#bran writes

[lemonbronze]

HEY EVERYONE!! Check out this preview for my contribution to Almost Sentimental: A Ferdibert AU Zine! I have had a blast writing for this zine and I’m so excited that it’s all coming together now!

Reservations are now open at @ferdibertauzine so be sure to grab a copy if you’re interested!

[fromtheseventhhell]

It's crazy that people still uphold show!Sansa as a well-written character and pretend that liking her is the pinnacle of feminism when it would be infinitely more impactful to acknowledge her terrible and misogynistic writing. This is the same character who, while written by two men, was thankful for the abuse she suffered because it allowed her to grow. The same character who we had to be told was smart because the writers were too lazy to develop or show her intelligence. The same character who had to rely heavily on the men surrounding her and ended up accomplishing nothing on her own merit ( and no, thinking that she deserved to be Queen doesn't mean that she earned it). She is not well-written, she is not complex, and she is not a feminist character. Which is fine! If you enjoy her then good on you, but please stop pretending that she's something she isn't just because you feel the need to justify liking her character

[catofoldstones]

I am too dumb for the asoiaf tumblr fandom and I am too level-headed for the asoiaf reddit fandom, where do I go?

[mrsthunderkin]

Don't mind me just using a new-ish boy for more shading practice

His name's Bran

He's a menace

First one is his usual look second one is his glamored look to look like an elf which honestly isn't a huge stretch lmao

[xiv-wolfram]

How NOT to Make a New OC

Write a throwaway side character to be killed - literary fodder to progress your main character's arc.

Make the horrible mistake of naming them.

Give them a backstory to round them out so they're not a hollow walking archetype.

Think "Maybe they don't need to die."

Rewrite your main character's arc so the insignificant fodder character doesn't have to actually die. That was just you being lazy anyway - right?

Quickly find yourself sobbing at everything your precious brave bean has survived and swear no harm will ever come to your new perfect blorbo.

[fanfictionroxs]

Obviously they had to kill off all the Rhaewin boys (Jace, Luke, Joffrey) because they could have completely changed the dragon game since the descendants of the First Men can warg and if even ONE of them got that ability then they woulda been a powerhouse.

Imagine blood of the first men through Harwin (warg ability) mixed with targ blood through Rhaenyra (connected with dragons) = Jace, Luke, Joffrey aka kids with the genetic mix of being able to warg into freaking dragons.

It would be communication with dragons on a level never seen before. I know that targ + first men kids might have existed earlier too, but none had access to dragons the way the strong boys did. No wonder they were all killed :(

PS Maybe Jon will get this ability? Bran could guide him through it since Bran seems to be powerful enough to warg into dragons without targaryen blood.

[jackoshadows]

“None offered a name, but he marked their faces well so he could revenge himself upon them later. They shoved him down every time he tried to rise, and kicked him when he curled up on the ground. But then they heard a roar. ‘That’s my father’s man you’re kicking,’ howled the she-wolf.” “A wolf on four legs, or two?” “Two,” said Meera. - Bran II, ASoS

Bran wanting to know if it was an actual wolf talking 😂😂😂

[hacked-wtsdz]

A little obsessed with themes of haunting and ghosts in asoiaf. Characters are surrounded by ghosts, they are ghosts, they love ghosts, they are part of ghosts, they live in places that are ghosts, they unleash ghosts and they bargain with ghosts, most importantly they are haunted by ghosts. Ghosts and curses and prophecies are all very closely tied together in the narrative. Arya who is a ghost in Harrenhal, already a place full of them, Harren and his sons, countless lords and servants, burnt by wildfire, burnt again and again, because the place is said to be cursed. The Red Keep with bodies of its builders buried somewhere within, the Red Keep full of black cells with some half-men, half-ghosts still waiting for justice and sunlight. With skulls of dragons beneath its floors, a defeated legacy. Winterfell with its crypts, full of dead starks, and they are more than just crypts: they are a shelter, a haunted house, a sept in a way. The whole of the riverlands one single haunted space, as if executed with one giant hand of Tywin Lannister. He unleashes a curse with deeds so vile they start haunting lands and fates and houses, Westeros itself. That story Bran tells, about the rat cook who killed guests in his own house, and was cursed to devour his own sons; Walder Frey murdering his guests at the Red Wedding. Drogo is taken from Dany through a bargain with the dead. The dead haunt her: Rhaegar on the Trident, dragons and hundreds of her Targaryen ancestors. House Targaryen is a ghost. Westeros itself is haunting Dany, something she cannot remember. The entire white walkers story is literally the dead getting up from the graves, from the ground and walking, killing. Not alive, not dead, not exactly ghosts. What harm can Lyanna Stark’s ghost do us? Catelyn Stark back from the dead, mute. “She don’t talk but she remembers”. Idk it all seems very consecutive, as if the ghosts are active parts of the story, even from the grave navigating the characters, affecting reality. “It all goes back and back to our fathers and mothers and theirs before them”. Jenny dancing with her ghosts.

