Harry Potter/Game of Thrones

Title: Antlers and Fangs.

Author: chipmunki

Rating: T

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.


Ned Stark sat beneath the Heart Tree of Winterfell's Godswoods. The white tree with its heart-red leaves was one of the few places in Winterfell he could truly think. The calm serenity of the forest allowed him a piece of mind he rarely found elsewhere, even in his warm bed with his beloved wife, Catelyn, who he was never sure was completely satisfied with life in the North, if only for the sake of their children. The North was not the most prosperous place in all of Westeros, nor the most glamorous.

He had a lot on his mind, with Robert's visit, the possibility of his child being alive in Winterfell and the heavy burden of the past weighing heavily where normally only troubles over the mischief of his children would preside.

He pushed his whetstone down the blade of his great sword, Ice, and smiled grimly at the shine of his Valerion steel blade. The Godswood and the act of stoning Ice always cleared his mind and made the path he should take so much more obvious. The possibility of the black haired boy lying in a bed in Winterfell being the son of his best friend and his King's heir, the next in line for the throne, was something that had to be either verified or quashed before it became too much of a problem.

He would question the boy when he awoke. He would see if his memories had returned to him, if he remembered anything of his past, any secrets or clues to support the claims his son made. If there were more links to Robert and his Queen then Ned would go to them and reveal the boy, if not then he would see to it that the lad had some treatment from a Maester. It was, after all, his own son, Robb, who had come to him with these claims, not the boy. But Robert and Queen Cersei deserved to know if there was any chance that this boy could be their missing son. Ned did not know what he would do if any of his children disappeared as little Edward had as a babe, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon and even Jon. Gods be good, he could never forgive himself if something happened to Jon.

Ned set his mind to what he had to do.

And if he was lying, then Ned would take the appropriate action against a pretender for the throne. This child would be pretending to be the son of his best friend, sworn brother, and King. The boy he pretended to be would have been family to Ned, one of the few children he loved outside his own. It was not a simple matter of swinging a sword, just like the War, this was a matter of family as well as one of the realm, it was personal, and Eddard Stark would treat it as such.


There was a light layer of snow on the grounds of Winterfell; one of their famous Summer Snows. It crunched under Sansa's feet as she walked over it, compacting, letting her sink a fingers width closer to the earth every step she took. She could feel the cold seep through her shoes, and the wet. She had worn these ones especially for the Prince, for Joffrey, and they were getting ruined!

But she loved it when it snowed.

Not the heavy winter snows Old Nan talked about in her stories, the horrible ones with the monsters and the Others in them, but the light, lovely ones like these. The ones that coated Winterfell with white but still let you see the flowers and the blossoms growing on the trees. It was like the Gods had decided to cover all the ugly things and just let you see everything pretty for a while, like the world belonged in one of the songs that she so loved. It was beautiful, and Arya ruined it.

The drab mud splattered dress she was wearing stood out against the perfect white fur of the snowy surrounding. Sansa marched up behind her,

"What do you think you are doing?" She asked sharply to her sister, who was crouched on the ground, peering around the corner with her queer, grey eyes.

Arya hushed her, glaring, then jerking back around to stare at whatever stupid thing she was staring at. Sansa resolved to leave Arya Horseface to whatever it is she was doing when the sound of metal hitting wood finally met her ears. Her curiosity overwhelmed her and, unconsciously mimicking her sister's pose Sansa peeked around the corner.

It was Jaime Lannister, his clothes soaked through with sweat, swinging his sword at one of the practicing posts in the yard. It was deserted apart from him and apart from the unending murmur of Winterfell and her own heartbeat slamming in her ears the rhythmic clanging of he sword on the post was the only sound.

He looked like an older version of Joffrey, Sansa thought, and could imagine perfectly him practicing his sword play in the yard in Kings Landing, wiping off his sweat just as Jaime had, before dropping his sword to pick up one of their laughing children.

There was no doubting he was beautiful.

Of course she had no idea why Arya was watching him.

He huffed out a hard breath and wiped off a heavy layer of sweat with his free hand. He then sheathed his sword and called out,

"Why don't you two little girls come out,"

It was not a question and Sansa instinctively jerked away from the wall, knowing that her courtesies and Septa Mordane would have wanted her to reveal herself and apologise for spying but wanting nothing but to run away. Arya stepped straight out, marching up to him with all of the courtesies of her wolf, Nymeria. Sometimes she thought the dire wolves reflected the personalities of their owners perfectly. Nymeria was a little beast, just like Arya, but Lady had perfect manners.

She took a few hesitant steps after Arya who was only a few feet away from Ser Lannister now, staring up at his face with her thick, dark brows drawn down. Arya had inherited those eyebrows from Father, although she did not look half as intimidating as he did when he frowned. She saw that it was enough to draw an odd half surprised, half amused expression on his face. Father got an expression like that on his face sometimes too when looking at Arya, whenever she came back from one of her ridiculous adventures with a bouquet of raggedy flowers or poisonous berries for a gift.

