Harry Potter/Game of Thrones
Title: Antlers and Fangs.
Summary: The Lost Prince was stolen during his first year. As son of King Robert and Queen Cersei, he was sorely missed in the realm. However Eddard Stark believes he may have found the prince, in the unlikely form of an amnesiac Harry Potter.
"Where did you come from?" demanded Robb, his blue eyes narrowed at the figure on the bed. His furs were thick and warm around him but it was getting colder and colder every day. His family had been set upon with misery and impediments, his sister was engaged to a cruel and insipid looking prince and his father was to leave Winterfell and his family to become the next Hand of the king. Winter was coming. And he was stuck here trying to get answers out of stupid strangers!
The stranger was shorter than he, younger too, but just as pale and with similar dark, messy hair. For a moment he thought that his father had been unfaithful more than once and had borne another bastard, had another child with a woman other than his mother. But there were no other similarities other than those. The boy had bright green eyes and a sweet heart shaped face. His cheekbones were pronounced but rounded. He was handsome and just a little bit beautiful as well. But he looked dangerous too.
There is a deep red scar slashed across his forehead and Robb can see various older whiter ones across his torso and arms. His quick eyes take in one across his hand that looks like writing, but he cannot distinguish it completely.
"Where am I?" the stranger asks, his voice is rough but deeper than Robb had expected. He rethinks this guess about the boy's age, adding a few more years. "I was...hit and..." he looks disorientated and looks around. The stranger's green, green eyes widen as they take in Robb and his men by the door, their swords and their furs. The wildness of them. He must be from the capital, with their velvets and smooth faces, shocked by the harshness of the North.
"Where am I?" and the pure desolation in his voice does not belong to someone not used to their surroundings. It is because of that Robb sheathes his sword and moves closer.
The green eyes dart across the room, searching, "Where are my things? Can I... can I have them, please?"
The words tumble out and Robb asks, "Why do you want them so bad?"
He stills and his hands settle on his stomach, which Robb notices, is muscled enough to suggest training of some sort. It matches with the sword they had found on him when he was found in the Weir woods, curled around his father's favourite tree, the heart tree. He exchanged an amused looked with Theon. The sword they had found had been overly decorated. It had not been made for warfare, but for ornamentation.
"It's all I have left in the world now," He says, staring at Robb but at nothing at the same time.
Robb nods to the men, and Theon himself brings the bundle of things forward, Robb takes them, and giving the sword back to Theon he shakes the other things onto the bed. A stick, polished and shining, a ring, with a stone as back as night in winter, a shimmering silver cloak, which would be of no use in a place as cold as Winterfell, a round golden ball, intricately decorated. There is nothing practical in these things, only decorated items for lavish use, or, he thinks, picking up the small golden ball, no use at all.
"What happened to you?" He asks, tossing the ball back down on the bed, the stranger scrambles for it, showing a few more glimpses of that pale skin, a few more scars.
"I don't know. I was" he stopped and frowned, and Robb knew that the boy was reliving a taxing memory. But no man was going to live in his father's castle, in Winterfell, with no explanation as to why he was there.
"Yes?" he asked
"I was... I was... I don't remember!" he frowned, searching in his mind for new things. Eyes roving even more wildly than they had before.
"I am sixteen years old. I remember my mother had pale skin and green eyes. My father had black hair and there were stags."
"The coins?" asked Robb, brow furrowed darkly, trying to get this stranger on track. He was not sure if he was lying, pretending or if his memories had really been stolen by the gods.
"No," the black haired man – boy, if his age is to be believed. That was only a few years older than Sansa, one a single year younger than him, "the animal."
Robb frowned and in a delirium he was sure came from the cold or a blow to the head in training but he began to see things. The messy black of his hair was more similar to the King's than his father's, the green of his eyes a Lannister green, and the shape of his cheekbones the same comely curve of the Queen's. It was in his hands, which were the same capable long fingered hands of Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer and the kind curl of his lips, which he had seen in the lips of the princess Myrcella.
He turned away. Everyone knew the story of the Lost Prince – who had been sworn by a Maester to be dead but nobody had been found when Robb was two years of age. Later, the Maester had been found a liar and executed. A search for the child had been started and had continued on for long years, but each of them had been as fruitless as the last. Queen Cersei had stopped the search after seven years, saying her heart could not take the continuous heartbreak of her child never being found. This man-child could be the right age. But the last person who brought a boy forward as the Lost Prince had been executed, as had the boy. He caught Theon's eye. He knew just from that look that he had not had the same idea as Robb had – but then again, Theon had always been quicker of fist than of mind.
He turned back to study the boy, who was staring at the objects that were his possessions. He watched as the boy slid the ring onto his middle finger. It fit perfectly; he had obviously not stolen it. It fit to well. The ball was gold and the cloak of a fine, slippery smooth material. So he had been brought up in wealth. He said he remembered his mother. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was just a child who thought of a deer when he thought of his father.
But he said stag.
And, by the Gods, now that he had seen it he could not unsee it. It was in his every movement. The King and the Queen were in his every breath.
Robb took in a breath and, sealing his fate, called for his father.
Theon acted as the raven that sent the message and his father came swiftly. The men standing in the door parted for him, like leaves of a tree to the wind or to a sharp blade. He stood next to Robb, planting a soft hand on his shoulder and staring silently down at him with his grey eyes. Robb knew his father wanted an explanation, but here, in front of this boy and all of these men was not the place.
"Let us go someplace more private." He suggested,
Lord Eddard Stark frowned but agreed, "Of course, Robb," he said, staring at the boy on the bed. He was asleep, as Robb had called for some milk of the poppy to be administered whilst waiting for his father. The boy had fallen to its slumberous hands quicker than Robb had expected, but he had not brought in to account the slimness of his frame. He was muscled, but there was none of the healthy fat that most boys of his age had. "But first, tell me, who is this boy?"
