Harry Potter/Game of Thrones

Title: Antlers and Fangs.

Author: HMSJones

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.


"I want to see him, mother!" said Tommen, "Can we see him?"

"Oh yes, please!" added Myrcella, "Please, can we? Joff wants to too, don't you?"

That was music to his ears. Tyrion had quite an interest in that child as well. The possibilities he presented. Joffrey, while his nephew, happened to be one of the most loathsome little beasts he had ever encountered. It didn't exactly pain him to see the boy get shunted back. There were only so many insipid laughs to that stupid dog's peekaboo games he could take. More than once had he been tempted to smack that pink face to knock some sense into the lad. He had only been able to indulge that whim sparingly. Earlier had been one of those times, with the boy refusing to pay any sort of respect to their hosts.

But it did concern him to see none of the expected malice and disgruntlement he had expected from his nephew. His face, so very much like his beloved brothers, was smug more than anything. The courtly grace he presented the sweet Stark girl with hadn't changed one bit even though Tyrion knew the Starks must have been circling what was now the first born son and leaving his golden haired nephew, now a second son like Tyrion behind. He had seen some of the shrewd station climbing in the Lady Stark although he had wanted to be as far away from these Northern faces and their cold hands and carved faces as possible he had been forced into her company more than once. He much preferred the warmth of a whore's hands, and legs, and other, more welcoming parts.

But he hadn't been able to wriggle his way into a whorehouse for days – The news of his recovered nephew was too sensational for that. He was almost certain it was his nephew, to be honest. Cersei had said it wasn't but there had been something in her eyes, a softening of her face, the harsh, yet beautiful line of her mouth had curved downwards. She had been sad to see him.

More than that she could barely take her eyes off him. Even when denying him she had stared, like a blind woman who could finally see staring at the sun, at his face. Tyrion had only even seen that wealth of emotion in his sister when it came to one thing – her children.

"Yes, mother," Joffrey finally answered, his knife speared a bit of food. He let it hang there for a moment, for a second of silence, before he continued, "I very much would like to see him."

He popped the morsel in his mouth. The sound of it seemed supernaturally loud as Cersei's face screwed up. Tyrion grimaced. But…the children were begging for it, and, to be honest, he was quite eager to see the boy as well.

He knew his input wouldn't lead to anything good so he stayed silent, taking in the curiosity on Jaime's face instead. Although he hadn't spoken a word Tyrion knew his older brother was eager to see the boy, as much as he could be. Jaime had always been a rather passive man, in any place other than battle of course. Tyrion often noted to himself that his stabbing of the Mad King seemed almost out of character for Jaime.

Tyrion couldn't help but smirk when Jaime lay a hand on their sister's arm. Cersei looked at his hand for a second then nodded. She never caved like that for Tyrion. But then again Jaime had a lot of things Tyrion didn't, only some of Tyrion wished he actually did have. The height would have been good.

He heard Myrcella cheer, and Tommen's high, young voice join in and Tyrion turned to looked. These two he had no problem claiming. He tried sometimes to put Cersei in Myrcella's place and although she looked just like her mother there was nothing else. He could never picture the same graceful generosity of spirit in Cersei, some of the intelligence, yes, but never any of the kindness. He tried to see Jaime in Tommen too, and had more luck than seeing himself in the boy, but even then there wasn't much in terms of similarity. Did the children get this boundless joy from Robert? Somehow Tyrion doubted it. Maybe his mother had been joyful But Tyrion would never know that.

As much as he could despise his family He was a Lannister. And Lannisters took care of their own. The boy could have been a Lannister too. He could see the hints of tension around his sister's sweet face, but that could have had something to do the boy, Bran. Tyrion had his suspicion about that mess too, although Tyrion had more suspicion than anything else when it came to his elder sister, and what she did behind closed doors with Jaime.

"Not today, though," Cersei finished, "And I'll have to speak with your father first. He commanded that we weren't to see him until things had been confirmed."

Joffrey looked worried, but the other's looked confused. They didn't realise the confusion surrounding the boy, the lives and people that depended on him either being or not being the heir to the throne, the Kingdom it would change. Tyrion envied them their innocence a little. He could never remember being like that either. Not for long anyway. Tysha, he thought lowly, sadly, angrily.

