few more moments, then dashed out of the tent and joined in the pursuit, racing south down the road, away from the camp. They dropped behind eventually, pretending to be tired, and slowly made their way to the river.

The Red Fork was wide, but, at least at this point, it was not very deep, so Jon had no difficulty fording it. Tenten, of course, just walked on top of the water, a feat that Jon was anxious to be able to duplicate, though she had warned him that it would still take much more practice before he was ready.

As they turned north and cautiously approached the camp on this side of the river, they could still hear angry voices to the east.

"It's very unfair that Sir Forley's camp is the only one that has been disturbed tonight," Tenten said thoughtfully.

Jon rolled his eyes at the innocent, almost playful tone his lover used. "Somehow, I doubt that Brax would agree that he should also be attacked because of fairness."

"True," Tenten replied, nodding solemnly, before brightening. "But, at least Brax will know who is responsible for his men being killed."

Jon looked over at her quizzically, then remembered. "That's why you took the bodies of those sentries."

"Precisely," Tenten replied with a vicious grin. "After all, if we're going to get the Westermen to fight each other, they need proof that the other Lords' soldiers are to blame for the attacks."

Jon couldn't help but match his lover's smile as she explained her plan.

Sneaking into the camp west of the Red Fork was just as easy as sneaking into the camp on the east bank. As they entered the first tent, one of the men sat up, startled, but Tenten's kunai killed him before he had a chance to make a sound. The other Lannister soldiers quickly followed their fellow in death, though this time, Jon and Tenten killed them in a variety of ways.

Tenten unsealed the bodies of the two sentries she had killed in Prester's camp, then frowned as she looked at them thoughtfully. "I should not have slit both of their throats," she commented. "It is suspicious to have both attackers killed the same way."

"What about just leaving one body?" Jon suggested as he looked at the dead armsmen in the garb of what he thought was House Kayce.

"That is a good idea," Tenten agreed, resealing one of the bodies. She grabbed a sword from where it was laying at the side of the tent and stabbed the remaining body through the stomach. "Put one of the men over here, so it looks like he killed his attacker before dying," she instructed, and Jon quickly complied.

Once the scene had been set, they gathered near the door, and Tenten nodded to Jon.

"To arms!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Murd-" he cut off abruptly, then the duo dashed out of the tent and rushed toward the boundary of the camp, cutting down anyone who got in their way.

Not surprisingly, none of the Lannister soldiers were able to react in time, so Jon and Tenten reached the forest without any sign of pursuit. They took their time carefully sneaking across the Tumblestone and back to their camp in the thick Whispering Wood, finally arriving just as the sun was beginning to rise.

After double-checking to ensure they had not been followed, the pair climbed down into the small tunnel leading to the hollow they had cleared out amidst the roots underneath a massive tree. It was a tight fit, but neither had any complaints.

"How many men do you figure we've killed already?" Jon wondered as he tried to focus his attention on the trees in front of him. Given that the woman he loved with all his heart (and other body parts as well) was bathing in the river behind him, this was not an easy task, but he had no desire to be caught unawares by a Lannister patrol. Such patrols were uncommon this far up the Tumblestone, but that was no reason to be complacent. He reached down to the wool blanket where they had set their food, grabbing a large piece of salted beef taken from the Lannister army's provisions.

There was some soft splashing in the river, then a dripping sound as Tenten climbed onto the nearby rocks. "I haven't kept track. At least a hundred," she replied from beside him. "Perhaps even more than two hundred." It was a large number, but still, just a drop in the bucket compared to the total size of the Lannister army surrounding Riverrun.

Jon glanced over, then swallowed deeply, unable to do anything but admire the view as the beautiful kunoichi bent over to pick up her clothes. Judging by the playful smile on her face when she straightened up, Tenten was fully aware of just how helpless he had been to resist.

"You want to bathe?" she asked.

Jon shook his head. "Not today." He continued to watch, entranced as she used a large piece of cloth to dry her body. "So, more attacks on the tents tonight?" he finally asked.

Tenten frowned thoughtfully. "I think it is time to take it to the next level." Jon cocked an eyebrow curiously, and she continued. "We have mostly been targeting the common soldiers. Tonight, we should attack some of the nobles. That way, we can start to turn them against each other. Once the nobles are at each other's throats, it will just take one small push and their entire army will be destroyed through infighting."

"And how will we do that?" Jon inquired.

Instead of answering, Tenten laid down on the blanket, turning over on her side with her head propped up on her hand. "We can worry about that later," she said as she ran a hand up and down her body seductively. "For now, I think there is something else you should focus on."