Another adult who finds her stupid little sister's wild ways and complete lack of lady like maners charming.

"You two are the Stark girls, aren't you?" he asks and his green eyes turn to Sansa. She freezes.

"Yes," said Arya, "What are you practising?"

"Sword play,"

Arya looks annoyed, mouth twisting, "I know that! I meant what exactly, because I saw Jory doing a move like that last one you did, only he didn't twist his wrist like you did and the cut was all jagged in the wood."

"You like swords?" he asked, and drew his sword again to show it to her, watching her eyes light up.

Sansa saw the strange gleam light up his eyes as he stared. It was odd, Sansa saw expressions like that on other men's faces too, like Jory's and Father's and even King Robert's for a second when he first spoke to Arya. Even though it was only for a second, even though it was only for enough time to ask her name. He had called Sansa 'pretty' but she did not get the paternal, proud protective looks that Arya got. It was lie they wanted to lock her up like a little lady and at the same time put a sword in her hand and teach her all they knew.

"Yeah," exclaimed Arya, "Father won't let me have one because it's not lady-like!"

The expression on her face made it clear what Arya's feelings were on the matter of being lady-like. Sansa had never felt so ignored, normally it was Arya who was ignored and she who was in the centre of everyone's attentions. All of the ladies of Winterfell loved her but she had never managed to gain the regard of men like Arya managed too. It normally would not bother her, she preferred the company of women but the easy camaraderie between her sister and Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lannister Lion, the youngest ever to don the white cloak of the Kings Guard and a man seemingly all the heroes in the stories made flesh.

Except from his title of King Slayer, she thought, suddenly thinking that maybe this was not the most appropriate friend or even conversation partner for her little sister.

"I'm better with the bow," declared Arya proudly, "even better than Bran and sometimes Robb and Jon."

"Really?" asked the Knight, and Arya nodded furiously. Sansa could support that, she remembered only a year ago Robb challenging Arya to an archery contest to humour her. Sansa could remember the humorous look in Robb's eyes, the way she thought it was silly and stupid until Arya had almost beaten Robb, who was over five years her elder and had been trained by archers. Arya had been stroppy because she had not actually won but Father had recognised her talent and had let her have lessons after that. Their father always caved to Arya. Only very rarely would he bring singers or minstrels to Winterfell's halls if Sansa begged but if Arya wanted archery lessons they would be delivered within the month.

"I can't beat Theon, though," she groused, "but he says that the Greyjoy family is known for their skills at sailing, archery and love making."

Jaime's golden eyebrows jerked up to meet his golden hairline.

Sansa took another step back, the snow once again crunched beneath her feet and both Arya and Jaime spun to look at her, almost identical expressions of surprise and unwelcome on their faces.

"Excuse me," she said as she curtsied prettily, and turned to walk briskly away.


The boy was waking up. Ned stood by his beside whilst his eyelids fluttered open, Robb by his left shoulder, the room empty apart from that. They had to keep his existence and possible blood lines quiet. His eyes were the dark jewel green Robb had described as a Lannister shade.

The boy groaned and his eyes focussed first on Robb, then on Ned, before settling back on Robb. A look of suspicion settled over his face, leaving creases around his eyes and across his forehead. His heavy eyebrows drew down and turned his eyes to slits. Ned had six children and intimately recognised that look. He turned to his eldest son.

Robb looked uncomfortable.

"I may have given him some milk of the poppy, to knock him out earlier," he admitted, not looking either Ned or the boy in the eye.

"Milk of the poppy?" Ned asked, appalled. Milk of the poppy was far too strong for only putting someone to sleep. It was to be used for serious injuries only. "The last time you saw that used was when someone was almost trampled to death by a horse!"

Robb does not answer him, Ned would have demanded he had – milk of the poppy is not a weak concoction, its use is serious, as are its effects, and it is not to be given lightly, but then the boy groans lightly and tries to sit up. He is still heavy with sleep and the milk still has a grasp on his body and mind for his arms give out under him and he collapses back on to the bed with a louder groan.

"It's best you just lay there, boy" Ned suggests firmly, "whilst you answer our questions,"

"Questions?" he asks, his voice is strong, "About what? I don't… I don't think I remember anything."

"Nothing? My son, Robb, told me you mentioned stags, green eyes and things like that,"

He gestured to Robb, who was staring at the boy intently. When the object of his gaze stared back at his Robb ducked away from the glare, obviously he was embarrassed by his earlier actions. Then the young man turned back to him.

