Oberyn

He'd waited as long as he could bear before entering the training yard, not wishing to seem desperate or nosy or overly curious. A viper's strength came from striking at a moment of its own choosing, and Oberyn was rather unnerved at his willingness to bypass such an advantage just so he could spar with these strangers.

He was no fool, nor could he ever be accused of being humble. Oberyn was acutely aware that there were few men alive who could ever challenge him in a fight—Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy would likely beat him, and Aegon as he'd been before his fight with Euron Greyjoy could've given him a hell of a challenge based off of the training he'd watched out of the corner of his eye on the ship to Essos. Areo Hotah and Robert Baratheon would probably stand a fair chance as well, as would a dozen or so others scattered across the rest of the continent.

He had smugly crossed Jaime Lannister's name off of the list upon seeing him at Joffrey's wedding. After all, he hadn't saved Elia even with both hands.

But at the end of the day, these were creatures he knew—they'd trained in the same forms he had, in the same land, in the same era (relatively, at least). But these new strangers had appeared as if from smoke, from further back and further away than even he could easily comprehend. They were a mystery, and his Dornish pride would be damned if he didn't see how they measured up. Not to mention, he needed to know how well that man could handle his spear.

For all else he was, he was still a man.

So there he was, strolling into the training yard at dawn, before any others had arrived. He knew he should warm up, so that he would not be caught wanting when the other spear wielder—Eldric, he believed he'd been briefly introduced as—arrived.

'Ah, greetings. I'd hoped to find you here at some point, Prince Oberyn.'

Fuck.

Eldric was sat cross legged, wiping down the point of his spear. There was no sheen or grim stench that often accompanied Oberyn's own spear point, but there was an unmistakable singing sound as he wiped his rag. This was live steel—no more, no less. The fucker had the audacity to be chirpy as well, grinning widely as he jumped up, spear in hand.

Oberyn simply nodded at the man and wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes as he began to stretch, feeling what felt like every joint in his body crack. 'Apologies. I meant to come here sooner, but the rather tenuous political situation forbade me from doing so.' Yes, that sounds convincing enough. He put an arm behind him and grabbed his foot, feeling the tension rise in his legs as he stretched. 'I've been seeing one of your companions at the various meetings, but none of you or the other two.' He picked up his spear and gave it a quick twirl, stifling a yawn.

'Yes, politics have always been more of Nissa's area. Well, hers and Azor's, wherever he is.' Eldric slowly began to circle, his grasp on his spear tightening. Oberyn followed suit.

'You believe he's returned as well?' His first thrust was swift, but easily batted away.

'Without a doubt.' Eldric feinted to Oberyn's right before lunging lef—

Oberyn jumped back, narrowly avoiding the sharp point of his opponent's spear that had narrowly missed his right arm. Seven Hells. That was too close.

'I can't imagine why someone like me would be brought back if he wasn't,' Eldric continued. 'I'm just a soldier—a very good soldier, in all fairness, but just a soldier nonetheless. Give me something to kill, and I'll kill it, something to defend, and I'll defend it. But this war requires more than just soldiers—it requires thinkers, and I can think of few better than Azor.'

'I see.' Oberyn's response was short as he stabbed downwards at Eldric's knee. As predicted, he swept his spear in a low arc to swat it away and was thoroughly caught off guard when Oberyn kicked his own shaft, sending the spearhead toward his stomach. He'd stop before it did any damage to the man, of course, but—

Of course he fucking catches it. Anyone else would likely have struggled, but of course the man in a full set of armour at dawn was able to catch the spear before it hit him and send it straight back.

They continued for a while, neither truly gaining the upper hand, but always keeping each other on their toes. He fought strangely for a spear wielder, Oberyn thought, with a style more akin to a swordsman than someone like himself. He'd always thought—no, known—that a spearman was supposed to be light on his feet, dancing around the danger until it was time to strike, before retreating and repeating. Eldric, it seemed, would rather take a hit he knew he could take if it would provide him a better opening, and then exploit that for all it was worth. His own hits did little against the metal plating, and the man had at last half a foot on him, with none of the wiriness that allowed for Oberyn's own acrobatics.

In short, it was like fighting a brick wall.

Then their spears were at each other's throats, staying for a moment before being hastily rescinded.