"But we will see him soon." Cersei said, her hand when to Tommen's head, gentle. She seemed to have forgotten Tyrion was there, but his food had been delivered so he cared little for that. The bacon was black, just as he liked it. Jaime looked away from her when she said that. Tyrion wondered what he was thinking about. His gaze almost looked blank and he was staring at the door, his hand still on his sister's arm.


He had never really considered them his. Cersei only spoke of it rarely, but when she did she said they looked like him. Personally, he only saw her when he looked at them. It was hard to see himself in Tommen mostly. Jaime didn't think he had ever been that happy.

But that changed when he saw the boy.

He was awake now and that drunken fool had said that they weren't to go in yet, they weren't to get attached, until his claim, the Stark's claim had been verified. But Jaime was famous for breaking rules. Robert should be happy this one didn't end with a knife in the back like it had for the last king. He wanted to see him, to look at him and try and find the familiar lines in his face. It was strange how easy it was for him to ignore that Cersei shared another man's bed when there wasn't living proof of it. Jaime was almost ashamed of how pleased he had been when the boy had been taken. He could pretend he had never existed, or in the later years, that he was just another one of Cersei's children that was barely his and not Robert's at all.

He couldn't pretend that now he had seen Edward. There was so much of Cersei in his face, so much of Robert there in brow, his skin. Gods, he had green eyes. His eyes were the same shade as Jaime's father, as Cersei, as Jaime, as one of Tyrion's mismatched eyes. And his hair was the messy Baratheon black he had been born with.

"Hello?" The boy said, he was sitting on the bed, staring at the door, at the gap Jaime was peering through. He couldn't answer, didn't want to consider the steaming piles of shit he would get into if the boy told tales about him visiting. Jaime especially didn't want to be recognised. "Is somebody there?"

Jaime moved back further away from the sliver of view into and out of the door. He was wearing white and gold. He gleamed. Jaime couldn't risk the boy seeing him. Not now Jaime had seen the boy.

He was their child. Gods, Jamie wanted to laugh at it. All these years of Cersei fucking him and Robert fucking every girl that fell within the vast vicinity of his lap and doing their best to never soberly even touch each other and now the only proof they'd ever fucked was back.

Jaime remembered the night he was taken. Cersei had taken the babe off to her rooms, to a little gold and crimson crib and only a few guards to protect them. It was her first child and people gave her a little leeway. Everyone had been so happy. A heir cemented a ruler's throne, stabilised the sovereignty and it gave every one hope that the war was over and they would have another dynasty to follow for hundreds of years. When he had been taken Jaime had thought he was the only one who may have been happy, Cersei had been so distraught, she had barely allowed him to touch her for months, let alone anything else. But she had missed him. When she did let him touch her she had hardly let him stop. Cersei had had him take her over and over and made him release deep inside her. He had known she had wanted another child. It had made sense, it had pleased him, that she wanted it to be his.

He felt strange with this boy living and near them. He didn't care that it wouldn't be a Lannister, one of his children on the throne next, or even that it would be one of that fat, drunken slob's, but the proof that Cersei had had someone else inside of her other than him. It made him want to hit something – preferably that same fat, drunken slob that had dishonoured his sister over and over again and made him a witness to it. It wasn't rare for him to be so angry. When he was a child and his father made him practice his letters over and over until he knew them as well as Cersei did, with Tyrion learning faster than either of them, even though they jumped all over the page and swapped places with each other he was rarely anything but angry. He had tamed that lion over the years,, become insouciant. There were so many things he couldn't change, he was such an obvious pawn in so many other people's games, there was no point in being angry about it. Rage achieved nothing. He had Cersei and he had a sword and every opportunity to use it, what else could he do but be happy about that.

