Heading over towards my hanger I can’t help but note the difference in dress between my people and those I often come across in my visions. The typical clothing worn by men of Summer Isles includes a brightly coloured, intricately patterned, loose fit cotton shirt known as a hembi. On the lower half a tube of fabric of distinct colours and designs, which is called a sarong, is sported. This tube of fabric is tied at the waist in such a way to allow freedom of movement of both legs. The choice of footwear varies depending on occasion from bare foot to sandals or boots in the forests. The ensemble is completed with feathers and other decorations to create an elegant but natural impression. The foreigners in my visions on the other hand have always appeared distasteful of colour often garbed in clothing made to resemble the earth and the rocks. The inhabitants of the snowy castle in particular, are clothed in very drab outfits. Dressed in my signature outfit of a dark blue shirt and ivory white sarong, I place on some sandals and finally step out to embrace the new day.

Outside I squint helplessly at the sudden attack of sunlight that invades my eyes. The smell and sounds of nature draw me out of my pensive mood. Internally I thank as many deities as I can think of, for being born in such a resplendent island. The contrast between the foreign castles and this verdant green paradise cannot be any starker in my mind. I have lost countless nights of sleep to my visions, but it’s comforting to know I’ve at least gained perspective. I languidly move avoiding the spots of sunlight peeking through the foliage of the tall trees that shade the town. If speaking to a tourist, I would point to these trees as being the true landmark of this town. Upon the trees exist the entire history of the Summer Isles and so much more for those with the ability to read them. A diminishing group due to the current trend of learning foreign languages to improve future prospects on the continent.

The sound of light footsteps behind me jolts me from my thoughts.

“Prince Mostafa, your parents have asked me to fetch you for breakfast.” Inquired the silky unmistakable voice of my attendant Niyar.

Niyar has been my attendant ever since I was four years old, and though technically employed by my family has always been more like an older sibling owing to the fact that we are distantly related on my mother’s side. Interestingly in my visions, differences in status were far more concrete than on the isles and more than once I witnessed people being punished for not showing due deference. I make a mental note to be more careful how I address people when I go on my journey.

“Let me guess, they don’t even trust me to get to breakfast anymore.” I inquire, more teasing than angry.

“Your parents are only concerned you’ll end up daydreaming and lose track of time again.” Countered Niyar with a self-satisfied grin on her face.

Internally promising to get my own back, I begin strutting in the direction of the breakfast table with Niyar following behind me. Breakfast as per usual, is served in my parents’ courtyard in the centre of the town which means a long walk in the morning due to mine being on the outskirts. I pass the time smiling and greeting the citizenry even occasionally making faces at any children. Entering the courtyard, I quickly greet my parents and rush into my assigned seat. Across from me being my parents and next to me being the empty seat designated for Niyar. As soon as Niyar sits down, everyone stirs into action.

Family tradition dictates that conversations only occur after the meal so all of us dig in. My eyes are drawn to the bloodwood dining table covered with plates of roasted fish, flat breads, cured meats, assorted vegetables and fruits. A proper islander breakfast is based on variety and my mouth waters at the sight of it. Sparing little concern for table manners and pageantry, I get my hands dirty and wash it all down with copious amounts of water and fruit juices. Finally stuffed to bursting, I slouch down in my chair and relax. Looking around the table I notice our little family would be considered anomalous wherever we go including the Summer Isles.

My father, who is known as Prince Boqar, typical of male islanders has a dark umber skin tone, hazel brown eyes and a well-defined jawline. His physique is tall and imposing with musculature that screams of someone who has lived an active lifestyle. His preferred outfit includes a crimson blood-red shirt; black sarong with gold trimmings; and plumage of red and black feathers draped over his shoulders giving a regal impression.

Niyar and my mother, Princess Reina, on the other hand due to their Rhoynar descent appear markedly different to other islanders. Their bronzed skin with golden undertones, large bewitching eyes and cascading black hair have turned heads far too often for my father’s liking. While my mother carries herself with decorum as is befitting of her status; Niyar has a mischievous personality unsuitable for a maiden of eighteen years old. Even her use of my official title prince is simply because she recognises it irritates me. My mother is garbed in an aquamarine gown with a multicoloured cape of feathers draped over her back. Niyar prefers practicality and opts for a burnt maroon cotton blouse worn over a white wrap dress that ends at the calf.