'Not bad, Prince Oberyn. Not bad at all,' Eldric gave him a smile, before turning around, placing his spear on the floor, and starting to do push ups.

Absolutely fucking insane. It's barely dawn. I…I need to go back to sleep.

Arthur

It wasn't his worst by a long way—the arrows scattered around the foot of the target could attest to that—but rarely hitting anywhere near the target's centre was embarrassing to say the least. He was Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, for fuck's sake. He should be able to get a damned bullseye.

Another arrow loosed, another disappointment. He reached into the quiver on his hip for another arrow, only to find none there.

It would appear I've already wasted all of them. Arthur sighed and slowly made his way over to the target, first picking up the arrows on the ground, before beginning to pluck the arrows out of the target. One had almost hit the bullseye, he noticed. Maybe he wasn't quite as hopeless as he'd thought.

'Wow, you…you are hopeless.'

Arthur spun at the words, seeing that they'd come from one of the strangers from the east. He knew he'd introduced himself, but he'd never been good with names—let alone foreign ones. Something with an H, maybe? He was ridiculously tall, Arthur could see, with an unstrung bow that almost seemed to be his own height.

'I'm sorry?'

'You should be. I have not seen such a poor display of archery in…many, many, years.' The man seemed to be squinting at the target, as though he was individually scrutinising where each of Arthur's shots had gone wrong. 'Show me.'

'What?'

'The bow, the arrow?' The stranger stared at him as though he were talking to a lackwit or a child. Perhaps both. 'Show me why you have such trouble.' His accent was notably stronger than Nissa's had been, with none of the fluency or lyricism that she'd possessed. Personally, Arthur was confused as to how the group spoke the common tongue of the modern era so skilfully, bearing in mind that they came from millennia prior and thousands of leagues away. That, however, would have to be a mystery for another time.

Currently, he was occupied with proving this man wrong.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, walking over to him with an extended hand. 'Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall.'

The man ignored the hand. 'Hyrkoon.' He pointed at the target. 'Now.'

Arm outstretched, firm grip. Nock arrow, elbow back. Aim, and loose.

The arrow sailed off, just managing to stick to the outer rim.

Fuck.

'You are…bad at this.'

Arthur gritted his teeth. 'I know.'

'Do it again. But this time, do not let do until I say so.'

Arthur got back into position, and almost immediately felt Hyrkoon's firm hands on him. His elbow was raised, his shoulders straightened. That made sense to Arthur—he'd trained many men in swordplay, and it was always easier to give a man a position to stay in, than just a demonstration to emulate.

And then his hips were grabbed and abruptly yanked, being twisted so that they ran parallel to his shoulders.

'Seven Hells!'

'Quiet. After this, you will shoot better. You will see.'

Hyrkoon pushed Arthur's knee the slightest bit forward and nodded, the slightest ghost of a smile on his face. 'Now you are ready.'

Arthur was about to loose, when—

'Stop.' And there were his hands again, now holding his own in a vice grip. 'Your aim, it…it leans. You must be steady as a rock.' He slowly moved his hands away once more, and Arthur made a pointed effort to keep his hands steady, the warmth of Hyrkoon's hand still lingering on his own.

The string was still quivering, and Arthur couldn't believe it. A bullseye. Well, not quite a bullseye, he noticed as he squinted. But an improvement to be sure.

Hyrkoon nodded, his stony face betraying nothing. 'Good. Again.' And there came the hands again, with every bit of forcefulness as before. Only this time, Arthur found that he didn't mind it quite so much.

Lyanna

'Fuck!' she shouted as her sword went careening to the floor.

'Again!' came the reply, louder.

All her life, people—men, generally—had spoken of her wildness, as though she were some kind of beast that could not be tamed. She'd always taken it as a point of pride—why should she, a wolf, so willingly step into the gilded cage that was expected of a woman of her station?

Compared to Yin Tar, Lyanna felt like little more than a tame pup. She'd seemed innocuous enough at first, staying largely silent as her companions told their story with only the occasional interjection. Then, as meals often would when there was no—or at least, little—political pretence, more alcohol was brought out, and everyone was exposed to a very different side of their new guests.