But he couldn't be happy now. Not with that boy alive and well only feet away from him. Jaime imagined, just for a second, rushing into that room and drawing his sword. He sliced through his neck in his imagination, and stabbed his chest, into his heart, but then his imagination took his feet out from under him and the boy's face turned into Cersei's. She screamed at him and her beautiful, soft cheeks coursed with tears. She was angry at him, but she died crying. There was enough of her in the boy's face even before that that bile rose in his throat at the thought of hurting him. Would she be angry? Would she strike him? Would she even grieve? She had at the beginning, when the boy had been first lost but her tears had dried. Would they dry again? What would she do if he killed the evidence of Robert's seed in her?

He wasn't sure he could look at her. Jaime knew she had never wanted Robert, not even at the height of his glory, he knew she had only ever truly wanted him. They were made for each other. But, still, he wasn't sure he could look at her after this.


She held one of his little hands in hers. It's so pale, and still warm and that gives her hope but she can barely tear her eyes off of his face, so calm and serene. There was a scrape down the side of his forehead from where he hit the ground, a rusty brown smear that showed that her son isn't just asleep. He won't wake up in a few hours and smile at her, sigh exhaustedly at her presence and run off. He won't ever run again. Oh Gods, he might not ever even wake up either.

Catelyn tried not to sob. She wasn't as successful as she thought she would be and the sound echoed in the empty room. She could barely even hear Bran breathing and the dog, the wolf, was quieter than she had thought possible. She didn't know if she wanted it to howl. It could have masked the noises she was making, match them. It made her feel like an animal.

But what else could she be? Her child was lying there, injured, hurt, dried blood on his face and no movement in his lower body and she wanted to be a wolverine. She wanted to be one of those fierce animals she had heard about who never let anything, anybody, hurt their young. She never wanted something like this to happen to her children. The sobbing came louder. It racked at her chest, her ribs hurt at the force of it.

And Ned would leave soon. She had heard the King talking about it. That fat, drunken man had come here and he was taking her husband away. He was taking her Ned away and leaving her with only Bran, her broken little Bran, only Bran and Robb and little Rickon. Only her boys and one of them not moving. To think she had encouraged it! She had thought this would be wonderful for her children, and she supposed it would be, but would it be enough? Would it make up for this? To see her other children flourish? To see her beautiful Sansa wed to a Prince and her wild little Arya learn some manners? Catelyn hoped so, but she wasn't sure. Even if her other children ruled the world, and were happy with it, would it be worth it if Bran never opened his eyes again?

More than that, she would be alone. No body but her own to warm her cold Northern bed. This place never quite felt like home unless Ned was beside her. Her children made it better, but even then it was not the same. Nothing was ever quite as good without Ned there.

And he wouldn't be here for a while. When would she see him? Would she make the trip down to the city for short visits and leave her children here just so she could feel his skin against hers for longer than a memory? Would he visit her instead, and come back to the North he loved so much, that made up so much of him, that was his heart, and his bones and his serenity? Ned had spent years away from Winterfell as a boy growing into a man but he had told her how he missed his home. Even with Robert to run around with and to clean up after and Brandon to inherit he had missed the North like nothing else, he told her. He had missed the heavy, dark, intimate and unknowable Godswood that she felt so uncomfortable in, and he missed the hot springs and the warmth in the stones of his home. And he missed his family.

Would he miss her boys as much? Would he miss her as much?

It was a shock to realise she was just staring at the fleece covers that lay over her son. She tried to drag her eyes away but she couldn't – the crosshatched pattern transfixed her and no matter how hard she tried to pull her eyes away she couldn't. Her head moved but her eyes were stuck in place. It felt like she would never be able to moved them again. She would never move again and she could become a ghoul, a gargoyle guarding her sleeping son. Would she stay here until he woke? Would either of them ever move again?

Her body was not her own. She had given it up time and time again for children, rejoicing over the growing bulge of her stomach. Even the aches seemed worth it, when her ankles swelled to twice their size and Carrying some of them so low she could barely move in the later months because of the pain in her hips. Bran had been one of those children, she remembered and the tears welled up yet again. It had been such a surprise because, for all of the later struggles and how much she cried when she was birthed, Arya had been such an effortless babe in her. Catelyn had been able to run with her even days before the birth. She had been so light it felt like she had barely been carrying a babe at all. Sansa had been the same and Catelyn remembered how charmed she had been by her passive turning. She had never kicked. Arya had kicked something fierce. Rickon had too, he was such a sweet child she sometimes forgot what a fierce thing he had been in her womb. Her little wild child, with her hair and Ned's eyes, at least she would have him her with her. He had years yet to be grown. He was just so small, big for his age, she knew but still so mall when she picked him up. He was only a little bit smaller that Bran. Bran was so small for his age. He always had been. He had never seemed frail. He never did, not until now.