Jon didn't need to be told twice.

Kevan stepped into his tent and collapsed onto the chair in front of the table holding the maps, taking advantage of the privacy to finally allow the weariness he felt to show on his face. It truly was amazing just how quickly everything could fall apart. When he had been given command of the force that would besiege Riverrun, he had sworn that he would not fail in his duty. And, at the start, the very idea of failure had seemed unthinkable.

A force of Rivermen had set up a defensive position along the road in an attempt to delay them, probably to allow more supplies to be brought into the castle. Kevan had advanced cautiously, splitting his force into three columns, taking command of the middle himself, while the left was given to Lord Andros Brax and the right to Ser Forley Prester. The columns pushed forward with enough distance between them that it was nigh impossible for the Rivermen to flank the attacking army, but also close enough that the separated forces could easily support each other should the defenders launch a concerted attack against any one division.

And his plan had worked well. Edmure Tully and his lords had been forced to retreat to Riverrun, losing at least five times as many men as the Westermen. An auspicious start, but Kevan's luck had not lasted much longer. While the initial stages of the siege had gone about as well as could be expected, the past two weeks had been filled with one problem after another, which stacked up to become a persistent nuisance that was getting worse with each passing day.

Any time thousands of soldiers were stuck in close quarters, there would always be problems. That was a simple reality of war. Laying siege in enemy territory could often be as unpleasant for the besiegers as the besieged, and this time was no different, especially given that Tully's forces had stalled his advance long enough for the provisions from nearby farms to be brought into the keep. Of course, Kevan's forces had brought supplies of their own, but even in the beginning, it had not been uncommon for the men to go to bed hungry some nights.

Kevan sighed. That was the way of war. There was never enough food, or enough drink, or enough bedding, or enough whores, or enough of a million other things that kept the fighters in good spirits. And as morale slowly dropped and the men grew more and more weary of the war, sooner or later some were bound to act. He just didn't expect it to be this soon.

It had started with an increase in theft in the camps, with many of the men-at-arms, and even some of the nobility, losing coin and prized possessions. Eventually, the thieves grew even bolder, attacking their fellow soldiers, first beating them savagely, and more recently, killing them outright, sometimes even sneaking into tents and murdering men in their sleep. And as word of the attacks spread with no suspects being captured, more and more men were willing to take the risk of committing similar crimes.

It wasn't just coin being stolen, of course. Food was also a target of these criminals. The lords in each of the camps had tried to forestall this by gathering the supplies into one central location, guarded by their most trusted men. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough, with the guards frequently being attacked and killed, while the precious foodstuffs disappeared, never to be seen again.

The sheer speed with which the supplies vanished was proof of a massive organization operating within the camps. Doubtless hundreds of men must have cooperated to seize and hide such a vast quantity of food, but there was no evidence of who was behind it, and random searches had turned up nothing. Compounded with attacks on the supply trains coming up out of the Golden Tooth, the vanishing food left the Lannister army in a precarious position.

Though Kevan had done his best to convince the men under his command that the Riverlords were to blame, having sent out saboteurs to strike at their enemies, he knew they didn't believe him. Of course they didn't; after all, he didn't truly believe it, either.

If it had just been the smallfolk conscripts fighting each other, they likely could have managed without too many problems. Unfortunately, four days ago, the thieves had tried to steal from the nobles in Lord Brax's camp, setting a large, nearby pile of firewood ablaze and freeing the horses, which immediately began to stampede away from the inferno, to create a distraction that allowed them to slip into the tent of the Crakehall heir.

They were discovered quickly and three were killed, but the remaining two managed to fight their way free, killing not only Ser Tybolt Crakehall, but also Ser Tytos Brax and Lord Gawen Westerling, along with half a dozen knights from more minor houses. Examination of the three bodies left behind revealed that the thieves had dressed in the colors of House Crakehall in order to get close to the tents without drawing attention to themselves, but under the no doubt stolen clothes, they wore the colors of House Prester.

Like nobles everywhere, the Western lords were a fractious lot, with old insults and bitter arguments that went back decades. They constantly jockeyed for position, which is why Kevan had taken great care when splitting the army to ensure that any feuding nobles were separated in the hopes of keeping the peace. Well that hope is gone, the Lannister knight thought bitterly.

It wasn't about money anymore, that much was clear. Lord Andros Brax, Ser Raynald Westerling and several others had sworn to have their revenge. And any hope that their words were mere wind died the very next night, when several nobles in Ser Forley's camp were murdered, including Ser Forley's nephew. Brax and his men claimed to be innocent, but not everyone believed them.

