Cinio penblwydd Will (ar gyfer Will a Paul)
Back home, Bran had never especially liked snow. He dealt with it, because it was really just weather and you did what you had to (and then, being British, you complained about it to everyone you encountered) but he hadn't held particularly strong feelings for it. Here, he looks forward to it, appreciates it as a short respite from the oppressive heat and blazing sunlight the island affords the rest of the year.
But he likes it now for another reason, too, and that is because Will gets giddy as a child about it, and because winter means it is nearly his birthday and Christmas and a whole cosy domestic affair that could go on for weeks when they let it. (It is also another, more melancholy, anniversary for Will, and Bran does his best to distract him from that part, when he can.) Which is why he's humming to himself in the kitchen of the little cottage now, baking shepherd's pie and spicing venison and mulling a pot of cider. There is holly over the door and the fireplace, candles in the windows, and a fire crackling happily away in the hearth; Cof and Cafall and stretched out in front of it in lazy doggy bliss. The table is set with Will's china, and a Christmas tree, untrimmed, stands sentinel in the corner. They can decorate it after dinner (and after the birthday cake he hopes Will and his snooping hasn't managed to find).
The smell of cooking meat and mulling spices fill the house. Bran pulls open the oven door for a peek, then straightens, calling toward the bathroom where he thinks Will is still soaking. "Will, cariad, dinner's nearly ready!"
But he likes it now for another reason, too, and that is because Will gets giddy as a child about it, and because winter means it is nearly his birthday and Christmas and a whole cosy domestic affair that could go on for weeks when they let it. (It is also another, more melancholy, anniversary for Will, and Bran does his best to distract him from that part, when he can.) Which is why he's humming to himself in the kitchen of the little cottage now, baking shepherd's pie and spicing venison and mulling a pot of cider. There is holly over the door and the fireplace, candles in the windows, and a fire crackling happily away in the hearth; Cof and Cafall and stretched out in front of it in lazy doggy bliss. The table is set with Will's china, and a Christmas tree, untrimmed, stands sentinel in the corner. They can decorate it after dinner (and after the birthday cake he hopes Will and his snooping hasn't managed to find).
The smell of cooking meat and mulling spices fill the house. Bran pulls open the oven door for a peek, then straightens, calling toward the bathroom where he thinks Will is still soaking. "Will, cariad, dinner's nearly ready!"