Catelyn forced her hands to move and pulled a few soft strands of Bran's hair away from his pale, smooth forehead. Her hands felt stiff and they looked like claws but she made them move.


She held it in her hands. It hadn't been hard to acquire. Her hair fell in golden waves around it, but her eyes were caught on the shine of the liquid in the vial she held in her hands. It was purple, a deep, deep purple, a beautiful colour even. She could have got it in crystals, that was the form she had heard it being used as most, but the stories said this would be easier. She just had to put it in a glass for him and he'd choke to death. They called it 'The Strangler' and it was a beautiful shade of purple.

It had been used to kill kings. Edward may have not been a Lannister, but he was her child, and he deserved to die like a King, even if she wouldn't let him live like one.

Cersei closed her fingers around the small bottle. She moved them so that not even a sliver of what she held in her hand was visible, apart from the neck and top, which was stoppered with silver and carved with a little pattern. She hadn't taken the time to look at it properly, for all it had captivated her attention, but it was a pattern of flowers and leaves, circular. If she looked at it a certain way, with her eyes almost shut or with the light glinting off of the metal, it looked like a crown. It was the plant the poison was made of although she did not know their names.

She slipped it into her pocket. It would be safe there, until she could put it somewhere else safe. She had a hundred little hiding places for things, had since she realised that Robert was far from the dream she had thought he was, that she would never replace that cold, northern, troublemaking bitch, Lyanna in his heart, since she realised she would need a place to keep her secrets hidden. She had worried, in the beginning, that Robert would find one, but then it began apparent that he would never be sober enough to see the sun in a clear sky, especially if there was a pretty girl in the same room. She had kept a lot of secrets in those hiding places. If any of them had ever been found, she had never found out and nothing had ever been moved.

She would do it tomorrow, she decided. She couldn't be there when he died, she couldn't have any suspicion cast on herself, but she had been told that it took a short while. She didn't want to see his face when it happened. She didn't know if she could-

Robert had forbidden her, forbidden everyone, to see the boy. It was because he was scared. She knew the Starks were still seeing him and Robert had done nothing about that, the old oaf, but as much as she wanted those people away from Edward there was nothing she could do about it. She had publicly disowned him, decreed him not her son, it wouldn't do for her to show concern now. It would make everyone suspicions. Everyone would be suspicious enough when he died, but the boy would be dead and her Joff would be first in line for the throne and she could continue on with her plans for King's Landing. Lancel was being as helpful as he possibly could. Soon the throne would be hers and it would be her children's after that and their children would sit on it after that and they would carry on, golden haired and beautiful, until they had a legacy even longer and more legendary that that of the Targaryan's.

Cersei stood. It was time to work her magic with Robert. She had done it for so many years it was almost like breathing. She had to get to him soon, when he was still pliant and rosy and would be more eager to help her. He felt guilty for all the times he hit her, for all the ties he called out her name when he was inside her, for how their marriage had turned out. He would help her closer to sober than he could drunk.

Earlier it had been the other way round. He had been jolly but stubborn when drunk and went to Jon bloody Arin before allowing her anything and then once he began drinking he was as easy to manoeuvre as a child. Now he was different. He was always slightly in his cups and Cersei had to get to him before he became so drunk he was insensate. When he became like that, he hated her. He hated her and he called for his Lyanna. His sweet Lyanna who ran off with another man. The fool.

Robert was probably in her tomb right now, on his knees in the dirt, his face resting on his dead betrothed stone knees. Would he be crying? She wondered, would his tears leave dark, wet marks on the statue. She wouldn't go down there. She couldn't go down there. Robert wouldn't let her and he wouldn't thank her for it either.