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

“I didn’t catch anything,” Bran said, “but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell. Will we ever see Jon again?”

“We saw Uncle Benjen when the king came to visit,” Robb pointed out. “Jon will visit too, you’ll see.”

- Bran V, AGOT

There’s something so strange about this exchange because it’s preceded by Robb and Bran grieving Jory and then all of a sudden we get a random callback to Jon Snow. it’s only two lines of dialogue but I think it does quite a bit of work in terms of establishing who Jon is as a character, and also gives us a few hints of what we might expect to happen in coming books.

They’re talking about going fishing with Jory once upon a time and Bran mentions that when he didn’t catch anything, Jon gave him his fish. This, in and of itself, isn’t very surprising and it doesn’t tell us anything new about Jon’s character. That’s because he’s been established as a selfless and kind person from the very first chapter. Jon being self-sacrificial, then, isn’t something that is new to the reader at this point. But this short exchange does show us the extent to Jon’s sacrifice. He isn’t someone who takes half measures. Rather, he’s someone who goes all in.

And it’s so fascinating because Jon giving away all his fish may seem like a typical ‘big brother looking out’ moment, but I can’t help but notice the extent to which Jon looked out for Bran. Because he could’ve given him a just few fish and it would’ve been quite lovely; we would still say that he is kind and compassionate big brother. He could’ve given Bran half his fish and we’d praise him for such a great display of kindness. But Jon gave Bran everything he had. He didn’t take any half measures; he went all in. And Bran doesn’t mention Jon only giving him some, so I’m assuming that this means all.

This is something we see in an earlier Tyrion chapter, where he and Jon are parting at the Wall.

“Rickon will ask when I’m coming home. Try to explain where I’ve gone, if you can. Tell him he can have all my things while I’m away, he’ll like that.”

- Tyrion III, AGOT

Jon once again assumes the role of the big brother looking out for his younger sibling, but it’s quite stark (pun intended) how far he goes to make sure that Rickon is happy and well-provisioned. He doesn’t say “tell Rickon to pick and choose what he wants”. He doesn’t name a specific thing that Rickon might want. No. Jon means to have his brother take everything.

The depth of Jon’s kindness is quite remarkable. Yes I know, it’s not the most revolutionary thing to have the fantasy protagonist be good to people. But it’s still quite nice to see him being so kind in a series half-full of actors motivated by purely selfish reasons. It’s especially important because this flashback comes after Bran gets news of Jory’s murder - a selfish, unkind, and senseless act; it’s just pure malice. There aren’t many people in this world who would give everything they have, especially when they don’t have to. Jon had no reason to give Bran all his fish, but he did anyway. He didn’t have to give Rickon all his things, but he did it anyway. It’s the extent to which he goes about being good to people that’s impressive. And we see this develop where he starts extending that to the dozens, hundreds, and thousands.

And I would be negligent if I didn’t mention the obvious messianic framing here. We’ve got a sacrificial lord (mayhaps we might even say a prophesied sacrificial savior), a little boy, and a couple of fish. And we also have mentions of giving away all your possessions to attain true righteousness in scripture, as Jon did with Rickon.

