Jon Snow was sure the world meant to drive him insane.

Obviously it wasn't enough for him to be the bastard son of Eddard Stark. Obviously it wasn't enough for him to be 'the lone stain upon the honor of such a righteous man' as he constantly heard when no one thought he could hear them. Obviously it wasn't enough for him to be just as good as his half-brother Robb at all the matters that involved being the heir to Winterfell when it was made clear to him that it would never make any difference because he had made the grave mistake of being born from the wrong womb.

Now in addition to that it had added over two years of hearing legions of whispering and cacophonies of voices whenever he was near open flames that had driven him into two separate panic attacks when entering the fully lit great hall. He didn't know how or why it had started. He hadn't dared ask Maester Luwin directly, opting instead to ask Old Nan and see if he could find any sort of reference to speaking flames in the books of Winterfell's library. He had no luck of course.

And now things had reached their breaking point with Arya contracting a violent illness that had her wasting away. When she tried to eat she would inevitably vomit it back up. When she was asleep she would toss and turn in the midst of feverish nightmares, crying out in pain and fear. When she was awake it had initially been a fever and hallucinations. Now she could never tell the difference between reality and illusion. Now she was in such constant pain that she could barely speak; her voice having been worn away to almost nothing from screaming.

He had initially been forbidden from seeing her by the express orders of Lady Stark. That hadn't stung so bad initially since Maester Luwin had at first forbidden anyone except for the lord and lady of Winterfell from seeing her while she was being treated. Out of concern of whatever she had being contagious. But as he tried more and more remedies, the restriction had gradually being lifted for most everyone of the household. Jon had desperately hoped that might be a good sign, that it meant Maester Luwin was making progress on his little sister. But now…

Now Maester Luwin had given up hope of Arya recovering. Jon could see it in his eyes, in the way he seemed to be more mechanical than anything in his motions to help her. As though there was no real belief left in him, only the certainty that he was delaying the inevitable.

And still Catelyn Stark forbade him from seeing her daughter.

Arya was quite literally his best friend in Winterfell despite the age difference between them. Sansa was too afraid of not appearing the proper young lady to her mother to ever be defiant enough to be outright kind to Jon let alone friendly. Robb, despite his jovial nature, had proven to Jon he always had the fact that Jon was a Snow in the back of his mind. Bran was a great boy, but he wasn't as close to him as he could've been.

The less said about Lady Catelyn, the better.

The household servants of Winterfell may have pitied him if they got to know him, been vaguely annoyed by him if they were only aware of him through his escapades with Arya. But almost universally they looked down upon him for being a lord's bastard and seeming to put on airs beyond his actual station in life. The children of noble families such as Theon Greyjoy and the Umbers or Karstarks looked down upon him for being a noble lord's bastard and being inherently less than his betters no matter how much he tried to disguise it.

But perhaps the most hurtful one was his father, the honorable lord Eddard Stark. He had brought Jon to Winterfell after the war, claimed him as his own, and raised him in his own household. But he had never once spoken of legitimizing Jon as a Stark. Only intervened for Jon's behalf toward Catelyn if she grew outright vindictive toward him. Had always maintained a distance from Jon he did not toward his trueborn children. And refused to tell Jon anything of who he was and where he had come from. It apparently having never once occurred to him that perhaps a small child whose worst crime was to exist would've wanted to know if there had been someone, anyone who had actually been gladdened by his birth.

It was a hard thing for Jon to accept: that if it hadn't been for his honor or intervention by his mother (where or whoever she may be), the righteous Lord Eddard Stark would've never willingly brought Jon to Winterfell to be raised by his family. Jon loved his father despite all this because he was raising him in a higher station than many boys of similar heritage ever got to know. He just wished he could know just once that his father felt the same.

But Arya was not like any of them. She had accepted him as her brother, her sibling, her family from the day she had been born. It was one of the reasons he had always volunteered himself to look after her. Why he had done all he could to encourage her interests and ideas no matter what they were. He had sung songs of heroes for her despite his singing voice being better suited to imitating the dogs growling. He had told her the truth when others would lie because she was young, she was a girl, she was different. And he had never once denied her any acceptance and love he could give. Because she had never denied him. They were the only two Starks of Winterfell who actually resembled Lord Eddard with their grey eyes, dark hair and solemn faces. It had helped them relate to each other in a way they couldn't with their other siblings.

But these last few days it had been harder and harder to stay inside the walls of Winterfell. Lately he would take roam the woods where all the voices he could hear was his own internal voice and the voices of the wild life that surrounded the keep. But this day, he had entered the sept. The only reason he could give himself as to why was because he heard a clear voice whispering to him. It sounded so much like his own, he could almost mistake it for an older version of himself, of his father.

As he entered, he took no time to admire the moonlight shining through the seven pointed star in the window. He moved past the wooden furniture inside to find the Alter of the Mother. There was a flickering candle burning inside of it.

