you're eleven when criston figures out the truth.

when he sees traces of his mother's face on your tiny frame, hears hints of his own laughter on your lips, sees flecks of his father's steely determination in your lavender eyes. you were born only a few weeks early, besides the colour of your hair, no one had cause to think you weren't the child of rhaenyra targaryen and laenor velaryon.

criston, however, had assumed for much of your life that you were the bastard child of harwin strong, like your brothers. and then the truth smacked him in the face like a swinging door. the swinging door of his passage into your life. he'd spent your entire life until now being a jeering ass toward you and your family. toward his own bastard child.

he was torn; on one hand, you were half rhaenyra and he hated her. but you were half him and not just him, but his mother and his father and by the gods, he couldn't hate you, couldn't bring himself to hate you when his mother's face stared back at him.

"{{user}}, where is your mother?" criston asked, taking a step closer to you. the royal family had come to driftmark to pay their respects to the late laena velaryon. and you were alone. your brothers off comforting your cousins. you weren't good in crowds.