“If you’re quite finished daydreaming, I have something to share.” My father says interrupting my train of thought.

“Don’t mind me, was just wondering how many more pieces of fish you could fit before exploding.” I riposte

“Much more than you, little princess” he teased. A muffled snickering to my left informs me that Niyar enjoyed that almost as much as my father did.

“Enough, just give him the good news honey.” interrupted my mother exasperated with our daily routine.

“Just teasing him dear”

“Anyways, your enrolment to the citadel is finally complete. According to the acceptance letter you are to present yourself to an Archmaester Walgrave before the new semester.” My father announced unfurling a scroll from inside his pocket.

Jumping to my feet, I latch out and grasp the acceptance letter, the excitement of the new information getting the better of me momentarily. The acceptance letter simply means that much to me. To any aspiring scholar, the citadel is one of the greatest founts of knowledge in the known world but to me it offers an answer to the visions that have plagued me my entire life.

The visions I see, never appear in any order or pattern, I simply witness events play out in far off lands. Without context it is impossible to understand what they mean if anything and how I should utilise what I’ve learnt. The main inference I’ve been able to make is that they are set in Westeros and Essos due to the prominence of dragons in my dreams. The citadel will allow me to finally connect the dots and understand my destiny. Impatient to return to my chronicle and recap the things I’ve already learnt, I start heading back to my courtyard with vigour.

“Lovely to see you so eager about training.” My mother grinned entirely aware I had just forgotten about it.

A grunt of displeasure later, I recalibrate my destination to the training ground and set off. My daily training is part of a settlement I agreed to with my parents when I was ten years old in exchange for being allowed to enrol at the citadel. Initially my family was set against me going to the citadel citing the dangers, lack of fellow islanders, potential discrimination and my relatively young age. To overcome this, I suggested that I would be willing to undergo the same training as the sea guards of the Summer Isles.

Disputes and conflicts on the Summer Isles have always been civil and owing to the number of rules and independent judges’ death infrequent. The cost of failure at its worst being exile. Though the rules and customs had a positive effect on the peaceful nature of the island, it resulted in us being vulnerable to foreign attack. This weakness was exploited to its fullest extent by slavers during the years of shame. To overcome this a sea guard of trusted individuals was produced which would be specialise in the more brutal warfare tactics the foreigners employed. By agreeing to the same training as the sea guards, my parents would feel assured that I would be able to keep myself safe.

Finally descending on the training ground, I head over to the weapons rack and heft my heavy staff made entirely from ebony. Ebony wood is heavier than the typical material used for combat spears hence makes good equipment for training. Taking care to not instil any bad habits, I begin slowly moving between the spear forms I was taught over the last few years. As I become more comfortable, the pace of my transitions speeds up and my staff becomes more forceful. Under the baking hot midday sun, sweat starts to drop from my forehead. The combination of the staff’s weight and vigorous movements starts to take its toll. Adding an extra layer of complexity to my training, I start to introduce footwork to my staff techniques. Taking slight pride in my movements, I wonder if my staff would appear blurry and indistinguishable to any opposition. Placing the heavy ebony staff back, I instead wield a red oak spear and shield combo hung on the end of the rack. The combination of the spear and shield is the cornerstone on which the fighting techniques of the Isles is built on. The ability to control distance with the spear and defend freely with the shield combines to form a deadly combatant. The training remains similar to before but utilises different stances, the difficulty is increased due to the need to consider the shield as well.

Finally coming to the end of my daily training, I begin archery practise. The importance of archery to the Summer Isles cannot be understated, children are expected to begin practise as soon as they are able to lift a bow. The formation of the sea guard though crucial to our continued success was a long-term operation. The archery of the isles was the single most important factor in ending the years of shame. When Princess Xanda united the islands and placed a goldenheart bow in the hands of each of the sailors, she showed the nations of the world that we would no longer be underestimated. Archery practise involves stationary targets at varying ranges and proceeds towards hitting targets you’ve thrown. The difficulty of thrown targets ramps up due to need to notch your arrow in a short period of time. Content with my training, I decide to take a break with my back to one of the tall trees in the training ground. In my relaxed state I begin to drift off to sleep, feeling the characteristic foreboding that precedes a vision.