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.
oOo
He is not dreaming this time.
His mother's hands are gentle on his arms. He's an infant, all baby fat and no mobility, but everything feels soft when he is lifted up. There's a voice, an easy voice which is so sad at the same time as being so comforting. Green eyes look into his and rich, blonde hair falls around him in curls.
He is pulled closer and settled against a smooth, bare chest. Wetness drips onto his skin. Inside of him something shivers and shifts uncomfortably. The breast against him shudders.
There's a loud knock on the door and the easy skin he was resting against goes stiff. Although his mouth searches for milk, makes the soft, wet suckling noises that normally results in his hunger being sated, he is ignored. Instead he is rushed back into the crib he was in. His mother's voice, which was once so soft, is strident, arrogant and forceful as it orders the knocker in.
Cold hands lift him up. They are rough and not his mother's.
He starts to cry.
oOo
The undying man was just as repulsive as she remembered him. His skin sagged and his eyes bulged, frog-like, and his lips were that ghastly, disgusting blue. She could not stand the sight of him when she first saw him. Less so when she gave him her first and only living child of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, and even less so than that now that she knew that he had failed her.
She had paid his handsomely to keep her son from the throne, to ensure that a Lannister, one of her beautiful Jaime's children and not one of Robert's spawn, inherited the crown. But he had failed her. He had let her son go, at the cusp of becoming a man, not a thousand feet from where she and her husband had been residing. And furthermore at the home of Eddard Stark, the vulgar and boorish best friend and brother in arms of her husband.
What a failure. What a punishment she would have to deliver, to this wizard, to this blue lipped man who believed he could not die. She would have to teach him just how wrong he was. All men can die, but especially if she put her mind to it.
But first, answers.
She spoke before he could.
"You will explain to me what happened." She demanded. The bulbous eyes of the thing before her narrowed but she matched the movement. She was a Lioness of House Lannister; she did not cower before a blue mouthed toad.
"He died, your majesty," he sneered her title, not giving her the respect she deserved, that she had earned. "We promised to hold him until death."
"Clearly not," she said, rising from her throne, a sneer of her own on her face. She had commanded the guards out the room but gained a sweet satisfaction at the ease of which she could call them back and have this man in chains. She stared into his eyes, which were proud and disdainful, men always thought they had more power than they did. She should have been born as a man; she would have done so much better than any of these ruddy-faced pretenders. This gown, this hair, the soft swell of her hips. All of it was so restraining, useless. The only thing she was grateful for was her womb, and the three beautiful children it gave her.
But, she thought, she may not like the body she was given, but she did know how to use it. She moved closer, curving the full curve of her lips into a smile, painted red and brilliant, like blood or Lannister colours. She could see the moment he took in the promise in his eyes. She shifted closer, let her breasts lead her body. It was so easy. Then she let the mask drop.
"Now explain to me why my son is in Winterfell and not in your care, like I paid for."
The toad met her.
"We promised until death, no longer."
Cersei wanted to sweep all of the things off of the table beside them. It was only her self-restraint that stopped her. For a second though, she imagined it, the resounding clash as all of the shiny goblets and gleaming trinkets were dashed to the floor, that disgusting man's expression when he saw her rage. He would fear her then.
But only men were truly allowed to rage. Sometimes she felt like the earth could shake with the force of her fury, but she could never show it. Courtesies had been bred into her, silence beat into her, she would be a lady, and she would take her revenge with courtesy and a quiet voice. She would still prevail. Just as she would now, with this insipid blue lipped wizard.
"If you promised until death," She asked, her voice quiet with the rage that only Jaime would recognise, "Then way is he still alive?"
"It is complicated-"
"Then explain it!"
"We put him into a dream," the toad said, his eyes bulging viscously, his words were sharp and pointed like arrow heads, "He lived a different life, with different parents and a whole world he created for himself. It was supposed to last for much longer."
He paused. His eyes roamed over her face. She didn't know what he was seeing there. The thought of her son being raised to call another woman 'mother' disgusted her. She hated that woman. But there was another suspicion rising in her. Why hadn't whatever curse these magicians put him under lasted for as long as they thought it should? Had it been faulty?!
"He must have died young in his made up world."
Her son died young. Her plans quivered in her mind. Would she doom her child to two early deaths? She wanted to demand he leave. A scream clawed at her throat, but like her ancestors had done to the wild lions she caged it.
