Outside the big windows was a storm raging, it thundered and lightened, while the three oldest Children of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen were spending their afternoon in the old library of Dragonstone to study high valyrian.

A fire crackled and illuminated their unusual brown locks, that all three shared.

It wouldn't have been their first choice to spend the days until the storm calmed down, but their mother had insisted on it.

"Nyke jaelagon naejot ipradagon issa zaldrīzes."

For a reason.