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At first, it is deafening.
It is destruction.
It is every single particle of him, of it, shattering like a glass dropped at a feast, except it is not glass it is ice it is pure ice and every inch of him is crackling falling slicing-
It is shards of his demolition slicing minuscule cuts across her cheeks, nose, hands, ears, any uncovered flesh. Her skin is raw and warm and oozing but it feels as though every piece of the ice is stuck, lodged inside, finding home underneath the surface of her human shell.
It is the crack, the shriek, the piercing sound of the ice bursting all around her, enveloping her in a white, sharp, freezing mist as she falls, catches herself with her hand on the ground covered in snow or ice or them or it.
Then, it is silence.
It is stillness, enveloping the trees and the snow and the wind and the bodies, the countless bodies that surround them in a circle of eerie, horrific tranquility. All dead now, once half and half, facing each other, fighting until the winter took them.
It is the fog that her breath makes, the telltale sign of freezing conditions right in front of her, the shadow that follows her with every laboured breath she takes even though she still doesn’t dare to make a noise
It is Theon, the first one she sees when she dares to turn her back to the ghost of the monster that once held her by the throat. His eyes half closed, blood pooling and already crystallizing over from his mouth, his abdomen, places she cannot dare to imagine.
It is the absence of any gust of wind, as though the cosmos has recognized that it can too let its guard down for just one moment.
It is Bran, looking at her, directly at her, and not uttering a single word.
It is cold.
It is the frost that has settled amongst the branches of the trees, on the handles of the wheelchair, on the tips of her blood-soaked boots.
It is the frigid handprint on her neck, both numb and biting and marking her, she knows, without having to see it herself.
It is the chill of the very blood in her veins, the feeling of going from an army to just two living souls in a matter of the seconds.
Suddenly, it is pain.
It is a white-hot wave that crashes over her, engulfs her whole.
It is her knees hitting the ground as she falls forward, every inch of her shaking, unsteady.
It is her breath coming in gasps, frost clouds erratic as her brain tries to take inventory of the damages done.
It is her mouth, wide open, a silent scream that will not dislodge itself from the middle of her throat as she urges her eyes to stay open, stay aware, because she needs to get up and reassess and find her family and how can she do that when every inch of her body is roaring?
It is death, she knows it is.
It’s all around her now, the piles upon piles of bodies of creatures and humans alike and she can’t even tell who was fighting on their side from the beginning.
It is the bile that rises in her throat and she can’t tell if it’s from the overwhelming realization that it is over or from the pounding, searing pain at the front of her head.
And then, it is Jon.
It is his figure, come from nowhere, in front of her.
It is his hands grabbing her shoulders, forcing her eyes to look directly into his as he speaks words that her ears don’t quite catch.
It is the cocktail of concern and astonishment that is written over every bit of him, as she feels herself begin to sway and he grabs the back of her head, tilts to towards him.
It is his chapped lips pressing an urgent kiss to her forehead, his arms pulling her in so close that she can feel his heartbeat through every layer he is wearing.
It is his uninhibited smile as his face appears again in her vision, his voice as it rings out in almost jubilant laugh, his words, the first ones that she can process clearly.
“You did it, Arya.”
And despite it all, it is euphoria.