"He had things with him when he was found," She said instead, "They said he was found with a ring and a ball and a cloak or something like that."
For once the man looked as disquieted as she wanted him to be.
"I could have the guards in here in a second," she told him, her voice hard, a low threat aimed at his soft belly. It struck.
"He must had some sort of potential."
Potential?
"For magic." He said,
She turned away, thoughts racing through her mind. What did that mean?
Magic meant power. Magic was what turned the Valyrians of old from sheep herders into conquerors. Magic was what had kept the Iron Throne for them. It was only when their power, their magic, their dragons waned, that anyone could wrest control from them. It was only their magic that made them different from her, and Jaime and all of the Lannisters.
But it was dangerous. She knew that. There were countless examples of magic leading people astray. The dangers of it could be seen quite clearly in the bloated, pale, blue mouthed, foul man behind her, with his bulging eyes and slimy mouth.
And Joffrey. What about her Joffrey? For years, long years, he had been all she had. Even Jaime only rarely managed to fill the space that the birth of Joffrey had done effortlessly. Was she to turn away from him now? Leave him to be the second son, after a stranger with powers she couldn't understand.
No, maybe it was best he be gone. Maybe she could pay them to take him away gain, put him in another dream, and another if he died in the second, then another if he died in that, keep him away from the dangers and beauty of her world, the world she had created for her children. She had half convinced herself her baby was dead in these past years.
But when she turned back it was to an empty room.
She wanted to scream, but no one could find out what she had done.
oOo
He could hear the whispers in the castle. The ones they did not want him to hear. The ones that said something big was coming and that he was in the centre of it. There was a voice at the back of his head praising his curiosity and he has to thank it, and follow it, because without it he would not be making the choice that he was now.
He was going to leave.
The kind man, Eddard, who named him and his son, with the eyes of his father, visited him almost every day and pressed him for what he remembered. It isn't much. But he knew he was not stupid and he knew a green light and death and he knew that he needed to leave.
Eddard, Ned, said his name should be Edward now, but it didn't sound right. There was a faint echo around it and a blur over the name whenever he tried to think of it. Like a shadow covering writing on parchment, he could barely make it out. It hurt his head if he thought too hard about it.
It was easy to pack up his things. The ring and the ball were easily concealed in the pockets of the clothes that Robb had provided for him and the sword was covered by the cloak. He was going to have to steal a thicker one though, he thought, as he hefted the slippery material of the cool, silvery cloak. It was cold to the touch even inside the castle (and the castle was heated by underground springs, Robb told him, so it was always warm, even in the dead of Winter) so it would be useless outside, where there were snows and winds that froze a man's spit in his own mouth (If Robb's stories about the wall and the land of unending Winter were to be believed.). He would have to steal another, a thick one, although he had no clue where to get one from. It was summer, they told him, that it had been one of the longest ones to date, lasting years and years, even lifetimes. It had been summer all of Robb's life, he had said, and he didn't know why but that sounded really, really odd to him. Like it should never be so long.
Everything was a little odd here, and, just when he thought he saw something he recognised, it changed and he realised that he didn't know anything at all.
But he knew he didn't belong here. He knew that much. He didn't know his own name, but he knew he won't ever find it here. They'll call him Edward, and then they'll expect him to be happy about it.
He would wait until nightfall. When everything is dark and quiet and everyone is asleep it should be easy to go without anyone suspecting. He didn't even know why they would care. It was very kind of them, to be concerned with a lost man – boy such as himself but didn't the lord of a castle have much better things to do?
He started when the door opened. It was Eddard. Ned's face was lined like old stone. He looked sad and worried and so serious that fear rose up in him. He instinctively slid the bundle of his things into an opened drawer, seeing Ned's eyes unconsciously observing it.
"Edward," He said in a sombre voice, "I have something I have to share with you."
oOo
They think he was stupid. They must think him as much of a fool as one of these heathen, animal Northmen, who bow to trees. But he was no fool, and he knew as much as he knew he was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and everything else in this world that there is something going on that no-one will tell him about. He can't help but sneer, there's a servant in the corner, and he notices her shiver. The cold is terrible, but he notices her start to when he jerks to his feet.
Is it him she was shivering at?
What a smart little commoner. Stag's should be feared as much as lions should and he is as much one as the other, she should fear him. He deserves it. He deserves everything. He will be King after all.