Now, the lords were at a state of almost open warfare, while their men were careful to travel in bands, wary of supposedly allied soldiers with a grudge who would take their anger out on any target of opportunity. Every morning brought news of more attacks, and it was almost impossible to determine who was the guilty party in any situation, as there were rarely any witnesses and no suspects had ever been captured alive at the scene of the crime. The sparse evidence found had almost certainly been planted, clearly having been chosen specifically to implicate certain lords. Unfortunately, items such as a torn piece of cloth with a house's sigil easily discernible or an ornate and very distinctive dagger that had belonged to a lord who claimed that it had been stolen previously were enough to rile up the more excitable members of each camp. Thus far, the threat of Lannister retaliation against anyone who blatantly acted against their fellows had managed to prevent outright combat between the divided army. Kevan had no idea how long that would be the case, however.

Not for the first time, Kevan found himself cursing Tywin's children for whatever they had done to put them all in this position. He knew he was not alone in suspecting that the reports coming from the Queen and her brother were not entirely accurate. The idea that Stark would have acted so brazenly and in such a foolish manner was ludicrous. But whatever the truth of the matter, House Lannister was now at war with the former Kings of Winter, a war that had already cost them dearly.

Kevan's eyes moistened as he remembered the letter Cersei had sent, informing them of how the treacherous Starks had brutally murdered Jaime. Of course, the fact that Kevan's eldest son Lancel had also been killed warranted nothing more than the slightest mention, much to the aged knight's displeasure. He had often heard men comment on how painful it was to lose a child. He just never imagined it could hurt this much.

Kevan glanced over at the small divider behind which his son and squire, Willem, had placed his cot, and was, by now, no doubt sleeping. Willem's twin, Martyn, was with the force Stafford was gathering at Oxcross, while Kevan's youngest child – and only daughter – remained with her mother at Casterly Rock. There were no guarantees in war, but Kevan was determined to do all he could to keep his remaining children alive and well.

Once more, Kevan read the report his cousin had sent about the new muster of troops. According to Stafford, more than a thousand levies had been gathered already, with more coming every day. Of course, training those men took time, and it was unlikely that the full force of ten thousand that Tywin had ordered would be ready to march any time soon, but the knowledge that more forces were coming was a relief. According to the latest reports from Tywin's scouts and spies, the Stark host had passed Moat Cailin and would likely be engaging the main Lannister force within a week or two.

He had no doubt that his brother would, as always, prevail, but Kevan also knew that the Riverlords were not entirely beaten. The Mallister and Frey forces were completely untouched, and there were still thousands of soldiers in Riverrun that should not be forgotten, not to mention the possibility of an attack from the Vale. If the Lannister army took too many losses, they could find themselves surrounded by an enemy that would not be inclined to show any mercy. But Tywin was two hundred leagues or more away, and there was nothing that Kevan could do to help him.

With a sigh, he stood from the table. "Willem, come help me with my armor," he called. There was no answer. Kevan walked over to the divider. "You are my son, but you are also my squire, and there are certain duties that you must fulfill," he chastised gently as he reached forward to shake his son awake.

His son's head rolled over, and to Kevan's shock and horror, he could see Will's eyes already open – open but unseeing. His blood turned to ice in his veins. "Willem, Willem!" he cried, ripping the covers off his son. The blankets were soaked with blood.

"No," the old man sobbed hoarsely as the truth of the matter became apparent. With trembling hands, he reached out and pulled the black dagger from his son's stomach, noting the distinctive symbol of the hooded man on the handle. The sigil of House Banefort.

"It can't be," he whispered. "No, it's a trick." He was so horrified that he didn't even realize he was still speaking aloud.

He stumbled back, falling to the ground, but before he could call for the guards, a soft, female voice spoke into his ear. "Pity, I thought you would go for it."

There was a burning pain across his throat. Kevan tried to call for help, but it came out as nothing more than a gurgling wheeze.

Tenten took a moment to observe her handiwork, deliberately concentrating on the Lannister knight and not his son. The boy had been a few years younger than her, about the age of a freshly graduated genin. Tenten didn't like having to kill people who were barely more than children. But if they're on a battlefield, they're fair game, she thought grimly.

The kunoichi briefly considered staging the bodies to make it look like a robbery gone wrong, but dismissed the notion after a moment's thought. The idea of their commander being deliberately assassinated would probably disturb the remaining nobles more than a botched attempt at thievery.

Walking over to Lannister's bed, she dragged the bodies of the guards who had been standing watch at the entrance to the tent, and whom she had killed then replaced with clones without anyone noticing, out from where she had hidden them, placing the corpses next to the lord they had been sworn to protect. With any luck, the surviving nobility would assume that someone was trying to kill off the competition, making them even more suspicious of each other.