But what I find most curious is Robb’s line. Because it reads like a promise of some sorts. Robb makes the observation that Uncle Benjen visited them when King Robert went to Winterfell, and he is using that as proof to say that Jon will visit too. It’s interesting because Jon mentions hearing his uncle talking to his father about settling people in the Gift. Plus Jon and Benjen have a pretty good relationship so he must’ve travelled there earlier. Thus, I’d assume that King Robert’s feast wasn’t the first time that Benjen went to Winterfell in Robb’s lifetime. So it just makes the connection of Jon’s arrival coinciding with that of a king all the more noteworthy. Except, Jon might be the king who visits this time around.

Robb’s line evokes the imagery of the Return of the King. And also if we go back to scripture, there’s the return of the lord/king, after a great sacrifice. So:

Bran mentions Jon’s sacrifice and then Robb promises that he will return

The savior sacrifices himself then returns in glory (scripture)

Therefore, Jon shall return to Winterfell as a glorious king after a sacrifice

It’s part of why I think we as a fandom need to be a bit more flexible when we talk about Jon’s relationship with sacrifice. I always see people say that because Jon is self-sacrificial, then he is the one who needs to/must die after sacrificing himself for the realm/other POVs. Nevermind the obvious bias in this line of thinking, which is usually in favor of other characters, but I think such opinions only got half the picture. They don’t follow the pattern that has been presented to us by the text. Yes, it’s true that Jon makes some big sacrifices. And it’s true that they’re sometimes preceded by a period of temptation. HOWEVER, these sacrifices are usually followed by something more spectacular (obviously, in my humble opinion). For example:

When they find the direwolf pups, Jon sacrifices himself so his siblings can get a pup each. However, he immediately finds Ghost afterwards who is the most special of all the dire wolves (and even becomes the largest)

He sacrifices his want for Wintefell in ASOS, but is elected Lord Commander of the NW by book’s end. So the sacrifice is followed by a great appointment to power (rather quickly, I might add). And being Lord Commander puts him in a special position in the upcoming war for the dawn.

So the quote at the beginning of this post, imo, just illustrates that pattern. A sacrifice is followed by something grand. Bran mentions Jon’s sacrifice and then Robb connects his coming to a king’s return. The question remains though: if this is something that will happen in the future, how will it happen and when? I don’t really know tbh, but it would be quite a nice bookend to have Jon’s glorious return be towards the end of ADOS so that it can parallel King Robert Baratheon’s arrival in the beginning of AGOT (which preempted Jon’s departure in the first place).

[lemonbronze]

[Azure Moon-adjacent AU; multi-chapter; sad and also fluff; more characters/tags to be added as they appear]

This AU slapped me in the face yesterday and I have been able to think of nothing else until I started writing it, so I hope you all enjoy it!

Eventually, this fic will be ferdibert-heavy. It will also be sad sometimes, so be warned!

Link to the fic on AO3 will be in a reblog, or you can read it below!

-

-

-

He stood where he had been unmoving throughout the past hour: behind the casket, hands tightly gripping his arms behind his back, eyes fixed on the silent and unmoving body before him. He’d done his part, given a eulogy with stoic resolve and provided a false sense of normalcy to his friends as they wrestled with their own grief. But now, finally alone, he could let down his tough exterior and try to process Ferdinand’s passing.

He shifted forward, leaning over the casket. Someone had done their best to make the fallen general look as refined as possible in death, dressing him in fine armor and hiding his fatal wounds in the process. Great care had been taken with his hair, and it looked almost as radiant as always, if not for the way it had dulled over the last few days. The casket was otherwise filled with flowers, and heartfelt letters, and a small horse figurine—and none of it felt real.

Hubert touched Ferdinand’s graying face, letting his gloved fingers trace the spray of freckles across his cheeks. A week ago, those cheeks had flushed with laughter and that face had been bright with smiles. A week ago, Ferdinand had been full of life, sipping tea outdoors and finding obvious excuses to touch Hubert’s arm more than necessary as they chatted together.

Dozens of tired old cliches ran through his head—you’re gone too soon, this isn’t fair, why was it you and not me, please come back—and yet he didn’t have the energy to say any of it. Instead, he shut his eyes as tightly as he could and whispered, “I miss you.”

The stone room yawned cold and silent around him.