"Where is my mother?" he asks the room. Someone will answer him.
"In the sept," a male voice answered. He didn't bother to see who it was, and gratitude was for people who had to give it.
"Your Grace," he said instead. It was his title, and these peasants should call him it.
"Of course, your Grace," the man says, and Joffrey turns to him, waiting, "My apologies, your Grace."
He smiles, and sees the look that crosses the servants face. It's flattering, satisfying. He's seen men look at his grandfather like that, at his father, occasionally his mother too. He stands, sweeps out of the room. His mother has the answers to his questions and he will hear every one of them.
The Hound is waiting by the door.
"Come along, dog, we're going to find my mother," his dog follows, as obedient as ever. He wonders sometimes if his dog ever wanted pups, but always put it aside thinking that no woman would want such a monstrous face. He reconsidered now. Sandor could probably find someone in the North, especially with the way the Stark girls loved their wolves. They probably wouldn't mind a dog instead. He pushed the amusement aside, smiles would not help him with his soft and yielding mother, a woman above all else, but a sad look would. He knew he was being cruel but he didn't care. The Seven Kingdoms would be his soon and he would have what he wanted.
The Sept in Winterfell was small. It had the same seven wall and large windows, the same statues of the recognisable figures he had grown up praising, but it lacked the grandeur of the one he knew. It looked hastily set up, probably because these Northerners worshiped trees. They didn't care about civilised religions. He found his mother where they said he would. She was knelt in front of The Mother, light streaming through the crystals to shine on the golden hair he had inherited. Her head was bowed, and seven thick, white prayer candles were lit in front of her bent body.
His mother pretended otherwise, but she was just as soft and weak as every other woman. She looked like she about to cry.
"Mother," he said, unable to hide his annoyance. His mother was a queen. She should act like one. He was gratified to see her jerk upright and to her feet at the sound of his voice.
"Joff," She said, and turned around, her arms outstretched as if to pacify him like he was an animal. That made him pleased too, and angry. Her eyes were soft, like they always were when they looked at him. He stepped forward, the marble and his shoes making sharp sounds as they met, like swords clanging in battle.
Her hands met his face, but he jerked away.
"Joff, Joff," she cooed at him.
His face screwed up in disgust, but he let her hands pull him into an embrace. His mother had always loved him. She couldn't help it. It was a woman's way, but, that didn't mean he didn't take comfort in it. It annoyed him, but he was sure once he left behind the trappings of childhood this would have less of an effect on him.
"Mother, will you tell me what was going on?" he asked, instead of thinking about it he focused on what he wanted. His eyes narrowed without his permission at her mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. Obviously he had shocked her, obviously she didn't want to answer him, but she would. He would make sure he got the answers he desired. "Mother!"
"There has been talk," she began hesitantly. There was the look in her eyes like she was trying to calm a wild animal again. People never looked at his father like that. They smiled for him. "That your brother has been found."
"Tommen?" He said stupidly, but of course it wasn't Tommen. His mother meant Edward. His lost brother, the one that could take the throne from him, steal his kinghood before he could even taste it. He wondered, for a moment, who the boy most looked like. They had said he had had black hair. Would he be a copy of his father? A Robert made flesh once more, where he was Lannister red and gold? His jaw trembled he had it clenched so hard.
"It's nothing," his mother said dismissively, and turned from him, "I've seen the boy. It's not him."
"Then people shouldn't be talking about it!" he spat. His mother's hands calm towards him again. He moved away from them, "Why hasn't father stopped them?"
She scowled, "He believes there may be some truth to the stupid rumour."
"But he's wrong."
"Yes, my sweet son, he's wrong."
He nodded. He took in the statues around him, looked for his own face in them, like he used to when he was a child. For a second he thought he did see his own face in the Warrior, but its carved features were his uncle, Jaime, and the Father his father, and for a moment the cold face of the Eddard Stark. Even a fleeting moment of his father in the Smith, hammer raised, then it was the face of the blacksmith his mother had someone take him to to get a sword smithed for him for his name day from start to finish. His mother was in the Mother, his sister and pretty Sansa Stark in the Maiden, hundreds of half-forgotten Septas in the Crone. None of them with his face. Maybe he was in the seventh statue, its face covered with a hood of grey cloth. But no, that wasn't him either, that was no one he knew.
