The boy tormented her. He was not suppose to be here, his presence was not suppose to still be lingering in these walls with her husband gone North. But still he stayed, like a pestilence that would not be struck down and it attacked her senses until her very mind felt like it was engulfed in a fever. Why should he stay, healthy and whole, the product of sin, while her innocent truborn son was lost into a long sleep from which he might never awaken?
Her eldest son's Tully locks looked like rust against the darkness of the bastard's hair, so dark, even darker then that of her lord husband's. A product from his unknown mother? The phantom that haunted her marriage bed. Robb drew comfort from the ghost like Ned did, the comfort he would not, could not, seek from her. The comfort that was not given to her, by Ned, by the Seven, by the sons she might have bore with Brandon Stark. Stark, the name denied to Jon only by Brandon's untimely death and the duty that Ned gained to his brother's intended. Why had he stayed? Why did he still linger here? What hand did Robb have in this, drawn in by the spirit's flesh, the sin that had stained her life for so many years?
They had not noticed her. She lingered in the doorway like an intruder, like a bastard herself, as if her place was not here, and indeed, had Winterfell ever truly been home? This cold place that even in the warmest of summers, when the Riverlands would be an abundance of green, the smell of brine in the air from the swamps and lakes, the flowers that would blood orange and red and pink, brought down snowflakes on the grass? Where she had played as a young girl with Lysa and Edmure and dreamed of her strong, fierce wolf that would come one day to make her the Queen of his heart. Let other girls dream of knights and valor, let Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell have the attentions of the silver prince, she had only wanted her Lordling. What she had gained was a man torn in grief, beaten down by war, a man who had loved a phantom and brought her ghost to Winterfell, never to be exorcised.
"What are you doing here? I thought you gone, like you should be. Ned is no longer here, it is not your place to still linger," she managed to choke out. It was like a demon had possessed her and all she could think of was the phantom and Bran lying there, Tully red hair in a bed of fur to keep away the cold, and Robb...Robb smiling at the boy. Here with him instead of at the bed of his trueborn brother, the ghost once again taking priority over her. She had lost not only her husband, but her baby as well. She ignored the smile that slipped off her son's face and focused on the boy's, Ned's eyes looking out at her from features that none of her children, save Arya, had gained. Arya, another child stolen by the ghost.
"Mother," Robb said, startled at the visciousness in his mother's voice. He noticed Jon's features fix themselves into a straight expression, the smile he had managed to bring to his brother's face gone. His eyes stared at the Lady Stark, completely without emotion.
"My Lady," Jon said in a subdued tone. Robb could hear the undertones of hurt in his voice and he knew that his brother was already regretting his decision to stay behind, the need that Robb had for his brother to stay with him, that he could not loose another brother, his twin in all but birth. Robb had practically broken down and begged for his brother to remain, Benjen had ridden off without a word seeing the indecision on his nephew's face at his brother's plea.
"Don't. I told you to leave! You are a curse on this house! This is your fault...the Seven cast their eyes on the sin that lingered in this house like a disease and they struck! And the innocent must pay for it!" Eyes were on the Lady of Winterfell now, jaws slackened; the laugh was gone from Theon Greyjoy's eyes, Maester Luwin sat heavy in his chair looking as old as Robb had ever seen him. He felt the blood in his veins turn to ice as he eyed his mother in shock, saw that everyone was looking at her, as if it was some parlour act, some fool set to amuse the Lords. And Jon was staring at the floor.
His mother has crossed the room to stand in front of them, in a blur Robb saw her raise her hand and then it was caught before it made contact. Robb looked at his own hands but they were at his sides. His brother had grabbed his mother's wrist preventing the strike. His face painted the shock that was in everyone's' mind.
"I love Bran as well. I might not share his name but he is still my brother. No one would have ever wished this on him, let alone the Gods, yours or mine." Jon's eyes were narrowed and his voice was soft, but there was a steel of anger behind his calm tone, the anger like fire melting away ice.
"But I am not the cause of this milday," he spat out the last word as if it were the most vile curse to ever be heard in the walls of Winterfell, "nor is father. Why not look to your own sins? Or Robb's? Sansa's? Name one person that lives here that is without sin. But no longer will I crucify myself because of your hatred. Did I ask to be born?"
"You..." Catelyn's voice was faint in shock, Robb had never heard it sound so broken and furious at the same time. Father had only been holding back the damn that was between the two of them and it had broken with his leaving.
"Should I be to blame for father's sins? Is it a sin to love? If that was what it was? For I do not know my mother either, anymore then you do. Do not talk of ghosts, for you are not the only one who lives with that ghost every single day. I did not ask for this! I did not ask to stay here, to be belittled by you and your scorn! I did not ask for Bran to be lying there in bed, nor steal his life from him! I did not ask to be brought into the world and looked on with disgust for an act I had no part in!"
His mother wrenched her wrist away from Jon and he did not stop her. She rubbed at the skin there as if his touch had burned her down to her very bones. "You do not belong here! Not here! You are not mine!" His mother grabbed a goblet from Theon Greyjoy's slack fist and threw it. The shattering of the glass against the wall echoed through the room, like the icy tones of Jon's voice and his mother's screaming. She looked ready to grab a knife from the table and stab Jon where he stood. She made as if to move towards one and Robb reacted without thinking. Tears were streaming down her face and her elbow snapped back into his stomach muscles when he grabbed her around the waist to move her away from Jon.
"Let go of me! Let go!" His mother's mind had snapped under the weight of her grief but this could not go on. Father would not have stood for it...and neither could he. As carefully as he could he held her still, speaking to her in a voice that was a whisper.
"Stop mother. Stop. Jon is right. He is no more to blame for this than I am. He might not have our name, he might not be the child of your body, but he is still my brother and I will not lose him. This is his home, the only one he has ever known. As much as it is yours. Father has gone to the lion's den and you seek to start a war within the walls of Winterfell? Over what? An act that father alone committed?" Robb looked at Maester Luwin, signalling him to come over and adminster a sedative to his mother. Her words were her truth, he knew that, had always known that, but this madness that had set upon her had been unloosed in her grief.
"I want the ghost gone. Gone," she was sobbing, and Robb could see that Jon looked regretful, but stayed back. He would not be welcome over here and at once he could truly see how much of an outsider his mother had made Jon feel, with her own inability to love the child her husband had brought home, the 'ghost' had affected them both. The compassion that Jon naturally held for the grief that he and Lady Stark both shared held down because of the secrets that father had kept from the both of them.
There were ghosts in Winterfell; but they were not born of flesh or ice or fire, they were born of wind.