She had snuck down there once, on their first visit to Winterfell as a married couple, as King and Queen. He had left her side to visit his corpse bride and she could have still loved him then. She was curious more than jealous. She had gone down that cold, dark passage and nearly lost her steps more than once, but she found her, next to the older Stark brother who had been killed by the Mad King. They said she was beautiful, Cersei had seen her and there was a sort of pretty charm to her face but she couldn't see any of it in the statue. The shadows made her ghastly. Her face was pulled into a smug smile by the rock, by the low light and all Cersei could think was 'yes, yes, you're right, you have him even now, you bitch.'

But Lyanna was dead and she was welcome to Robert. Cersei would have what she wanted in the end.


The cloak was so light and silky in his hand it felt cold. He wrapped it around his shoulders anyway. It did seem warmer with it over his shoulders, the soft weight of it down his back, covering his arms. He didn't want to leave it behind, it didn't seem right, and it had been one of the few things he had left to remind him of all of the years he had missed. More than once, when he had been left alone, he used to hold it, and the ring and the gold ball and stare at them, trying to fit them into the blank horizon of his memories. He thought they might help him but he didn't get anything. They had taken the sword away from him.

Robb had said the sword as in a safe place, but he hadn't told him where it was. The bloody thing was lost to him. They had let him hold it once and the hilt had fit perfectly in his hand. It gleamed. The rubies glowed like little points of fire, the gold like sunlight. He remembered the name that was engraved on it too. Godric Gryffindor it said. He didn't know why, but it seemed more familiar than anything else he had seen since she woke up. He had asked Robb about it

He wanted to know who it was, why it was so familiar, why, when he looked at the name, held the sword, closed his eyes and felt it, it felt almost like he was home. When his hand was wrapped around it's hilt, he felt brave. He wanted it more than he wanted the ring, which sent shivers down his spine even as it slid perfectly onto his finger, and the golden ball, ornate and motionless, and maybe even the slick, silvery cloak which also inspired feelings of home and family. He hadn't told anyone about these emotions. It felt wrong to share them. He wanted to keep them for himself.

He wanted to keep everything he had been found with. He had lost the clothes. They had been taken from him and replaced but he still had everything except the sword. He wanted to hold them all close to him, stare at them until he knew where they came from, where he came from, but he couldn't. It killed him, but he had to leave the sword behind.

They thought he was some sort of prince! He hadn't believed it when they first told him. He thought it was sort joke, a ridiculous, horrid prank being played on the amnesiac, but then he realised, they actually believed it! It was ridiculous! He may not know who he was but he knew he was not a prince!

And he was going to find out who he was. That face. That blue lipped bald man who haunted him. The first thing he remembered. Robb had let it slip that they thought he was a wizard or something from a place called Quarth and nobody had objected when he asked to see a map. He had carefully copied out a map, just trying to see the distance, the lay of the land, and it hadn't seemed so far that getting there was inconceivable. He wanted to go. He didn't think he could trust anybody here to help him.

He glanced down, the stones that made up the floor of the corridors were uneven. He didn't want to slip or trip. Any loud noises would give him away, but?! His feet! They weren't there! He could see the dark, rough texture of the stones where his feet should be. Slowly, his gaze travelled up. His entire body was invisible!

He took advantage of it. Running, he let his apparent invisibility do its work. It was the dead of night and most people where asleep.

Wait, he thought, with a cloak like this, maybe he could find out where his sword was!

If he waited one more night, just one more conversation with Robb to find out where it was, he could leave with a bit of protection. He had heard stories about the world outside of Winterfell, the danger in it. He had no doubt he would need the protection of some sort of weapon, but wouldn't the ornate sword catch attention? Would it be a lure for thieves or murderers, all those people Robb had warned him about?

He couldn't lie to himself though. He wanted it for the memories that would surely be attached to it. He wanted it for the feeling of safety it brought, the feeling of security and even contentment. He wanted it because it was proof he didn't just pop out of nowhere. He came from somewhere, something, and maybe there were people waiting there who wanted him back.

Sighing, he stepped back slowly, he still wasn't used to his supposed invisibility, although seeing the floor where he knew his legs were was fascinating. Then he turned and slowly walked back. One more night, he promised, one more night.