Author's note: More than a single story, this is a collection of several alternate universes in which Robb and Jon's life might have gone differently... or not. This being ASOIAF, I have to warn for character death and not-very-graphic violence, especially in the third part. There are also spoilers for A Dance with Dragons in the fifth part. (Also, before someone asks, I'm not planning to write a continuation to any of those stories.)

I. The turncloak

He rode east at first, then south, then east again. After three days he'd seen no signs of pursuit and started hoping he might have gotten away, but he kept his guard up at all times. He didn't just have to worry about his former brothers, everyone who saw him riding from the Wall dressed all in black would be an enemy. The Kingsroad was dangerous, but so was finding another path in a land he didn't know, so he traveled by night when the black of his cloak would be less noticeable.

The first time he saw a cluster of houses on the road ahead, his heart jumped in his throat. He circled around the village, making sure not to make any noise so as not to wake the sleeping men and women, and felt like a thief in the night. The second time he was truly a thief, sneaking into an empty house to steal two loaves of bread, a haunch of salt mutton and some old clothes. Jon didn't want to, the people who lived here seemed poor enough to mourn the loss, but he had no food left and no coin to buy more.

He didn't need to take the clothes but he did anyway, slipping off his black leggings and tunic and jerkin, shivering half from cold and half from fear that someone might come back at any moment to catch him stealing their breeches, even though Ghost was outside and would warn you if someone were to approach. He exchanged his black cloak for another as well, though the new one was a flimsy thing that left him shivering at night. His boots he kept, because it was harder to find an unguarded pair of shoes to steal, but a bit of black in his clothes was surely better than being all in black.

When the villages started being closer to each other he knew that he was near Winterfell, but he didn't dare go near the castle. He was known in those places, and while some might aid a son of Eddard Stark, most would not suffer a deserter from the Night's Watch. He crossed the White Knife and stayed on the eastern shore, returning to the Kingsroad only when he was almost on Moat Cailin. After that, the road was more traveled despite the ongoing war, and Jon was able to ride unnoticed even by day.

The army was easy to find. Even if he hadn't dared ask for informations, the men on the road were eager to talk about the impending fight. It was on the road that Jon first learned that his brother had been crowned King in the North, and later that he'd left Riverrun and was marching against the Lannisters. After hearing those news he would have traveled day and night to reach Robb in time, but he needed to pace his mare or risk killing her. Ghost scouted ahead, hunting in the woods around the road. Jon was afraid the wolf was going to be seen by some of Robb's outriders, but the wolf was smarter than that. There was no talk of white direwolves on the road.

Once he got close enough, it was even easier to follow in the trail that several thousand people and horses had left behind. Jon marched behind them for a couple of days, like one of the many freeriders that attached themselves to an army in the hopes of gold or glory or just a bowl of soup, and he tried to decide how best to approach Robb. His brother would be surrounded with men he trusted, men from Winterfell who would be quick to recognize Jon even with longer hair and a beard, even though he was wearing tattered clothes and a rusted chainmail he'd bought with a bit of stolen silver.

He ended up slipping through the tents at night, hiding in the shadows whenever some patroling guards passed him by. There were no guards outside the king's tent, however. Robb must have felt that Grey Wind, sleeping right at the foot of his bed, would be protection enough against his enemies. Jon hoped that he wouldn't be counted an enemy. The great direwolf raised his head when Jon entered the tent and bared his teeth in a snarl, making Jon tense and flex his burnt fingers, but Grey Wind only sniffed him and then went back to sleep. Jon wondered if he'd recognized him from days long past, or maybe he'd recognized Ghost's smell on him.

The noise had woken Robb. Jon had never known his brother to be a light sleeper, not more than most men, but the soldier's life had sharpened his reflexes. He was on his feet in a moment, tossing aside the blanket and groping around, no doubt searching for his sword.

"Robb!" Jon exclaimed before his brother could call his men into the tent. "Robb, it's me!"

Robb stilled. "Jon?" he called after a pause, hesitant. "Is this a dream?"

Jon shook his head, even though Robb could hardly see him in the dark. "It's no dream," he said, even though he could hardly believe it himself. He braced himself, waited for Robb to summon the guards anyway, but Robb never did.

Instead he lit a greasy yellow candle and stood up to look at Jon more closely. When Jon's eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that Robb looked much worse than the last time he'd seen him: his royal brother had dark rings under his eyes, his face was long and stern. He hadn't summoned the guards, but he wasn't smiling either.

"Jon, what are you doing here?" Robb whispered. "You should be on the Wall."

He knew that. There were miles from Castle Black to the Riverlands and he'd spent all those miles wondering whether he'd done the right thing. "I couldn't" Jon replied, and then knew that he had done the right thing. "I was useless there, but I can be of use here. They killed our father, Robb! Let me help avenge him." He went to one knee, then unsheathed his greatsword and laid it at Robb's feet. "I offer you my sword, if you would have it."

Robb shook his head. His face was pained. "You swore an oath to the Night's Watch," he said. "You're a turncloak, Jon!"

Jon had known that this could happen. "Then you can use that sword to take off my head," he said. It wasn't as fine a blade as Longclaw had been, but Jon had kept it oiled and sharpened. His death would be quick, at least.

From his corner, Grey Wind had roused and was watching the scene. Robb's eyes went from Jon to the wolf, and then to the sword at his feet.

For several long moments nobody spoke. Then Robb stepped over the sword and flung his arms around Jon, pulling him into a bone-crunching hug. "You know I could never do that, Snow," he said against his shoulder.

Jon held on to him and felt home at last.