"Yeah," he said, "I remember a stag, it was glowing and-"

"What?" asked Ned after the boy stopped himself. His skin was truly fair, he could see it clearly as a blush rose quick and bright over his cheeks and neck. It did not seem to be the skin of a weathered worker but more the skin of a noble. The small folk had hard skin, toughened by sun and wind and work. Even one at the age the boy would have to be would be tougher than it was. Then again, Ned corrected himself, he had none of the calloused created by the sword training a young lordling would have to go through either.

"I think it was my father," the boy whispered.

Ned jerked back. The boy had mentioned lions too, the sigil of the Lannister family. If the boy was the Lost Prince then his mother belonged to that family.

"And lions?" he prompted, his risen hopes were bolstered when there was a spark of recognition in the green eyes of the boy.

"Them too," he said eagerly, "Lions and the colours red and gold. I felt safe with lions, like they were home or something."

He looked at Ned like he expected the man to know why these fragments of memory were what he remembered when he may not even remember his name.

"Do you remember your name?" Ned asked, but the by shook his head.

"No," he said "I tried, all the way through the forest I tried, but like was like I was reaching into the darkness, expecting there to be something there to greet my fingers but there wasn't."

He sucked in a choked breath, "What if I never remember?" he asked, panicked. The breaths were getting even more stuttered and sharp. Ned had seen this happen to men before. They took in s much air they collapsed. He did not know a name for it, but he did know how to stop it. The boy's hands were shaking when Ned reached out to grasp them.

"Stop," he said gently. He had seen men be slapped and punched out of these fits, but he could not force down the voice telling him that this was his best friend's son, a boy that could have been like a brother to his own children. Maybe even a husband to one of them, he thought, as he remembered Robert's plans for Sansa and Prince Joffrey. He could not strike this boy. "Breathe and hold the breath,"

He counted to five then told the boy to release the breath, then made him repeat the action again and again until his breathing slowed and his face relaxed from the tense mask it was in.

The boy gulped down one last shuddering breath and said, strained but strong, "I should have a name!"

He sank back down on the bed, relaxed as Ned nodded.

"Yes, of course, we'll name you something good," Ned was surprised to hear Robb say, as he moved towards the bed, "Could you just tell us everything you remember? You said something about walking through the forest, where did you wake?"

"I remember green eyes, I think they were my mother's, and a man with black who was my father, and the stag and a wolf and a dog who protected me." He said, there had been boys who had said things to the same end as this one, who had mentioned lions and stags and gold, but never had Ned felt even the slightest belief in the, like he did for this boy. "Green lights and a bald man laughing,"

The wolf could mean him, Ned thought, as he recalled the time he and cat had spent in Winterfell to welcome little Edward into the world. The way Ned had held him, as he had held his own children before and after, with one large hand cupping the delicate, tiny skull of the babe, his arm holding up his body. An entire being reliant on his capable hands, his strong arms.

"I woke up in the forest." The boy said and paused, he was looking at Robb but staring at nothing at the same time. "There was a bald man, with blue lips on a tree branch, and he smiled at me and waved as I ran."

The Undying Ones, thought Ned, bloody Warlocks from Qarth. The story was getting more and more credible the more he heard. He wanted to reach out and cradle the boy's head in his hands, see if it felt familiar. All of the fondness, all of the love he thought he would feel for Joffrey rushed into him. This was his best friend's, his brother in arm's, his king's son, and Ned knew it.

He would send Robb to Robert and Queen Cersei tomorrow morning. It was dark already and Robert was already drunk. In the morning he would send his own son to them with news that their son had been returned.

"I've thought of a name," said Ned, "How do you like Edward?"

Edward grinned, then his eyes slipped closed, the Lannister green lost but the smile that so matched his father's stayed for a second, echoing the joy in Ned's heart.


Cat settled down next to her husband on their large bed, sinking down under the furs and the cottons that were their covers. They had barely had time to talk lately, it felt almost odd to talk to him now, when there was three days of silence between them. She had never felt so unconnected to her husband, never not known the reason for the deep crease between his eyebrows or the worry in his slate grey eyes. She slid into the place she had claimed at his side, under his arm, tucked under his chin.

"I have some news for you, my love," he said, curling his arm around her. His skin was warm, warmer than anything in Winterfell. It made he feel safe to have this heat surrounding her, as if Ned had carved out this warm spot in all of his Stark coldness just for her.

But his words did create a chill in her. As much as Winterfell was one of the old seats of power, as much as the Starks were one of the oldest, most important families in the Seven Kingdoms and as much as it was Ned's support and the Stark's support that won Robert his throne, it was a quiet place. The only important good news she could remember was the news of her pregnancies.

"I believe I may have found the Lost Prince."

