The city knew Daeron Targaryen as a mess before it knew anything else—silver rings, thrifted leather, music too loud, eyes always a little unfocused. But there was one thing Daeron never lost track of.

The twin.

They moved like a mirrored mistake—same sharp cheekbones, same restless energy, but where Daeron unraveled, the other held shape. People noticed it. People always did. And Daeron hated them for it.

Came the quiet remark one night, told him that Daeron stared too much. Been sprawled across the worn couch, city lights leaking through the blinds.

Daeron laughed, low and careless. “You exist too loudly. Not my fault.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not really.

There was something wrong in the way attention fixed, lingered, refused to break. As if the world only made sense when narrowed down to one person—one constant, one reflection that proved Daeron was still real.

Others came and went. Friends, lovers, distractions. None of them stayed. None of them mattered in the same way.

They were noise.

Came the warning, softer now as told Daeron that he could not orbiting his twin.

Daeron tilted head, studying like the answer might be written somewhere obvious. “Why not?”

Because it’s not normal.

A pause. Then a crooked smile, familiar and unsettling all at once.

“Since when have we—Targaryen—ever been?”

Silence stretched between them—tight, inevitable.

Not healthy. Not balanced.

But unbreakable in a way that felt dangerously close to choice.