--

Hubert remained at his lonely vigil until long after night fell, and he only left Ferdinand’s side when he felt sure most of his well-meaning friends would be asleep. Any stragglers still awake would know better than to bother him as he slunk back toward his chambers, hiding his bloodshot eyes under cover of darkness.

On his way back to his room, he stopped briefly to look in on Edelgard. Even in the midst of the ache of grief, he would be unable to rest until he knew she was alright—but she was sleeping, soundly and safely, and a small part of him wished she was awake so he wouldn’t have to be alone with his feelings. Even so, he left her sleeping and returned to his chambers to get what rest he could.

Everything in his room was the same as he had left it that morning—books stacked neatly, letters and sealing wax tucked out of the way, bed carefully made. A tidy room was some small comfort to him, and the less clutter that surrounded him, the less likely he was to encounter memories when he didn’t expect them. He wasn’t a stranger to grief; he also knew some of the little ways he could help himself get through it.

And so everything was as tidy as he had left it this morning.

Everything was the same, except now Ferdinand was there.

Hubert drew in a slow, deep breath, then closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again, Ferdinand was still there, perched on top of his desk as if he belonged nowhere else, and certainly not gently rotting in a casket on the other side of the castle. Although this apparition looked like Ferdinand, it also sported four massive, white, feathery wings and a faint yellow-orange glow that seemed to emanate from somewhere within its body. It was wearing nothing more than what looked like a long, white skirt, and its hair floated ethereally around it.

“I need to go to sleep,” said Hubert, shaking his head and turning away from the Ferdinand-shaped thing on his desk.

“You are not seeing things,” said the Ferdinand-creature with a laugh, and the voice jolted Hubert back to attention once again.

“I don’t know what you are,” he snarled, moving closer and drawing himself up to his tallest and most threatening height, “but using the voice and form of a dead person to get to the living is wildly cruel, even by my standards.”

The creature tilted its head and gave a sad smile. “I am not trying to hurt you,” it said. “I am really Ferdinand. I suppose I died—”

“You suppose?” Hubert snorted. “Ferdinand fell in battle at Myrddin four days ago. His body is over in the visitation room right now, dead and cold. You are not him.”

“Oh, yes, that makes sense,” said the creature, hopping down off the desk and turning to look over one shoulder. “I have a large wound, you see? I was wondering what it had come from.”

Hubert—against his better judgment—craned his neck to look at the supposed wound. There it was, bright red against the glowing warmth of the creature’s exposed freckled skin, positioned just in the middle of where the four wings sprouted from its back.

Just where Ferdinand’s fatal wound had been located.

Hubert frowned. “What are you, really?” he said.

The creature looked sidelong up at one of its wings and said, “I am an angel, I think.”

“Ridiculous.”

“I thought so too!” A laugh; then, “I was unsure where I was or what was happening, but I was surrounded by sparks of light. They danced around me and told me that I was going to become a guardian angel. Of course, I thought I was simply having a dream, but then I awoke and I was here—like this!”

“In my bedroom.”

“Yes! And Hubie—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—I believe that I am in fact your guardian angel.” The creature—Ferdinand—grabbed Hubert’s hand happily and added, “If I must be dead, I suppose this is not so bad!”

None of this made any sense, and Hubert wasn’t about to believe it. He didn’t even believe in angels, and certainly not guardian angels. Nor did he believe that a man four days dead was suddenly alive (more or less) and standing in his room with him. But the warmth of Ferdinand’s physical contact was real, and it was as electrifying as every stray touch they had shared over coffee and tea in the garden. Tears sprang to Hubert’s eyes before he could stop them. “You feel like him,” he said, low and drained.

“Please do not cry, Hubie,” said Ferdinand, giving his hand a squeeze. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

Hubert met Ferdinand’s gaze. All the life and energy and merriment that made up Ferdinand von Aegir still settled behind those big brown eyes, and it was impossible not to believe what he was saying.

But grief could be powerful, and it could do strange things to a person. Exhaustion, on top of it, was even worse. Hubert removed his hand from Ferdinand’s grip (and oh, how he didn’t want to do it) before stepping toward his bed. “I am very tired,” he said, “and my heart is broken besides. I need to rest, and I believe you will be long gone in the morning, although I am grateful to have seen you tonight.”