"That's what I wanted to discuss with you." He said solemnly. This was something serious he was suggesting, edging on treason, but it would be a glorious day for the realm if it was true and King Robert and Queen Cersei's oldest son and true heir was returned to them.
They walked out of the room, his father raising a hand to stop the men from following, and towards the more private chambers that his father kept. They stopped in there, surrounded by the personal objects that made up Robb's childhood, memories in each. It made him wonder on the pain he must be in to be stolen of so many.
Robb had never been raised to be anything but truthful and he knew that his father appreciated honesty and plain language so he spoke of his suspicions with bluntness. "I think that that boy may be the Lost Prince."
His father stared at him. Ned Stark had been one of the few men that had held the Lost Prince in his own two hands, before he was stolen, before he had been lost. He knew that his father had loved that child as if it were his own, even if he had only known him for a few months. There were songs written for the brotherly love bared between Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. Just like Robb had been named for Robert, the Stolen Prince had been named for Eddard. Eddward Baratheon, the first of his name, the beloved prince of the seven kingdoms.
There was a curious light in his father's eyes and Robb could only watch as Ned spun around to storm out of the room. He reached out, but his father was already out of his grasp and halfway out of the door. It swung closed behind him and Robb tore it open to follow his father.
The man was striding down the corridor towards the rooms Robb had put the boy in, faster than Robb was used to from his father. In no time at all they were back by the boy's bed. Ned waved all of the men away and after Robb had caught up with his father he closed the door.
"He is too young." He said, sharply, his grey eyes studying the boy laying on the bed, each part of him under scrutiny, "He must be what fifteen? And even that would be generous."
"All men look younger when they sleep. He could be eighteen years of age with open eyes and much older too." Robb replied, wishing that he had not given the boy the poppy, so he could be awake for his father's investigation. He looked so much more convincing when awake. Now that he was asleep, he looked that much more innocent, that much younger, that much less the stolen prince Robb had thought him. "Father, I... it may have just been some foolish fancy of mine to think this boy the prince. Go back to your business."
His father did not lift his eyes from the boy, "Why did you think he was Eddward?" he asked, "The hair? Many men have messy black hair, Robb, it does not make them royalty."
Robb ruffled his own dark hair, "His eyes are Lannister green, father, he has hands like Ser Jaime and, I don't know, he just looks like the King and the Queen."
His father tilted his head, "Yes, I agree, he does hold more than just a passing resemblance. What does he say?"
Robb groaned - this part of the tale was far less convincing. "He remembers only sparse bits of his past, from what I could make out."
Ned lifted his head, "It could be a trick." he said gruffly, "It would not be the first time."
But he ducked his head back down to stare at the child, the man, the prince and reached out with a calloused, rough hand to touch his hair, as soft as Robb had ever seen his father.
"It could be him," he murmured, "he has none of the king's build but he could just take after Queen Cersei and his Lannister kin. It could be him."
"He said he remembered his father being a stag, but that his mother had green eyes." Robb said, watching and waiting silently as his father turned to look at him.
"NED!" boomed a loud voice. Both Robb and his father immediately recognised it to be the King. They looked at each other, then to the boy lying on the bed. Without speech, they began to move. Robb collected up the things of the boy. The stick and the ball were bundled into the cloak and pushed under the bed of the boy. He smoothed the covers to make him more presentable. Then proceeded to straighten his own clothing. It gained him an eye roll from his father, but the King had been a hero to him since boyhood, he wanted to look nice.
Ned went to go meet his king.
"Ned!" gasped the King when he say him, "Bloody hell, man, I've been trying to find you for ages! What the hell were you doing, that made you ignore three messengers."
Ned had commanded not to be disturbed whilst he was with his son. "I did not know you had need of me, Your Grace."
The King gave him an exasperated look, his ruddy, red face cross, "Enough of this 'Your Grace' shit. I want to know why my best man – the man I have asked to be Hand of the King does not answer my commands."
Ned could never stand to lie to Robert, nor withhold the truth unless his honour demanded it, but he did so now, "There were some pressing matters. I will explain once I know the full truth of it."
Robert had never been one for deep thinking and he took Ned's words, as shallow as they were, without demands for further embellishment.
"Aye, then," he grunted, "We've got time till dinner, haven't we?"
"Yes, Your Grace," replied Ned, smiling his more indulgent smile for Robert, looking to Robb as he walked through the door Ned had just come from. Robb nodded. It was fine, he took it as, the boy was still sleeping. They were still no steps closer to the truth.
"Then let's fight!" he roared, hand going to the hammer at his waist and lifted the skin of wine he held in the other to his mouth. Ned had rarely seen his brother in arms without a skin of wine during his visit.
Looking back at the room that the Lost Prince may have been laying in and forward at the drunken King, whose face was ruddy from the excess wine, the old Stark adage had never been truer.
Winter was coming.
wwwwahhh! jesus, yes, i have ben writing this instead of any of my glee crossovers. i blame it on George R. R. Martin. thems some good books. :) the colouring of the people in this will be TV!got instead of books!got, because i saw that first and i love Sean Bean as Eddard Stark, and everone was so well cast that im good with them all. :)
I have some serious, SERIOUS exams coming up so I can't write much, so there won't be much more coming out of me. :(
EDIT: haha, i changed a few things to fit better with the plot i have now. i didn't even realise some were there until they were pointed out by some of you guys. follow me on tumblr as well for some other stuff, links are in the author's note of next chapter.
reviews make me smile!