Tenten's eyes fell on the desk. It would be a real shame to leave all that intelligence behind. Of course, if the letters and reports were found to be missing, that would raise some eyebrows. Which just means that I need to make sure nobody realizes those papers have been taken.

Two minutes later, Tenten walked calmly out of the tent, using a henge to look like a Lannister soldier, carefully shutting the flap behind her so that no one would see the fire she had started until it was too late. Most of the attacks up to this point had been focused on the two camps to the south, so the men here were not as attentive as they should have been. Nodding to the clones pretending to be the men-at-arms standing watch at the tent entrance, she slipped out of the camp and into the darkness.

The noise in the tent was almost deafening as men shouted to be heard over their fellows. Bowls of stew and warm, buttered bread had been set on the table in front of each of them, but no one paid any mind to the delicious food as they quarreled.

"Enough!" Quenten Banefort finally roared.

The noise gradually subsided, but not without some angry glares from the assembled lords and knights.

"For now, we will focus on maintaining the siege. Each camp shall handle its own affairs, with all provisions split equally between them. A trusted courier has already been sent to Lord Tywin. He will decide which of us should be given command, or if one of the lords from his army should be sent over instead."

If Quenten had hoped this pronouncement would end the argument, he was sadly mistaken. "And I'm sure your message made no mention of the attacks his people have committed," Andros Brax roared, gesturing furiously toward where Ser Forley Prester stood holding back his younger brother Dalton, who looked ready to charge the large lord.

"Why should we listen to you, Banefort?" the younger Prester shouted.

"I do not claim to have any authority over you," Quenten replied, forcing himself to remain calm. It was true. Sadly, no one had imagined that Kevan Lannister would be killed, so there had been no clear chain of command, and with so many nobles fighting given the losses they had suffered these past few weeks, it was impossible for them to come to any agreement for who should be chosen to replace Ser Kevan.

"And yet you order us to stay huddled in our camps while our enemies murder us one by one!" Ser Raynald yelled.

"What do you think Lord Tywin will do to anyone who attacks his fellow Westermen?" Satisfaction filled Quenten as everyone finally fell silent. They knew well what fate would await them. The Rains of Castamere was an excellent reminder of how Tywin Lannister repaid disloyalty. "For now, let each camp have its own commander. We will continue the siege, and Lord Tywin will instruct us on how to proceed."

Though there was still some grumbling, no one objected to the plan.

Quenten shared an exasperated look with Lord Regenard Estren, the only other major lord in the camp north of the Red Fork. To think that their primary concern at the start of the siege was the possibility of an attack from the Mallisters. Now, they were on a knife's edge, just a small step away from outright warfare between the camps.

He just hoped that Lord Tywin was able to send a reply quickly, and that they were able to maintain some semblance of discipline until it arrived.

No one noticed when one of the maidservants who had been serving them exited the tent and vanished into the bustling camp.

"I had a thought," Jon commented as he rubbed his lover's back while cuddling together after a very pleasurable bout of lovemaking. "We've been focused on getting the Westermen to fight each other, but we haven't paid any attention to the Tyroshi freeriders."

Tenten lifted her head from his chest, looking up at him curiously.

"We have all that gold you stole from Littlefinger," Jon continued. "Why not use it? Give one of the Tyroshi five hundred dragons and a note claiming to be from Brax saying that if he kills Forley Prester, he'll be paid an additional five thousand dragons. If he doesn't believe the note and instead warns Prester, people will believe that Brax was behind it. If he does believe the note and attacks Prester, he does our work for us, whether he succeeds or not."

"It is a good idea," Tenten agreed before fixing him with a suspicious look, though the twitching at the corners of her lips made it clear she was struggling not to smile. "But why are you thinking about that at a time like this?"

Jon pressed a kiss to her lips, his tongue rubbing against hers as they opened their mouths and the kiss grew more intimate. "Just a passing thought," he said when they finally broke apart. "I assure you, I was concentrating entirely on you before."

"Really?" Tenten's eyes sparkled.

Jon rolled them over, trapping Tenten's arms against the ground over her head as he began to kiss her neck. "Shall I prove it to you?"

He's actually going for it, Tenten thought with some surprise as she watched one of the more savage-looking freeriders sneak into the camp with surprising skill. Tenten followed closely enough to keep him in sight while still maintaining sufficient distance to go unnoticed.

