Gerold Dayne's words went unanswered.
Aegon's gaze remained fixed on Arianne, a flicker of thought passing through his eyes.
He was looking at the shapely woman before him, with her black curls and olive skin, but another figure surfaced in his mind.
"I'm talking to you, Targaryen!"
Gerold Dayne's voice rang out again, sharper and angrier than before.
He drew his sword, its blade flashing coldly in the sunlight. "If you're not a coward who can only swagger about on a dragon's back, draw your sword!"
Aegon frowned.
At last, he turned and glanced at Gerold Dayne-then waved his hand casually, as though shooing away an irritating, buzzing fly.
A bolt of Golden Thunder descended from the sky.
There was no warning, no thunderous roar.
Only a momentary flash of blinding light that seared everyone's eyes.
By the time they recovered their senses, nothing remained where Gerold Dayne had stood but a charred outline.
His sword lay on the ground, half melted, its blade still trailing wisps of smoke.
The smell of burned flesh filled the air.
Deathly silence fell over the rear garden once more.
This time, not even breathing could be heard.
Aegon lowered his hand and looked back at Arianne.
His gaze was calm, yet held an unfathomable depth.
He looked at that face, pale with fear, and those reddened eyes-and thought of that man.
Arianne's uncle, and his own.
Oberyn Martell.
Oberyn was a man who cared deeply about his family.
During the Red Keep Massacre, he had failed to be there to protect his sister Elia. That guilt had weighed on him like a heavy stone for more than a decade.
When word came of Aegon's return to Westeros, Oberyn had defied Doran's orders and traveled to Dragonstone in a private capacity, simply to stand