“I will be here,” said Ferdinand, throwing himself—massive wings and all—into an armchair on the far side of the room. “This is where I am meant to be, and I am not going to leave.”

Hubert shook his head, ignored the creature’s words, and got ready for bed.

[fromtheseventhhell]

"You stupid," she told him, "you scared the baby," but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. (Arya IV, AGOT)

--

You be quiet, stupid," the girl said, tossing her own branch aside. "It's just water. Do you want Old Nan to hear and run tell Father?" (Bran III, ADWD)

Arya and Lyanna even having similar speaking mannerisms is so adorable 🥹

[buttercuparry]

I love how Bran is clearly the Fisher King of the series, whose direwolf is named Summer. How this indicates that he would not be someone playing merely from the sidelines but would be someone who perhaps would decisively bring an end to the Long Night.

I have very little knowledge of the Fisher King legend. I think I only heard it in relation to either Browning or T.S. Eliot. The legend goes that he is the king of a land, but his wound has rendered him infertile and because he is the representation of his kingdom, so has the land become barren. I also just now learnt from Wikipedia that the FK was the last of the long line of kings tasked with guarding the Holy Grail. Now that itself is of consequence as the quest for the Holy Grail not only forms the basis of the impressive Arthurian legends but also for its religious connotations ( if I am not wrong).

So in the series we have Bran. We have Bran who is the namesake of a long line of Brans, all the way upto Bran the builder, who apparently raised the Wall. I love how there is a legend of the Wall being built with magic ( there are spells woven into it and blood from all who died while building it...Idk if I am making this up but I have this very faint memory of reading this). And Bran the Builder laid the foundation of House Stark and built it its ancient seat. So all these legends of Bran the Builder now come down to our Bran through Old Nan's stories and perhaps through history lessons ( though less fantastical). And our Bran, he deems himself the frailest of all, owing to his disability. I don't remember if it was himself who took on the moniker of Bran the broken or if it was a jibe.

This Bran once boasted of knowing every crook of Winterfell better than Robb. Who climbed and went exploring around this ancient seat as none of the Stark kids ever had. And when the sack happened, Bran compares himself to the stones of Winterfell. Broken but not yet dead. And this parallels so beautifully with the Fisher king legend. The king is injured and his land reflects the pain. But a knight shall come, and finally through a holy quest would once again restore the king to his glory.

And I love how George subverts the myth here. The knights did come- but Meera and Jojen won't be undertaking the quest for Bran, rather they would guide him and get him where he needs to be. The Fisher king has to fight this battle himself and earn the glory back.

A big part of Bran's storyline is his struggle with disability. Young highborn boys have a particular life set out for them. Those who are younger sons would squire under prominent knights and then would become one themselves. They would participate in jousts, be a part of a battalion and then maybe earn a name and a keep for their services and rule over the land. Bran dreamt of this life. He dreamt of adventures, of being bold and strong. But now he has to listen to jibes and sit through the pitying looks of the lords who think living a life where one cannot joust or hunt or ride into battle is a freakish one. I think a part of Bran's quest is to realize his strength. Martin uses magic to communicate this, but indeed so many people out there walks through this world differently than an able bodied person. So a part of this "quest" is to realize his worth as a powerful greenseer and warg ( and not because it gives him the freedom from his broken body). He has to realize even "broken", he has the power to move the course of lives. That his strength lies in his convictions- he won't forget the kindness showed to him by the man who shared his food while Bran's party was on the run.

Bran is the Fisher King, descended from a long line of kings whose duty was to protect the Wall and keep away the darkness. But now the darkness is here and perhaps the Wall shall fall. Our Fisher King has to regain his strength, realize his worth and face the cold like a knight. Only then can summer come, and the land ( Winterfell and the North) shall once again bear fruits.