It had been the one in the armour to suggest it; an innocent drinking competition between himself, Yin, and anyone else who wished to join in. Robert had, of course, as had Ser Duncan, Oswell, and Lyonel—all men grown, with decades of combined drinking experience, and all roughly a foot taller than Yin. There'd been boasts, and jokes, and no small amount of chauvinism, which Lyanna frankly wasn't particularly shocked to see. What had been a shock, however, was Yin being the last woman standing, with Eldric and Robert conceding simultaneously as they both left to frantically look for a chamber pot where they might empty their guts.

When Lyanna asked how she'd done it, she'd simply smiled at her, her eyes glassy and unfocused. 'Practice, my dear. Practice, and spite,' she'd said, before promptly passing out.

Fair enough.

Since then, Lyanna had begun to see that they were the two main tenets of how Yin seemed to live her life—in the practice yard she'd never fight as though her life did not depend on it, and on the rare occasion where anyone was able to get the upper hand in a fight, her opponent would not be allowed to leave until she'd figured out a way to counter whatever it was that had challenged her.

Practice and spite. Lyanna was now on the receiving end of both, her sword knocked into the dust as Yin continued to circle.

'Again!'

'Gods! Can't we…have a break?' she panted, reaching down and picking up her sword nonetheless. After all, she knew what the answer would be.

Yin stared at her with an incredulous look on her face. 'People like us don't get to take breaks. At least, not when we can't keep our swords in our hands in a simple spar.'

'People like us?'

'Women.' Yin sighed. 'Look around. I'm better with a sword than any of these men, and I'm still viewed as a freak, a novelty, simply because I was born with a cunt. I've earnt my place here, through constant practice, constant honing, constant work. You…you haven't. Yet.' She twirled her sword in her hand with impressive fluidity and shot Lyanna a cocky grin. 'You ready?'

Lyanna nodded.

It was a good twenty seconds or so before her sword was on the ground once more.

'Again!'

Aegon

There was a tiny sliver of light coming from the crescent moon high overhead, guiding him directly to the rack of swords. The torches had long gone out, and the one creature that might have been able to aid Aegon in relighting them was currently asleep in his chambers.

No matter. Surely training in the dark couldn't hurt. It wasn't as if he could see particularly well anyway.

Since his awakening a week ago, he'd been able to stand for the last five days, and able to wield a sword for the last two. Rhaenys had been against it, of course, insisting that he needed to rest, but Visenya had supported his desire. If he says he can do it, he can do it, she'd said. It turned out that he couldn't do it, having promptly found himself absent a sword in his hand, with the dull point of his sister's at his throat.

Whilst bed-bound, he'd read all he could of his life, trying to piece together the truth behind the man the world knew as Aegon the Conqueror. It was disheartening to say the least; reading of all these exploits, only to be unable to back any of it up. Neither of his sisters had said anything, of course, but the look in their eyes upon seeing his lack of ability had said enough.

So here he was, alone in the training yard when the castle was asleep. He'd be damned if he wasn't to improve, and he knew that at some point that would involve fighting with someone else. But…not yet. He picked up a sword and began going through the motions, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and chest.

One. Two. Three. Four.

One. Two. Three. Four.

One. Two. Thre—

'You shouldn't train alone. It does naught but embed your mistakes,' came a voice from the shadows, making him drop his sword.

A thousand curses on this one bloody eye, and on this bloody darkness. Gods, I knew I should've brought the dragon.

Flint could be heard striking steel, and one of the torches adorning the walls came to life with a dull flicker. A figure stepped forward, and for a moment Aegon thought someone might mean him harm. Then he saw who it was, and relaxed. After all, what harm could a serving girl—and one as small as this, no less—do to someone even as unskilled as him.

'Greetings,' he said, beginning to smile before the pain in his cheek stopped him from doing so. 'Might I ask what you're doing here?'

The girl shrugged. 'Training. Isn't it obvious?' She gave a brief gesture to the skinny blade in her belt.

'I suppose it is, yes.' He turned away, picked up the sword, and resumed where he'd left off.

'Are you the king that took an axe to the face?'

Aegon pointed to the bandages on his face. 'Isn't it obvious?'

One. Two. Three. Four.

One. Two—

'You're doing it wrong.'

'I can assure you that I am n—'

'You're fighting like a knight. Knights are strong and slow. You're slow, sure, but you don't have the strength.'