The heavy rain had extinguished the campfires, and the thick clouds above them blocked out what little light the moon provided, ensuring a night as dark as any. The Tyroshi man had minimal difficulty invading the camp of his supposed allies, though Tenten noticed that he had been forced to kill a few guards here and there as he cautiously approached the large tent at the center of the camp.

Hmm, would it be better for him to succeed, or to be caught in the act? Tenten wondered. She thought back to the contentious meeting the lords had held after Kevan Lannister's death. Forley Prester seemed like a stabilizing influence. But his younger brother…

Tenten watched with some satisfaction as the sellsword ignored the entrance to the tent, instead creeping quietly behind the tent and cut a small slit in the heavy fabric. As the man entered, Tenten snuck up closer. Soon, the freerider emerged once more, and the kunoichi acted.

Letting out an ear-splitting shriek of horror, she threw a sword at the man's legs. The wound wouldn't kill him, but it was more than adequate to slow him down. "Murder!" she screamed as loudly as she could.

Guards rushed in from all sides, while Tenten vanished into the darkness.

"That was an excellent idea, Jon," Tenten remarked as they observed (from a distance, of course) the devastation that had, just a few hours before, been the Tyroshi freeriders' camp. Dalton Prester had not concerned himself with determining whether the other freeriders had been involved or not. Instead, he had gathered his men and immediately attacked the foreign sellswords, killing most. Naturally, the Tyroshi were not willing to simply lay down and die, exacting a heavy toll as they fought back ferociously before finally being overwhelmed by the more numerous Westermen. In the end, several hundred men had lost their lives as neither side had made much of an effort to take prisoners.

"Just a pity the freerider destroyed the note we left," Jon replied.

Tenten shrugged. "I'm sure they'll search the tents, and they'll find the gold. Prester will assume it came from one of the other lords, and Brax is the most likely suspect."

"It was Brax. I know it!" Dalton Prester didn't care who heard the accusation. He was certain that he was correct. His brother had been murdered two days ago, and there could be no doubt who had hired the foreign assassin.

"Perhaps so, but there's no proof," Ser Garth Greenfield cautioned.

"There's plenty of proof," Dalton snarled. "But I'm the only one who has the balls to say it!"

Behind them, a man cleared his throat, and both knights turned to see a man-at-arms in the colors of House Estren standing awkwardly, accompanied by a small band of men wearing the livery of House Kenning. "What is it?" Dalton demanded.

"My pardon, my lords, but I have been sent to inform you that Lord Quenten Banefort has been found murdered. My Lord Regenard Estren has assumed command of the northern camp."

Despite the fury he felt at this news, Dalton managed to hold his tongue until the man had been escorted out.

"Brax strikes again! One by one, he's eliminating all rivals so that he alone can claim victory here."

"We don't know that," Garth protested.

"Get out," Dalton ordered hotly.

The Greenfield knight obeyed without another word.

"Double the sentries guarding the camp, and triple the guard on my tent," the angry commander shouted. "Brax will come for me sooner or later. I've no intention of letting him succeed." He glared at the tent door where his former friend had just exited. "And then I'll have proof," he spat.

It was two nights later that Brax's man finally struck. Fortunately, the heavier guard stymied the fiend, with one of the soldiers managing to scream out a warning before being cut down.

The large man burst into the tent, but Dalton was ready. Seeing his quarry already prepared for the attack, the would-be assassin, whom Dalton recognized as the captain of Brax's personal guard, fled, with Dalton and his men in hot pursuit.

The assassin fled toward the river, near where the camp followers were gathered, and Dalton lost sight of him as he plunged into one of the many tents closely packed along the muddy bank. The Prester armsmen followed behind, but a large cut in the back of the tent revealed how the man had escaped.

"Spread out, find him," Dalton commanded, but just then, a loud scream filled the air.

Dalton rushed toward the feminine cry, furiously slashing his way out of the tent to discover one of the washerwomen lying on the ground, pointing in horror at the entrance to another tent just a few paces away.

"He… he… I…" The woman was incoherent, but when Dalton and his men entered, it was apparent what had happened. Brax's guard lay on the ground, a heavy tent stake through his throat. Dalton left the tent, hoping to question the woman more, but she had already vanished.

It was not surprising. Smallfolk tended to be very skittish around their betters, with good reason. Still, the body was all the proof Dalton needed.

"Summon Ser Garth and rouse the camp. We will not let this stand." Despite the burning rage he felt, his voice was ice.

