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    Summary

    Dunk was sure he had a bit of bastard blood in him. There was no other way to explain the scales that creeped up his skin when he wasn’t careful, the way his back itched as though something was waiting to burst out. It would have been easier, perhaps, if those strange gifts had been a stag’s horns. A fish’s gills. The points of pin feathers.

    Everyone knows what happens to Targaryen bastards, Rafe told him as the form took over him once - and only once, shivering in that tiny hole they had carved out for themselves. Look at Redgrass.

    He tried not to think of Redgrass.

    Meanwhile, Aerion Targaryen could care less about Dunk’s supposed bastardy. He’s much more interested in getting Dunk in his nest with a clutch of eggs - immediately.

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