'Lady Catelyn was here recently.' He figured idly to himself.

"Not the elder red-headed woman. The younger one." The voice that had once been an errant whisper spoke up.

Jon yelped in alarm, whirling around to see if anyone had seen him.

"Who goes there?!" he called stridently, right hand instinctively gripping the dagger at his side.

The voice had the audacity to snicker at him. Jon kept whirling again to see where it could be coming from.

"By all means, keep twirling in place tiny dancer." The voice encouraged, continuing to snicker. "That should convince any who come to see you yelling at nothing that you're not insane."

Jon stopped moving, his mind racing as he slowly turned back to the flickering candle.

"Ah, figured it out have you?" the voice said, a definite note of pride in its voice as it spoke from the center of the small flame. "Very good. It usually takes longer than that."

Jon could barely breathed. The voice speaking to him through the flames, it wasn't simply sputtering and whispering at him like the others. It was intelligent. There was something in the fire that was speaking to him. A demon? A spirit? Perhaps a multitude of them? It would certainly explain the odd reverberation and echoing voices he heard just behind the primary speaking voice.

"What are you?" Jon whispered fearfully, hand gripping his dagger in a white knuckled grip that was more for keeping himself from screaming than for protection at this point.

"One who would help you save what you love." It answered, its tone serious and businesslike where once it had been joking and playful.

"Wh-wha…" Jon sputtered, unsure of what he even wanted to say.

"The girl wastes away by the hour child." The voice told him, the previous voice seeming to shift into a different one altogether over the course of that single sentence. Now it sounded closer to what he imagined a wizened old seer would sound like. "They speak of giving her milk of the poppy to ease her passing even now. If you do not act soon, she will be gone and her spark will return to the fire."

Jon fell to his knees before the fire, the shock temporarily preventing him from controlling his legs.

"No." Was all that brokenly escaped his lips. He didn't want to contemplate a world where his little sister was dead.

"It need not be this way child." The voice urged, its conviction lending Jon the strength to look into the heart of the flame.

"What do you mean?" The bastard Stark asked. If he was going insane, he may as well gain something from it, he resolved. If embracing madness meant saving Arya then so be it. Jon knew she deserved more life than this: to be struck down by a wasting illness like this when she hadn't even begun to reach her potential. To show what she could do to the world at large.

"Are you willing to follow instructions? To do what is asked of you? Even if you do not understand how or why it shall change things for now?" The voice asked him, the fire seeming to grow somewhat brighter in Jon's grey eyes.

None but the spirit of the flame and Jon were present to hear him answer.

"Whatever I must do to save Arya, I will."

Three days later, he was ready.

'Dead and Living Wood of the Old Gods, Alter and Idols of the New Gods. When the blinded eye of the sun opens in three night's time, place her upon the alter and use the symbols taken to stroke a new flame into power. When you have done this, I shall return to instruct you further.' Jon's memory supplied for the thirtieth time. He had gathered the deadwood of the Old Gods, never taking that which the Weirwood had not already discarded. After two nights, he was sure he had enough for the inner part of the Sept near the simple stone alter the Septa used for services.

The hardest part had been making sure the aforementioned woman was not inside when he needed to array the gathered materials around the central alter. But luck was with him this night as Septa Mordane left the house of worship to find her way into Winterfell. Jon didn't know why and so didn't know how long it would be until she attempted to return. He hurried through the silent halls as the full moon's light illuminated patches of the stone on the corridors as he hurried to his little sister.

As he had made his way to Arya's chamber, he couldn't help questioning whether this was the right thing to do. But every time he passed another torch that spoke whispers with every flicker, his resolve was renewed. He heard what he heard. And he would accept the consequences of his actions so long as there was even a small chance that he could help his favorite sibling.

Jon snuck into her room and saw her for the first time since she had taken ill. He knew she and Sansa normally shared a set of rooms. Looking at the emaciated, feverish form that occupied the bed, Jon honestly couldn't blame his father and step-mother for wanting to keep Sansa from having to watch Arya become this night after night with no reprieve.

As it was, Jon could barely stand to look at the young girl this way. She was normally so full of life, so curious and active that to see her like this…it seemed like sacrilege against all that Arya was. As he approached the bed, he instinctively smoothed her sweat-soaked and lank hair so that it wasn't in the way of her eyes. They cracked open, but they weren't looking at him. They appeared to be looking beyond Jon like they couldn't even see he was there.

"Mother? " She whispered through cracked lips, her grey eyes dull and barely able to stay open as she appeared ready to drift back to fitful sleep.

Jon picked her up in his arms and hurried down to the Sept, praying that the voice wasn't his fear and grief playing his wits for a fool. He was careful not to jostle her any more than necessary, even in his haste to attempt his insane mystical cure. As he had brought her into the Sept, he dropped a heavy bar across the door before placing her on the stone alter. The moonlight that shone through the universal symbol of the Seven cast one of the most colorful shadows he had ever seen on her slight body.