Tenten and Jon watched in satisfaction as soldiers from the southeast camp quietly forded the broad river and cautiously approached the southwest camp. Killing one of Brax's top men and smuggling the body away unnoticed had been difficult, but worth it. Due to their losses against the Tyroshi, Prester's forces were outnumbered by Brax's, so the vengeful knight had turned to stealth to regain the advantage. Tenten had finished helping Jon into his new armor, and the pair watched patiently from a small ridge just west of Brax's camp. In the dim light they could just make out Prester's forces assembling quietly to the south. Soon, nearly two thousand men were gathered just a stone's throw from the camp, waiting in the darkness for some sign to be given.

What that sign was, neither Tenten nor Jon could see, but like a mighty wave, the men began to charge. The sentries patrolling the borders of Brax's camp cried out in alarm as the attacks swarmed around and, in some cases, over the palisades. Horribly outnumbered, the guards were killed quickly; still, their warning had been enough. Men began to pour out of tents, half dressed and barely awake, but armed nevertheless.

Months of frustration at being stuck laying a siege in harsh conditions of storm and deprivation had been amplified by weeks of fury as their lords told them over and over that it was the men in the other camps that were responsible for the many thefts and attacks they had suffered. And now that they finally had a target for their anger, the enraged men charged savagely at each other, both sides refusing to give any quarter.

Of course, since Prester's forces had donned their armor before leaving their camp, there was no doubt which side would win the battle.

"I think we should help even the odds," Tenten suggested, gesturing to the north camp, where the flickering fires revealed soldiers hurriedly rallying to answer their lords' commands.

Dalton sneered as yet another one of the traitors fell to his blade. "Keep pushing, men" he called, though it was unlikely that anyone heard him over the din of combat. He looked over at Garth, a broad smile on his face, though he was disappointed to see that his friend was not as enthusiastic as he was.

A cry of alarm sounded from the rear of the army, and he turned to see that his men were being attacked from behind. Summoning his guard, Dalton rushed back to see what had happened, and found more than a score of his men had already been killed.

"Vengeance for Lord Banefort," a high voice called out, and a knife flew out of the darkness, hitting Garth in the face. His friend fell to the ground without a word, dead.

Banefort? They think I killed Banefort? "It was Brax!" he shouted, but there was no answer.

Regenard Estren cursed as the crude raft pulled up on the bank and he and his guard were finally able to fully see the chaos that had gripped the southern camps. Years past his prime and overweight, he was not a fighter, and he knew it, which is why he had volunteered to join Ser Kevan in the siege. Now, for the first time in his life, he finally understood what battle truly was. Men from the other rafts gathered around him, and soon they had a band more than a hundred strong, marching resolutely toward the turmoil ahead of them, though he could tell many of them were as frightened as he. "Cease this madness," he ordered at the top of his lungs as they drew near, but no one heeded his command. Instead, the armored men, led by those in the colors of House Prester, pressed forward, mercilessly cutting down the less prepared defenders.

"Separate the armies," he instructed his men, leading his guard forward. If they could stop the fighting long enough for sense to prevail, perhaps they could restore some semblance of order. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

"Vengeance for Lord Banefort!" a heavily armored knight from his side shouted, then plunged forward, cutting down the Prester men-at-arms with astonishing skill.

Vengeance for Lord Banefort? What? Regenard had no time to think on this. Seeing their fellow men-at-arms attacked, Prester's force retaliated, and the Lord of Wyndhall found himself fighting for his life against his own allies.

Surrounded on all sides, Jon had never been more grateful for the training Tenten had given him. The full plate armor he had taken from a knight he had had killed several days ago was a great boon as well. He finally managed to fight his way free, escaping back to the relative safety of Estren's men, who covered their supposed ally's retreat.

He found himself seized by the arm and pulled around to discover a panicked-looking Lord Estren staring at him.

"What's happening? Where are you going?" the corpulent Western lord shouted.

With no time to think or plan, Jon just went with his gut. "My Lord, Ser Dalton's gone mad," he lied, yelling to be heard over the clamor of the fighting just a few paces away. "We must call for reinforcements before he kills us all!"

Fortunately, this seemed to do the trick. "Yes, yes, we… we must call for reinforcements," the fat man agreed frantically, looking back at where the men who had accompanied him were being slaughtered. "Come with me," he commanded as he began to race toward the river with his personal guard.

As he escorted the panicking lord back to the rafts, Jon couldn't help the smirk on his face, though because of his helm, he knew that none of the men accompanying him could see it. Tenten was right. Kill the experienced leaders, and the rest will run around like chickens with their heads cut off.