Shock echoed through her. Cat pulled away from him, needing to look him in the eyes. This was news beyond what she had even imagined. The Lost Prince. The loss of that babe had crippled all of Westeros. He was to be a beacon of new growth and hope for those who had supported Robert Baratheon's bid for the Iron Throne, but that idea had been decimated when he was discovered gone. Those who had opposed the King, the ones who called him 'the Usurper' behind his back, had claimed the act as an act of divine interference, as if the Gods themselves had reached out a hand and plucked the babe out of his crib to punish Robert for breaking the Targaryen's grasp on the Iron Throne.

"Who?" she asked.

"A boy Robb found in the wood," Ned answered her, "You would not believe it, my love, he has no memory but I'm so sure it is him."

Cat looked at her husband who placed no faith is signs and gut feelings and felt the twinge of fear in her belly grow. They had just made love and yet she felt as cold as ever.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, and stared as his eyes grew contemplative and distant.

Suddenly there were a million different routes set out in front of her. Some of them ending in devastation, others in triumph. She had to choose wisely which one she should take, which one she should advise her husband to take, for the sake of her children. Ned would listen to her if she talked sense. He would have too. All of their lives depended on how he acted in this moment.

He must go south, she decided, and she must find out more on the boy.

Would he harm her family? His existence would surely damage Sansa and her marriage to Prince Joffrey. No longer would her Summer girl with her Tully hair and her southrun eyes be in line for queendom.

But there were bigger consequences. What if the boy was not The Lost Prince? What is he was an imposter? To present the king with a liar and say it was his beloved missing son would ruin all the love between the King and her husband. Over the years she knew he had become almost a figure of beloved legend to the King, as if, just like Lyanna, all of his problems would have been solved by his sheer existence.

"Are you sure telling the King is wise, my lord?" she asked worried.

In a jarring surprise there was a sharp knock on the door. Ned nodded briskly at her as they were told that Master Luwin wanted to see them. It was dire, they were told, and he had important news.

Catelyn could tell this news would be just as debilitating as the news she had just heard.


There was no throne room in Winterfell. Even though the Starks descended from the old Kings of Winter they did not have a throne, made of steel or ice or bone, or if they had it had been destroyed years ago. They had an old, cavernous feasting hall, with a lifted platform for the Starks and actual chairs instead of benches and it served. King Robert lounged in the centre, and most embellished chair – Lord Eddard Stark's chair, normally with a wine flask in one hand and a hunk some sort of meat clasped in the other. There was normally a girl, pretty and blushing, a yard away from him and a step away from his bed and his stone faced, beautiful wife, resplendent in Lannister gold, never touching him and never in his bed, in the chair next to him, when she was not invisible to prying eyes with her brother. But Robb knew of the bonds between siblings, he and Jon were close enough to be twins and occasionally he and Arya would finish each other's sentences. Although never as much as Jon and she did; for all that Jon was their half-brother and bastard born, it was the most obvious of Arya and Jon that they were siblings and that they were children of the Starks. He could not argue their time together, not Jon and Arya's and definitely not Cersei and Jaime's. She was the Queen after all.

Robb was standing in front of that chair now, hands clasped behind his back so hard that the knuckles were sure to be bleached white form strain. He was trying to stop himself from reaching for his sword. It was hard not to have your hand on its hilt when you had a man who defeated kings and ruled nations staring at you like he would enjoy nothing more than to rip your head off or stab you through the neck.

"What did you say, boy?"

"I think," he said, pushing as much conviction into his voice as possible, "That I may have found your son."

He could see Jon and Theon start in the corner of his eye but Cersei rising up from her seat like a great lion about to pounce was not something he could take his eyes off of. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Fear coursed through him even more the stronger at her words.

"I want him dead!" she declared, staring at Robb, teeth fixed into a bared, white snarl, "How dare you say such things!"

"Cersei," The King grunted, tuning red when he did not get a response.

"Our son is dead, My Edward, my boy is dead and I will have your head before I allow you to drag his name through the dirt!"

"CERSEI!" thundered Robert Baratheon, and Robb could once more see the man that slew the Prince Rhaegar and spilt his rubies like blood into the blue waters of the Trident with a swing of his mighty war hammer.

The King turned back to Robb, his face scarlet and his eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

Robb swallowed nervous spit gathering in his mouth in one loud, choking gulp and repeated the sentence, "I think that I may have found your son."

finally chapter two! haha, sorry for the wait guys, real life called, it wanted me to pay it some attention! :) but this baby is over 4000 words and i'mm over 1000 into the next chapter so enjoy.

i might not post here much any more but if you head here you'll get everything, it's properly bare right now but i'm going to upload a load of stuff there soon. reviews are like candy and also tell me if there's anything you definately want uploaded, because i might leave some stuff behind otherwise.

here's my other, fun stuff tumblr made up of things that make me laugh or squee

reviews really are just to good to be true. i can't keep my eyes off of them! ;)