[mrsthunderkin]

Have a few doodles of tiny Bran, Atlas, and sad man Crain

[isthisamew]

i'm gonna put this in its own post cus this is gonna be a fair amount of Words. thank you for enabling me @theslime

there's two parts to this. there's the stubborn reason why i even started putting milk first into cereal, and then there's the practical reason why i haven't switched since.

the origin story

feel free to skip this part, but i found it quite fascinating (and pretty funny) to realize why i had started in the first place.

i was a wee child, with parents who very much appreciated every ounce of independence i could muster in daily routines. one of the things i learned to do fairly young was pour myself a bowl of cereal for breakfast every morning. and every morning, i had to eat that cereal while watching cartoons in the living room, obviously.

i had weak little baby arms, and my parents only ever bought the full gallon of milk. after some trial and error, i figured out the optimal steps to make only a single trip between the living room and the kitchen, while also minimizing the amount of heavy lifting i had to do when that gallon was mostly full. it was as follows:

bring the bowl and spoon to the fridge

pour the milk into the bowl. add in the spoon

grab the cereal box

very, VERY carefully walk from the kitchen to the living room with a full bowl of milk and an arm full of cereal box

i need to mention: this bowl of milk was Full. i was a growing creature, and i ate two as-much-as-i-can-fit bowls of cereal for years and years. i needed enough milk to satisfy this intense Hunger.

i spilled a lot of milk, y'all. fluid mechanics was something i was learning about the hard way in these moments. but i was determined. i was dead set on perfecting my technique because i never wanted to do two trips ever again.

this was my villain milk-first origin story. i put my blood, sweat, and tears into my methodology. and honestly, the thought of switching to cereal-first was painful in a sunken cost kind of way. i achieved the perfect milk-to-cereal ratio; switching would require relearning it. but i'm nothing if not a person who values reconsidering my habits and putting in the effort to change them if they will serve me better. and as someone who still eats cereal every single day as an adult, any change to my cereal ways would have a profound impact on me.

after careful consideration, i determined that milk first is superior, regardless of my emotional attachment to it.

why milk first is superior, regardless of my emotional attachment to it

it all boils down to a single factor: maximum cereal crunchiness.

i have heard of people eating their cereal in warm milk. i did it once, and never fucking ever again because i simply cannot stomach the MUSH cereal turns into upon CONTACT with warm milk. if you eat cereal with warm milk, i will not cast judgement on you as many have for my milk-first ways. but you do not belong in this conversation, bcus it literally doesn't matter which order you put the milk in. (if a warm-milker reads this and disagrees, i'd love to hear about it. genuinely.)

i value crunch. crunch gives me joy. most mornings these days, i wake up food-averse. the crunch of cereal is an important tether keeping me from skipping breakfast. i know that even if the thought of eating food is making me nauseous, once i feel the crunch of cereal, everything will be okay.

the moment cereal touches milk, its time is numbered. fully submerged cereal can lose its crunch within seconds, depending on the brand. even being partially submerged is enough to start the clock. keeping as much of it as dry as possible is so, so important if you want to maintain Crunch.

and the key is putting milk first. when cereal is poured on top of milk, there is a much larger layer of dry cereal than if it was done the other way around. (as much as i want to, typing out the physics behind this phenomenon is too daunting for me. but i think it's intuitive enough that you know this to be true, right??)

strategy is also important. i eat a bowl of cereal like a cake: cutting through the layers from top to bottom. this means each spoonful has a mixture of soggy cereal that's been submerged, and the fresh, dry cereal that's been sitting on top of it. for cereal that's had milk poured second, that cut-through ratio can be as bad as 75% soggy, 25% dry. with milk first, that ratio is closer to 50/50, sometimes better. it's sublime. knowing how good it can be makes turning back impossible.

i'm not trying convert anyone to the milk-first way. it just feels nice to finally write out my thoughts on it. i don't understand the animosity i receive when people find out i do it, but maybe now i'll link them to this essay so they can better understand my dark, twisted mind.

[fineosaur-writes]

We’ll All Be Here Forever | m | chapter eight: bran i

a fic by @fineosaur and @stompandhollar

Bran awakes to his sister pleading him to come home. After a moment of indecision, he makes the trip and finds a way to cheer his little brother up.

Over the years the Starks slowly find their way back to Winterfell. After Robb is the last to leave and first to return, more of his siblings filter back into their childhood home.