Estren clambered awkwardly onto the rough logs. "You go, my lord," Jon yelled as the other men joined their lord. "Bring reinforcements! I shall guard this shore." He pushed the raft into the water, almost laughing at the sight of the overweight noble and his men struggling to propel the unwieldy raft with only one pole between them. Men were leaning over the edge, trying to use their arms to push the raft forward, while their lord could be heard shouting orders to go faster.

Jon glanced back at the melee in the camp. Prester's forces clearly had the upper hand, but they were tiring quickly, and men from the northern camp were already assembling on the shores, waiting to cross over and join the fight.

I think that should do it, he thought with no small degree of satisfaction. A few men-at-arms from houses under Ser Dalton's command rushed down to attack him, but he dispatched them easily, and soon, his 'allies' had joined him.

"Take no prisoners, men," he yelled. "It's us or them." To his amusement, no one stopped to ask who he was or why they should follow him. Evidently, the expensive armor was enough to convince the newly arrived soldiers that he was someone whose orders should be heeded.

With a wild cry, the men raced up to the bank and began to cut down their fellow Westermen.

The battle in Brax's camp had turned into complete anarchy, to Tenten's great satisfaction. She hoped that Jon was safe, but there was no way to know for sure. All she could do was concentrate on the task at hand as she rushed toward Prester's camp, using a henge to appear as a non-descript soldier. Nearly a thousand men had been left to guard the camp and maintain the siege so that the Rivermen could not leave their castle. And that just wouldn't do at all.

"Ser Dalton calls for aid," she shouted as she entered the camp, doing her best to hide her accent and pitch her voice at a lower octave so they did not realize she was a woman. "He's ordered all our men to join in the attack. Follow me!" Fortunately, no one protested. All the knights and nobles under Prester's command had joined in the initial attack on Brax's forces, leaving the poorly trained smallfolk levies behind. Used to following orders or being punished harshly, the frightened soldiers made their way down to the rafts to float across the slow-moving river and join in the carnage.

They soon reached the west bank. "Leave none alive!" she ordered, and a band of about two hundred fighters charged forward, including a skinny boy about Sansa's age wearing the purple, white and gold of House Payne. Unfortunately, they were struck almost immediately by a surge of troops with white seashells on their livery, who had flanked the embattled forces of House Prester. Almost the entire charge was cut down before another wave of troops attacked and killed the fighters of House Westerling. Dozens of men tried to stay behind with the rafts, but Tenten drove them forward. "Attack, you cowards, or Ser Dalton will have your heads!"

That did the trick.

With the additional men from the camp, Ser Dalton's army once more had the advantage, as the men from the northern camp could only cross in small groups, due to the shortage of rafts and the difficulty of crossing the swift Tumblestone.

It was just as Jon was considering how he could slip away that a loud horn sounded, and exuberant shouts heralded the attack of a new foe, one that the Westermen had completely forgotten.

The massive drawbridge of Riverrun fell to the ground with a heavy thud, and the bannermen of House Tully charged out onto the field, the front line of heavy horse quickly covering the distance to the camp and smashing into the exhausted survivors of the carnage. Seeing this sudden assault, the Westermen still on the rafts quickly reversed their direction, frantically returning to the safety of the north bank once more, while the Lannister soldiers already in the southwest camp fled in every direction, hoping to escape the wrath of the Rivermen.

Jon raced west, following the Tumblestone upriver, and was amused to see a small band of fleeing men-at-arms follow his example. Unfortunately, this drew the attention of the Rivermen, who pursued them.

"We can't outrun the horses, we have to fight," Jon called, as he turned and drew his sword. As he had expected, the Lannister soldiers followed his example, turning to face the charging enemy. Unfortunately for them, that left their backs exposed.

Jon had just finished killing the last man when the Rivermen came to a halt, weapons held threateningly before them. A man in heavy armor with a white tree on his shield urged his horse a few steps forward. "Why did you betray your fellow soldiers?"

Jon threw his sword to the ground and removed his helm, then held his hands in the air in surrender. "My name is Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard Stark. My companion and I have been working to destabilize the Lannister force and turn them against each other."

The man studied him for a minute. "I am Lord Tytos Blackwood. You will come with me," he finally declared.

Where is he?

Tenten was most certainly not panicking. No, she was in complete control, even though her lover and soon-to-be husband had yet to return to their rendezvous point, which, given that it was only a little more than a league from Brax's camp, should have only taken at most an hour. Since the fighting had ended three hours ago and it was nearly dawn, it was certainly understandable that she might be slightly concerned. But she wasn't panicking.

She could hear horses coming, and ducked behind a tree, peering cautiously out into the clearing as a dozen riders emerged from the thick forest, letting out a sigh of relief as she spotted their leader.