"It will be okay, Joffrey," His mother said, her face still mimicked by the mother's stone visage, "I will not let them take what is rightfully yours from you."
He couldn't help but be a little reassured with that, although the idea of his father being happy to give away his throne upset him. But he would make his father look at him with the regard he looked at Eddard Stark.
He could never have gone to his father for this, but he had already made other plans to please his father.
oOo
Her father led her along with a light hand on her arm. Her mother was on her other side, fair vibrating with some unknown emotion, what she would have thought of as grief but seemed mixed with something else. Both her parents had lined etched on their faces that hadn't been there before Bran's fall. He still hadn't woken up yet. They thought he might die. Her Lady Mother had refused to leave his bedside it was only her father, arm around the sobbing Rickon that convinced her to get up. Sansa was sure this was the first time since he had been put in that bed that there wasn't at least one of their parents by his side.
Sansa wasn't sure where they were leading her, they had refused to tell her which she thought was a little unfair, she had a right to know! But, it was father, he only wanted the best for her, she was sure. Maybe after this she got find Jeyne and sneak something sweet from the kitchens. But first she wanted to know where she was going, she would only want to do it if she had a good story to tell her.
"Sansa," her father said as he turned to face her, her mother still had her tight grip on her arm, in truth, it hurt a bit. But her father's serious grey eyes caught her and her discomfort faded a little. "This is a serious issue, and it must be treated as such."
It upset her that he didn't trust her, but her mother and Septa Mordane had taught her to be gracious so she just says "Of course, father," in her sweetest tone. She sounds just like a proper lady.
"If it had been up to your father, you would not have known," her lady mother said, with a fond glare towards her husband, although Sansa can see the lines around her eyes. Bran is written in every one. "But I managed to convince him it was for the best you did, after all, this does concern you."
Sansa's interest was more than peaked, her heat beat a little patter in her chest, like a bird wanting out of its cage, she could feel it thunder against her ribs. Really, she felt a little scared too, and she wished Lady were here. If she were, Sansa could've buried her hands in her warm, soft fur, and drawn strength from it. But she could be brave without Lady here. She was a lady too, and a Stark as well. And if her mother could be brave she could be too. She nodded at her parents matched serious gazes.
Slowly her father opened the door. It was a room near the maester's tower and she knew they were used for the sick. Was she here to see someone ill? She knew that father took her brothers out to see deserters of the Night's Watch be executed and, of course, that was much too violent for girls, but maybe she was here to see someone die a more natural death? She couldn't imagine her mother thinking that was a good idea though, and she really didn't want to see blood, or pus or anything disgusting and ugly like that. To be honest, she had always imagined deaths like in the stories, with flowers and last, emphatic love confessions as beautiful ladies took their last breaths.
But that wasn't what greeted her when the door was fully opened.
Instead it was a young man. He was pale, and a little delicate looking, Sansa could see the fine bones in his wrists and collar. Someone had wrapped him up in layers of wool and cotton and fur, and he looked tiny in them, like a child, almost, but for the dark stubble growing on his cheeks and the grown, capable strength in his hands.
"Good afternoon, Edward," her father said, and she recognised that name! How many of her childhood fantasies had been about him? And, oh, he was lovely! So handsome, with messy black hair like the King and a long body. She couldn't wait to tell Jeyne! He was sitting at a desk, and had obviously been reading before they had interrupted him. His eyes were wide and a bright, great green colour as he took in the people that had disturbed his solitude. They were even greener than Joffrey's! Sansa could feel a smile bursting across her face like sunlight bursting through clouds.
"My lord," Her mother said, nudging her as she curtseyed, Sansa quickly hurried into a curtsy too, her fantasies momentarily abandoned.
"Oh, good afternoon," Edward said, he had a strange accent, but it was barely there. Sansa imagined that he had spent his childhood in some strange land, like Lyseni or somewhere like that, with no idea of the royal blood that ran through his veins, the throne that awaited him, the high born lady that would be has lady love and queen! How excited he must have been to return to home, to all of this!
"Edward, this is Lady Catelyn, my wife and Lady Sansa, my eldest daughter. We thought," he exchanged a glance with his wife, "that since you were so close in age, she could keep you company."
Was that only what they thought? She had hoped, well, there had been talk that she and Joffrey were to be married, and if he was no longer the first son but a second son then surely…?