So much has changed, and yet so much is still the same. Between surviving their parents and adulthood, and their complicated romantic entanglements, the Starks find that their paths are easiest when they're together.

[bretha-stitchwitch]

I wrote this little tale to accompany a sculpture I was commissioned to make as a wedding gift. I promptly ran out of printer toner, but still had a bottle of ink, a dip nib and a very strange set of priorities whereby handwriting the story in calligraphic script appealed more than leaving the house and spending money on printer ink.

And thus my longest calligraphic project was embarked upon!

No alt text for the images, but the full text depicted is in plain text under the Read more.

THE TALE OF BRAN AP HYWEL Y CEIRIOS

Once upon a time… for that is how all such tales begin, is it not? Once upon a time, there were many dragons. And the fiercest, most famous dragon in all the land was Y Ddraig Goch, the Red Dragon of Cadwalladr. Many songs and tales there are of Y Ddraig Goch, but none give his name, for indeed no-one thought to ask it.

But a name he had – two names, in fact. Dragons always have two names, the one being short and easy for mere humans to pronounce, the other as long and twisting as dragons themselves. It grows with the dragon who bears it, and if you know how large a dragon can grow, you know just how long that is.

Only the dragons know the long name of Y Ddraig Goch, but to we poor mortals we would more properly have been named Hywel Y Ofnadwy – and terrible he was in name and deed alike! You may well know the story of his battles with the White Dragon of Albion, and of the many slain by his talons and flame.

But what is less well known is that he had a son, Bran, who was nothing like his father. Bran ap Hywel was but a wee young wyrm when his terrible father fell to the swords of men, and barely remembers him.

For years and years past counting, Bran lived quietly in his cave on a cliff on the Isle of Anglesey. Aside from the occasional fish (which he enjoyed well enough), an even more occasional sheep (which he enjoyed better) and the gulls and terns that shared his cliff, Bran had little company and no conversation.

Until the day a great mathematician – the great mathematician, some might say, Mr William Jones himself – came walking past Bran’s cave. Out leapt Bran – for such things must be done if you are the son of Hywel Y Ofnadwy – and down tumbled Mr Jones, and that might have been the end of him and the start of a very different tale, except that Mr Jones was busily pondering the matter of pi and begged to be spared so he could finish his thought. He spoke so eloquently of the wonders and glories of this pi that Bran was entranced. He picked the man up, brushed him off as gently as he could, and sat down to listen.

Many a long conversation they had about the matter, Mr Jones holding forth on the one side, Bran asking questions on the other, unravelling the uses of pi and the need to find some single letter to capture its beauty. Bran claims it was he who gave Mr Jones the idea of using runes – for he is a very literate dragon, and has read a great number of books, many of them stolen by his terrible father. However, all one knows for certain is that Mr Jones did indeed come up with a rune for his pi, and a very fine rune it is too – so fine that for years no-one was clever enough to use it.

After his friend left, Bran grew quite lonely in his cave on a cliff, and missed the little company and much conversation he had had. So one sunny summer afternoon, when all the fruit was ripe on the branches and the grain was shining golden in the fields, he took to the skies and flew and flew, hoping he might find a friend.

Late that afternoon, a wonderful smell – a smell like the sweetest honey and the richest butter – drew Bran ap Hywel down to a farm in a vale. A neat little farm it was, with golden grain in the fields, an orchard buzzing with bees, and white sheep dotting green hills, the very picture of peace and plenty – until Bran landed, that is.

Well, the sheep bolted from the hills, the bees buzzed out of the orchard, and the golden grain thrashed and lashed in the wind from his wings.

Gwen, the farmer, ran from her thatched cottage to see what all the fuss was about, and found herself staring into the glowing green eyes of a great red dragon, high as her house and twice as long, folding his wings and staring right back at her.

“Good afternoon, madam,” said Bran (for he was a very polite dragon), “I do apologise for intruding. My name is Bran ap Hywel y Ofnadwy, though I am nowhere near as terrible. I was passing by in search of friendly conversation, when I caught the mmost marvellous smell – a smell like the sweetest honey and the richest butter – wafting from your charming little cottage. I know that the best conversation always occurs in the presence of fine victuals, and I therefore wondered if I might perhaps beg your indulgence and try a morsel?”