But Jon was not here to admire the house of worship.

He needed to hurry if this was going to have any chance at succeeding. He pushed a pew in front of the door, grunting and straining as he did. It was a heavy thing, carved from a solid piece of oak. But he had come too far to be interrupted now. The deadwood and carvings of the seven figures surrounding the alter made him morbidly think of funeral pyres. But if this worked, it would instead be a flame of rebirth.

He lit the fire, leaping back in surprise when it roared to life and quickly sought to engulf all that stood in its way whether flammable or not. The voice called to him from inside the fire.

"Hurry child! To her side now! If she is to be saved, the healing cleanse must be directed before it consumes her entirely!"

Jon hurried into the fire, not heeding the clothes he wore that lit up when exposed to the burning element. He reached Arya's side, and instinctively placed his ear to her chest while trying to cover as much of her as he could with his arms.

He was shocked to find that Arya was sweating, but not from any of the heat. It appeared her body was struggling to eject something from itself, her muscles twitching and her voice a mere sighing wind even as it seemed she wished to be louder in expressing her displeasure. Jon desperately tried to think of what to do but couldn't, his panic at her rapidly deteriorating condition and instinctive fear of the fire making his thoughts cloudy and race too fast to keep track of them all.

"Do you trust us to help you?!" The voice called, sounding eerily like Eddard Stark.

Jon could only nod rapidly, eyes darting everywhere as he frantically tried to figure out what it was that he was expected to do. He felt the heat on his bare skin, saw the tongues of fire lick his body. And yet he felt nothing but his own rising panic.

Abruptly his body stilled and his heart-rate calmed. His own mouth opened without his permission to speak words not his own.

"Watch and see." His own voice instructed as his body gripped the sides of Arya's head. He could see there was some kind of heat being channeled through Arya's body. He peripherally noticed a crow had been ousted from its nest in the rafters but could not seem to escape the building inferno. As the fire spread further, it began climbing the supports and the walls whether wood or stone.

Jon felt he was justified in feeling afraid at this moment.

He opened his mouth, drawing a deep inhale of burning air as his splayed hands pressed more forcefully into Arya's temples. He could feel sweat beading at his brow from the effort of whatever the voice was doing, but he couldn't tell what precisely it was.

Without any warning, Arya's mouth wrenched open in time with the trapped bird letting out one last tremendous screech. There was silence from the bird but a growing scream from Arya as her body thrashed and moved beneath his leaning torso.

Jon was very frightened now. It was like a demon was being exorcised from his little sister. But what exactly was performing the exorcism?

Smoke erupted from her mouth as her body visibly grew more and more healthy. Jon felt the smoke enter his own mouth before tunneling forcefully into what felt like the center of his body or perhaps the deepest pits of his soul.

He cried out, hands holding his abdomen as it fluctuated wildly, the burning inside him making the growing fire outside feel as nothing. Arya was up and yelling something at him, trying to quickly make her way past the fires.

He shouted as a violent energy pulsed through his body, blowing the windows of the Sept out and blowing apart the wooden door he had previously barred shut. He whirled to Arya of his own accord, the presence now gone as the pain inside grew and grew in proportion.

"Go now!" He raggedly screamed, bile ejected from his mouth a moment later as he fell to his knees. He was sweating profusely as the last remnants of his clothing burned to nothing and the energy inside him conflicted what felt like his very being. Cracks were forming in the walls and the beams were already starting to groan under the previously supportable roof.

"GOOOOOO!" He shouted one last time as another pulse of energy forced its way through his body, knocking Arya back several feet toward the door even as she tried to get him to move. She tried to yell something back to him as she bolted for the open door.

Jon looked up just in time to see the support beam nearby him break and the stone begin to cascade downward. He saw Arya get through the doorway. The rubble crushed him, he could feel it weighing down every part of his naked body.

But he had to escape not the weight, but the unbearable burning. He dug upward and out trying desperately to escape the smoky fire inside him by perhaps reaching the cold chill of Winterfell's perpetually frosty air. Sooner than he expected, he managed to burst through the ruins of the Sept, stumbling blindly out and toward someone anyone who could help.

As he managed to make a faltering effort at walking somewhere away from the burned husk of a building, his strength abruptly deserted him and the burning with it. With neither pain nor relief left to offer him, his body chose to fall unconscious so that he might better recover.

As he briefly came to rest on his knees before falling face forward, he noticed Arya watching him unerringly, no sign of her sickness in any part of her demeanor or appearance.

Before he was dead to the world, Jon Snow had one last thought cross his mind.

'I don't know what you did. But whoever you are…thank you.'

A/N: Reviews are welcomed and encouraged.