"Tenten?" Jon shouted, dismounting and looking around frantically.

"Jon," she called, not caring that they were being watched as she rushed into his arms and kissed him passionately.

Ser Edmure Tully never would have imagined that he would be so graciously welcoming his goodbrother's bastard into his home, but after the miraculous deliverance that the Snow lad had reportedly been a part of, he was not going to complain at all about the circumstances of the boy's birth. Edmure would likely have welcomed the Stranger himself into Riverrun as a guest of honor in thanks for such a great deed.

"Jon Snow and… Tenten, is that correct?" he inquired as a guard led the two into the solar.

"Yes, my lord," the boy replied humbly.

His companion, however, was more verbose. "My lord, may I ask, has word been sent to Jon's uncle at Stoney Sept?" the young woman asked.

Edmure blinked in confusion. "Jon's uncle?" he echoed, noting the expression of surprise and alarm on the boy's face.

The girl seemed confused, then looked over at Snow, inhaling sharply with panic evident in her eyes. "I mean, Jon's father," she said quickly, her words thoroughly unconvincing. "I sometimes get… confused. But Lord Stark is Jon's father, not his uncle." She swallowed deeply. "Yes, we should send word to Jon's father Lord Stark. Because Lord Stark is his father. Not… his uncle." She trailed off, smiling sheepishly while not quite making eye contact with him.

Edmure was no fool, not that it would take an exceptional intellect to realize that the girl was lying. Eddard is truly the boy's uncle? But then, why the ruse?

He had intended to ask how they had managed to turn the Lannister soldiers against each other, but this new revelation drove those thoughts from his mind.

"Yes, we should let Jon's… father… know as soon as we can." Edmure noted with some amusement the exasperated look that young Jon gave his companion, who looked down at the ground, ashamed at her mistake.

"May we escort the messengers, Ser Edmure? My father," he said dryly, glancing over at the still embarrassed girl, who blushed, "bade us return with all haste as soon as we were able."

"Of course," Edmure replied quickly. "My guard will show you to the hall, where the servants can provide you with some food. In the meantime, I shall have fresh horses prepared for you."

Edmure had to suppress a smile as the two exited the solar. Whatever her other skills, deception was obviously not one of the girl's strong points.

More than three weeks had passed since Jon and Tenten had left, and each day, Eddard found his anxiety growing ever stronger.

I shouldn't have let them go. What good could two people do against thousands? They could have stayed and assisted Ser Wilbert and his sons in their attacks on the Lannister supply wagons. At least then, they would have been safe.

He did his best to hide his feelings from Bran and Arya, who were convinced that somehow, their cousin and his friend would return triumphant.

He had just sat down for the evening meal with his children and Jeyne when a knock sounded at the door and a guard entered. "My lord," the man said with a bow, "your son and his companion have returned."

There was a moment of shocked silence, then Bran and Arya rushed for the door, with Ned following not far behind. They burst out of the hall and into the corridor which led to the small courtyard at the front of Ser Wilbert's small estate. Sure enough, Jon and Tenten were handing the reins of their horses to the grooms, with both Ghost and Nymeria dancing excitedly at their heels.

"You're back," his daughter shrieked as she ran forward and embraced first Jon, then Tenten.

"Did you win?" Bran asked excitedly as he, too, hugged Jon.

"The siege is broken. Riverrun is free," Jon proudly announced, eliciting a cheer from the assembled men.

As the wagon moved much slower than men on horseback, the journey back to Riverrun took well over a week. And when they finally reached their destination, they were surprised to discover that several thousand more people had arrived during their absence.

It was with tears in their eyes that Ned and his children ran forward to embrace Catelyn and Robb. At last, their long trial was over. His children could return home to safety.

But amidst this time of joy, Ned knew that there was still a storm on the horizon. The battle at Riverrun had been won, but the war was far from over.

A/N – A few changes from canon here. Kevan is the one in charge of the siege since Jaime was in King's Landing. Kevan is much more cautious, so he doesn't cut through the Riverland force under Edmure as quickly, which gives Edmure time to finish gathering the supplies into Riverrun and then retreat in reasonably good order, which means that Riverrun has more soldiers they can sortie out with once the Western forces start infighting. Edmure still lost a large number of men, but not the complete disaster it was in canon. And since Riverrun was able to free itself (very few people know the full extent of Jon and Tenten's involvement) Edmure's rep with the Riverlords is a lot higher.

And poor Robb is stuck marrying a Frey for no reason at all :(

Also, as some readers may have surmised, the kid Tenten noticed was Pod. And yes, he is now dead. RIP.