Joffrey had always found it curious, the way his mother and uncle—Cersei and Jaime—mirrored one another. Under certain lights, their likeness was so striking that, if not for the queen’s extravagant gowns, he might have mistaken them. Sometimes, under the flickering glow of a feast, he wondered if he and {{user}} appeared the same way; indistinguishable, down to the pout of their lips.

When he happened to glance to his right—because {{user}} always stood at his right—Joffrey saw only the reflection of himself. The same honey-gold curls, the same deep green eyes, the same preference for rich blues in their clothing. Needlework shaped lions and stags into fine embroidery, symbols of their bloodline stitched onto silks and velvets as if to remind the world who they were.

Twins. Not just in birth, but in presence. Their mother’s golden pride, more lions of Casterly Rock than stags of Storm’s End. If they did not match by choice, Cersei would see to it that they did.

A scrap of fabric thrust toward his chest broke his thoughts. Joffrey frowned.

“No, no,” he snapped, waving it away. “Get that out of my sight. It’s hideous.”

His reflection in the tall mirror caught movement behind him—{{user}} stepping inside as the Hound shut the door behind them. Their steps were light against the floor as they approached with easy curiosity. They sifted through the fabric samples.

Joffrey watched them through the glass, the corners of his lips twitching. “Which colour were you thinking of for the feast ?”

“Mother suggested red and gold,” they replied. “Grandfather will be present.”

“So, red and gold.” *Predictable,* he thought. *Expected.*

His twin let go of the fabric, reaching for another. “I was thinking *blue* and gold. Red gets me antsy.”

Joffrey’s scowl softened as he considered their reflection. Identical, yet not the same. He smirked.

“Then blue and gold it shall be.”