Well, poor Gwen didn’t know what to think! She stared up at this great red dragon, speaking as clearly as her vicar and twice as polite, and tried not to imagine all the things that might smell to a dragon like the sweetest honey and the richest butter. But she, too, was polite, and knew it was only good manners to offer tea to guests, however unexpected.

“If you’ll just wait here for a moment, sir, I’ll bring you out a cup of tea. As for whatever you smelled, couldn’t say for certain what it was, but I took a cherry pie from the oven not two minutes ago – would a bit of pie suit?”

Bran’s eyes lit up – and when it comes to a dragon, that is no metaphor – for here was another person who knew about pi!

“That would be delightful, madam, and I would be honoured if you would join me, to talk about the pi.”

The tea was ready in a trice – even with Gwen’s hands trembling and shaking – and was only a little spilled. She fetched her grandmother’s soup tureen of fine bone china for the dragon’s cup, and laid the pie on her best Sunday serving plate. Then, all a-flutter and a-tremble, she brought out her rocking chair and her sewing table, laid a fresh white cloth and her silver soup ladle for the dragon’s spoon, and brought out the tea and pie.

Bran bowed his thanks and waited ever so quietly while Gwen poured the tea and cut him a slice of pie (which was rather more than half). Once she had another cup of tea and a slice of pie for herself, Bran lifted the ladle carefully between his claws and took a nibble. Such a flavour he had never known! Sweeter than honey, richer than butter – better than all the sheep he had ever tasted. His eyes glowed with happiness, and smoke rose from both nostrils in his delight.

“Madam, this is the most marvellous, most delectable thing I have ever had the pleasure of eating. May I ask what it is?”

“Cherry pie, sir, my mother taught me the recipe.” Gwen watched him take another mouthful and savour it. “I daresay I’ve improved on it a bit, for people do tell me my pie is better than hers. Have you never had cherry pie before?”

Bran sighed. “Alas, madam, I have not – but I see now why my dear friend Mr William Jones was so enamoured of it.” And with that, he took another mouthful, and the pie was all gone.

All that summer and into the autumn, Bran stayed by Gwen’s little thatched cottage. He fetched back her sheep – for you may remember they all ran off when he first arrived – and re-thatched her roof, and brought her sweet wild cherries by the bucketful. Gwen taught him her mother’s recipe for cherry pie – with her own improvements, of course. And many a conversation they had over tea and pie, until Gwen quite forgot she had ever been afraid of him.

When the snows came, Bran said his farewells and returned to his quiet cave on a cliff on the Isle of Anglesey, to curl up and dream of cherry pie until spring. When the winter waned and the sun returned, Bran stretched his wings, took a deep sniff, and flew off in the direction of a smell like the sweetest honey and the richest butter.

He returned to Gwen’s cottage each year, gathering cherries on the way. Each year, they baked pies and drank tea, and talked and laughed like the very best of friends – which is exactly what they were. And if Gwen’s pies were a little better, Bran’s were a little larger, and always a little scorched around the edges – which is hardly surprising, for he baked them with his own breath.

Of course, dragons live much longer than we do, and one day Gwen drank her last cup of tea, ate her last slice of pie, had her last conversation with Bran, and went to sleep. Bran gathered boughs of cherry blossom for her funeral, and carved her headstone with his own talons, washing it with his tears. Then he flew back to his cave on a cliff on the Isle of Anglesey, cradling the silver soup ladle she had left him in her will.

All that winter, instead of dreaming of cherry pie, he dreamt of his friend and their last conversation, and the promise he had given her: to go out into the world and find new friends, and new conversations, and to always bake a cherry pie on Midsummer’s Eve to remember her.

So now each year, as winter wanes and the sun returns, he stretches his wings, takes a deep sniff, picks up his ladle, and flies off in search of a smell like the sweetest honey and the richest butter, a smell like warmth and welcome, for there he knows he will find tea and cherry pie and good conversation.

But he is a very polite dragon, is Bran ap Hywel, and would never overstay his welcome. He is welcome, isn’t he?

THE END

Bonus pictures of Bran for any who wanted to meet him: