The Lost Stark

The Godswoods.

~Harper

The unsettling thrum of the call to shift into a pelt hummed just beneath the surface of my chilling skin as we waited for Sansa, Arya, and Bran to join us. I couldn't discern if the feeling stemmed from being in the North or the looming threat of the Night King, but either way, I didn't like it. I prided myself on controlling my emotions, a lesson learned from my parents, who believed that emotional mastery led to victory in any argument. Yet, in this instance, winning wasn't my goal. If Littlefinger had a hand in our family's downfall, I wasn't sure I wanted to be the one to seek vengeance.
"What's on your mind?" Sansa's voice startled both Rickon and me, interrupting our uneasy pacing. "You're pacing far too much for someone supposed to be relaxing."
I chuckled weakly and shook my head. "I was relaxed until Arya showed up. Speaking of which, I need to talk to your guard."
"Lady Brienne?" Sansa inquired.
"Red Flea," I replied, feeling a surge of irritation at my father's guard wanting to leave Sansa's side.
Sansa nodded and approached the Weirwood tree, placing a gloved hand on its white bark. "Did you know they still have these south of the Neck?" she whispered, glancing at me before returning her gaze to the tree. "It surprised me after Father's death. I thought the Southerners, the ones who followed the Seven, tore them down. But I found solace in the Godswoods to avoid the Lannisters."
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, growing more confused.
"Honestly, I don't have an answer," Sansa admitted. "But whatever we find out, whatever answers Bran has, we need to act rationally."
"She told you. Arya told you that Harper wishes to wait for Father," Rickon interjected, giving Sansa a pointed look.
"She did."
"You don't," I realized, the pieces falling into place. "You want him to answer for his alleged crimes—"
"He was my father, my family. If Littlefinger had anything to do with their deaths—"
"Then he will answer to the Lord of Winterfell—"
"Who isn't here right now," Sansa cut me off.
Locking eyes with her, I struggled to control the rising tremor within me. The more she argued, the louder the thrum beneath the surface grew. Stepping back, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before meeting her gaze again. "My father, your King, will be here soon. If he finds out that you killed the man possibly responsible for not only her parents' and brothers' deaths but also for starting the war that tore this realm apart, our family apart, he will never forgive you. Especially if you do it without a fair trial."
"I am the Lady of Winterfell, Princess. I have to do something," Sansa insisted.
"Not this," I whispered, almost pleading. "You do this, and she will see it as another betrayal. And quite honestly, it's cruel—to kill one of the few people who holds answers she has been begging for."
"You don't understand, Princess," Arya interjected as she pushed Bran to the base of the tree, joining us.
"I understand more than you think," I growled, feeling my heart harden at the thought of them both wanting to kill him without Father here. "You were not there when my father fell apart, nor were you there to help put her back together again. She is hanging by a thread, and you are willing to take a man who not only is a Lord but the same Lord who has control over twenty thousand knights, who are here to fight for Winterfell on the word of someone who says he can see things? Are you-"
"You are not a Stark," Arya shouted, cutting me off, causing me to freeze.
"Harper," Rickon whispered after a moment of shock as her words swirling in my head while Sansa admonished an angered Arya knowing how deep her words cut me.
Watching Arya's hand twitch toward her dagger, I felt my own shaking hand move to the hilt of my short sword, my mind struggling to maintain control. "I am not a Stark?" I echoed, the tremble evident in my voice. "How could you even say that?"
"If you were, then you would understand," Arya replied, taking a step closer but stopping when Rickon moved between us.
"Trust me, Arya, you really don't want to fight her. You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. Apologize and listen to her," Rickon pleaded, pushing her back as she drew her little sword and held it behind her back.
"You don't think I—" Arya began.
"Rickon is right, Arya," Sansa interjected, trying to calm her down. "She is a Stark—"
"Let her go," I ordered Rickon, not feeling bad for the visible flinch he showed from the weight of my tone, as the stitching of my leathers stretched to a breaking point from trying to control my shift.
"Harper, you—"
The swish of steel cutting through the air forced me to push Rickon aside just in time, my own blade stopping Arya's inches from my face. As our eyes locked, the rage stoking the flames inside me rose to an unmanageable point. "You're going to regret that," I growled, kicking her in the chest using all my strength causing her to soar through the air. As her back slammed into the frozen ground, I unsheathed Thorn from my back.
"Harper, don't," Rickon pleaded over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears as I advanced slowly on Arya.
Twirling Thorn in my palm, I let the tension from both Sansa and Rickon urge my body forward, knowing what I had to do. "No, you don't. Whether on bended knee or on her back, she will know her place," I spat, gripping the hilt of my Valyrian steel blade tightly. "Yield now, and I'll forgive this, Arya," I muttered, holding her cold stare.
Across from me, Arya gained her footing, her form lithe and deadly, a thin sword and dagger gleaming in the moonlight. The steely determination in her eyes, a silent promise, let me know she would rather die than yield. Without hesitation, I lunged forward, the twin blades of my swords slicing through the air with deadly grace. But she was quick, deflecting my blows with the precision of a seasoned warrior, her thin sword and dagger moving with lightning speed.
Each strike and parry was a symphony of steel, the sound of metal ringing out like a cry of her defiance in the night. I pressed forward, my movements fluid and relentless, seeking to overwhelm her with the sheer force of my assault. However, judging by her skill, I knew she was no stranger to combat, her movements calculated and precise as she danced around my attacks, her needle sword and dagger striking with deadly accuracy.
With each clash of our weapons, I could feel the tension under my skin strain, urging me to shift and finish her. But as Father said, this was a time to fight with steel, not teeth. Losing control of the beast within me was not an option.
Then it happened, I pressed too hard causing Arya to misstep. I felt the pain of her needle skewering through my right shoulder before her dagger sliced across my middle. Pulling back at the pain, the slim amount of control I held on the beast broke, and Rickon knew. He knew to pull Sansa, who came running at the sight of my blood warming the cold snow underfoot, back to safety. The cold air that was once filled with the songs of steel was silenced by the sounds of my leathers shredding into nothing as my paws dug into the bloodied dirt. And in an instant, the smug look Arya held when she thought she defeated me vanished into a look of terror.