'I am—'

'—A man who was grievously injured,' the girl interrupted. 'You wouldn't keep sprinting if you'd twisted your ankle, so why should you fight as though you were never injured?'

Gods, she's incessant. She might have a point though.

'Fine,' he conceded. 'What should I do, then, if you're such an expert?'

'Build up your strength. Your muscles know what they want to do but lack the means to do it.'

'And in the meantime?'

The girl thought for a second. 'Move more. It's like you're made of wood, rooted to the ground.'

'And here I thought a strong foundation was important to swordplay. Vital, even.'

'It is. But is yours really that strong?'

It happened too fast. One moment, he was stood, sword loosely grasped in his hand—the next, he was on the ground, her foot on his chest and he blade at his throat. She smiled at him and offered a hand. 'See, if you'd been moving, you might have avoided that.'

He nodded and accepted the hand. 'I suppose so. Any more pieces of advice?'

'One or Two.'

Eddard

He hadn't slept tonight. Of course, he hadn't been sleeping much recently, what with the revelation that with all that was coming, Jon—his nephew, and his son in all but name—would have to be right in the middle of it. It was some twisted cycle, and the boy that he'd raised as his own would be at the heart of it.

So, Ned walked, just as he did every night. Recently, he'd strolled through the Red Keep, in the hopes that the warmth of the castle might aid him in going to sleep. Tonight, though, he needed air. Ice ran through his veins, and he needed to feel the cold—or at least, as close to cold as the south could offer.

He heard a clang, followed by a curse. That wasn't particularly surprising in itself—after all, he was close to the keep's training yard, and clangs and curses were exceedingly common there. No, what was strange was the hour at which they could be heard, and, stranger yet, who they were coming from.

Aegon was there, sword in hand, trading blows and barbs with an opponent that Ned couldn't quite see. He considered going over to watch for a brief moment, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. The man was recovering from a terrible injury and learning how to use the blade once more from the very start. The last thing he needed was someone poking their nose in. With that, Ned resolved to return to his chambers for another night of tossing and turning, making his way back to the corridor.

'You mean to tell me that you're not afraid?' Eddard was stopped in his tracks at the sound of Aegon's voice. It was raspier than it had previously been, but still maintained its prior sovereignty.

'I do. I once knew a man who said that in a fight, fear was the greatest weakness a person could have, greater even than being shit with a sword. "Fear cuts deeper than swords," he'd tell me.'

Fear cuts deeper than swords. The words echoed in Ned's head like the ringing of a sept bell, and he was brought back to a time that simultaneously felt like yesterday, and like another age entirely. It can't be.

'That's…fair enough, I suppose,' Aegon replied. 'But surely the fear is still there. One day, death will surelu be before you—will you not feel fear then?'

'To death, I would simply say: "not today." Another lesson from my friend.'

Seven Hells.

Aegon chuckled. 'By the gods, have you ever been afraid?'

She circled round, and came into Ned's view for the first. 'Never.' Her tone was steady and her eyes didn't flicker. It might have been the perfect lie, if only she were not biting her lip, and if it wasn't a spoken from the mouth of a face he'd recognise anywhere.

'Arya?'

A/N: Another chapter, completed for your viewing pleasure. I tried to do something a bit different with this chapter, centering it all all around the training yard. Hope you enjoyed it!

Cheers as always to everyone who follows, favourites, and reviews-you guys keep me writing.

Cheers again, and see you next time,

-Kinginthenorth1

Kingmanaena: Thank you!

Jelpy1: Cheers-glad your enjoying the story, and thanks for your comment about my characterisation. A lot of the story has been more character-based than action-based, so that means a lot :)

Force Smuggler: Glad you think so! And yeah, for Brandon there do seem to be a few occasions of special stupidity in both of his lifetimes.

1962strat: Yeah, he, Lann, and Garth all resurrected beyond the wall, but stayed in the far north.

Every returned character: Jon, Orys (deceased), Lyonel, Robert, Aegon I & V, Rhaegar, Ned, Lyanna, Brandon, Robb, Oswell, Oberyn, Arthur, Gerold (deceased), Nymeria, Rhaenys, Visenya, Eldric, Azor, Nissa, Hyrkoon, Yin Tar, Brandon the Builder, Lann, Garth, Duncan, Aemon. I think that's all of them.