"Of course," Edward said, he stood quickly, furs and blankets falling from his lap onto the floor and the chair. He hurried to pick them up. Sansa couldn't help but smile at how uncertain he seemed, how eager he looked not to disappoint them!
"How are you, my lord?" She asked, after being pushed forward by her mother. They settled her down at a table she had not noticed, which looked like it had been set up for a late lunch. There were little sandwiches and, she was pleased to see, little lemon cakes! She immediately took two. Edward, she realised, went for the round, latticed tarts although he frowned lightly at the fruity taste.
"I'm well," He said, belatedly, and although his hasty swallow was ungraceful she found herself smiling at it. "And you, my lady?"
"I'm well too," She replied, she could see her mother's distracted smile and her father's interest out of the corner of her eye and it was enough to send a surge of pride to straighten her spine. This was important to them, and of course they picked her, and of course she was doing well, and maybe, just maybe, she wasn't wrong. She couldn't help but beam. "How are you enjoying your stay in Winterfell?"
He looked uncertain though. She was sure that was a conversation to open him up but he was slouching.
"It's confusing." He finally answered.
Confusing? She thought, Winterfell had always been a very simple place, she couldn't imagine it confusing anyone.
Her father coughed. She wished for a second that her parents weren't in the room, that it was just her and Edward but that would never have been allowed anyway.
"Edward was found in the forest, Sansa," he said, and Sansa almost missed Edward turning to stare at the table sadly while she was looking at her father, "He doesn't have any memories of his past."
"Oh," She said, and then cursed herself for sounding dumb, but what else was she supposed to say? It was horrible, but at the same time, so romantic! She pictured in her head Edward being nursed back to health and regaining his memories at the hands of a pretty, young maiden, and if she imagined that maiden with blue eyes like hers and long auburn hair well, that could you blame her?
"But why am I here?" She couldn't help but ask.
"We are planning," her mother said carefully, and the look her father gave her was lovely. She really did hope that she had a marriage like her parents, "for you two would get betrothed."
This was all she ever wanted! She turned to see Edward's reaction, taming her face into a graceful if pleased, expression, she was honestly quite surprised. Edward looked shocked as well. It seemed like he wasn't sure if he wanted to look at her or not, his bright green eyes were flickering to her and then to his plate and then back to her. The colour rose on his cheeks when he caught her eye accidentally and his eyes stayed fixed to his plate after that.
"I don't-" He stuttered, "Is this because of-"
"Yes," her father said, to her confusion, "Originally Sansa and your younger brother, Joffrey were going to be wed, but, if you are the first born..."
"Of course," he said dazedly. Sansa couldn't help but feel for him, he had only just found out about his royal blood, his great destiny and now he was betrothed! It was exciting but she could imagine it was overwhelming as well.
"Have you met your younger siblings yet, my Lord?" She asked, trying to gentle him. She felt rather like Hullen must of when he got a wild horse. Sansa never liked going near the stables even when all of the animals had been tamed, as it was a very dirty place, but she couldn't help but hear stories. Robb said the way Hullen spoke to them was gentle to calm them down before he began to tame them.
"No," he answered, eyes finally on her. They were so beautifully green!
"Oh, I hope you do soon, they are lovely. Myrcella is gentle and sweet and Tommen is such a happy boy."
"Really?" He asked, his expression lit up. Sansa wondered if he would be so excited when he talked about their children. She wanted lots of them. Boys and girls all named after famous heroes and beautiful ladies, like in the songs. They would be heroes and beautiful too. One of them would be king.
"Yes," She glanced at her parents. Her father was looking at them but her mother had the same expression on her face she got whenever she thought of Bran. Sansa instantly felt guilty. She did want Bran awake. Everyone loved Bran, she knew Edward would too, but she was going to be Queen one day. Was it wrong of her to want some recognition for that?
She pushed the feelings away and began telling Edward about his sisters embroidery and his brother's sword fights. She didn't know why, but she left out Joffrey. She was certain the once heir to the throne wouldn't be happy to be shunted back a place, even though he had been gracious and kind to her in his visit so far.
"You must tell no one, Sansa, not that we are so certain this is him, nor that we are planning to marry him to you." Her mother said to her later, her voice the epitome of sternness.
Sansa agreed. She would keep it a secret, after all, Jeyne was just a steward's daughter, there were some things steward's daughter's weren't supposed to know.