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in response to the ask you just posted about the maekarlings in the north: in regular HW, if the maekarlings went to visit winterfell with aunt stark, how do you think aerion and blackwind's meeting would go? would they not get along? or do you think aerion would try to seek his approval? egg feels like he'd try to ride blackwind like a horse but would still be the most loved or tolerated

Oh, Aerion and Blackwind would be awful at first.

Blackwind is too old in his instincts, too bound up to you, to be fooled by pretty manners or princely silk. He would know at once that Aerion is not safe in any simple way. Not because he means you harm, but because there is something in him that burns too hot, wants too much, watches you like a starving thing watches a door left unlatched. And Blackwind is a harsh judge. He would not care that Aerion is a prince. He would care that he is volatile, possessive, and hungry in a way wolves distrust on sight.

So in the beginning, no, they do not get along. Aerion tries to approach and Blackwind shows teeth immediately. Not lunging, not wild, just very clear: no closer. A low warning. Hackles raised. That flat, terrible wolf stare. The kind that very much says you may stand there, dragon, but you are not welcome near what is mine. And that would drive Aerion half mad, because Blackwind is not just a beast. He is your beast. Your shadow, your sigil made flesh, the creature that claimed you in the snow and kept you alive. To be refused by Blackwind would feel, to Aerion, like being refused by some ancient northern part of you that all the sweet looks and feverish devotion in the world cannot reach.

And the worst part for him would be that Blackwind accepts the others.

Egg, especially. Blackwind would be far too proud to be ridden, and if Egg ever genuinely tried it, he’d get that long-suffering, deeply unimpressed wolf look, like a king being asked to pull a cart. But cuddle him? Climb all over his side? Fall asleep with his face buried in all that dark fur? That, Blackwind allows. More than allows, really. He is fond of Egg in that grudging, watchful way old creatures are fond of very small, very fearless children. He lets him lean, lets him chatter, lets him doze against his ribs. If Egg wanders off, Blackwind shadows him. If Egg curls up somewhere half-hidden, Blackwind curls his great tail around him like a wall.

And then, one by one, he takes the rest.

Daeron gets the easiest path after Egg, I think. Blackwind would have a particular tolerance for him when he is miserable. Too warm with wine, a little green from sickness, trying very hard to keep his dignity. I can absolutely see Blackwind bracing his body alongside him, steadying him in that quiet way animals do when they sense weakness they do not mean to exploit. Daeron, pale and laughing weakly, one hand in the wolf’s fur while trying not to be ill on the floor.

Aemon he would settle beside by the fire with almost no fuss at all. Aemon reads, and Blackwind understands stillness. He would stretch himself out near him as if they had always belonged in the same room: boy with his book, wolf with one eye half-open, both of them keeping their own counsel in companionable silence.

Even the others would be accepted in time, because Blackwind judges honestly. He is harsh, but he is not unfair. Once he decides they are yours and under your protection, he makes room for them in his own way.

But Aerion? Aerion would see Blackwind accept every last one of them and feel it like a knife.

Because to Aerion, Blackwind’s approval is not just about the wolf. It is about being chosen. Again and again, that is the sore center of him. Blackwind accepting Daeron, Aemon, Egg— even tolerating them warmly—would feel to Aerion like an extension of you opening your hand to everyone but him. Again. As though the wolf has looked into him and found him wanting. And because Aerion is Aerion, that would not make him withdraw. It would make him want it worse. Desperately. This is your direwolf, your house, your blood made into fur and teeth. Of course he would crave the beast’s blessing as though it were absolution.

So I love the idea that the change only comes when Aerion stops trying to win it.

Not with gifts, not with meat from the kitchens, not with that bright, uncanny smile of his. One night he is awake and alone, all the castle gone quiet around him, and Blackwind comes in on silent feet and simply stands there, staring him down across the fire. Hostile still. Measuring. Waiting.

And this time Aerion does not move closer.

He does not reach. Does not coax. Does not try to make himself pretty. He just looks into the flames and says thank you.

Because he has heard the story. Because he knows Blackwind found you as a child and kept you alive in the snow, put his body between yours and death before you were old enough to remember fear properly. And because, in his own ugly way, Aerion understands that if Blackwind had not saved you then, you would not have been there later to save him. Pulling him from the water at Summerhall, hauling him back into breath and light. So his gratitude is real, and that matters. Maybe the first truly honest thing Blackwind ever gets from him.

And then Aerion, because he does not know how to speak prettily when it matters most, tells the truth in the only language he has.

That he loves you. That he breathes for you.

That there is nothing in him—no pride, no cruelty, no princely dignity—that he would not set aside if it meant standing between you and harm. Not a soft vow. Not a knight’s vow. Something rougher than that. Stranger. He is not promising goodness. He is promising teeth. Promising blood. Promising that if anything ever came for you and Blackwind was not there, then something else feral would be. Something southron and dragon-made and wrong, perhaps, but no less willing to rip out throats for your sake.

And that, I think, Blackwind would understand. Not forgive him, exactly. Not like him. But understand him.

So he comes closer at last, slow and heavy and silent. Stares Aerion down one more time, nose full of snow and salt and the sharpness of a young predator trying very hard not to bare his own teeth. Then Blackwind lies down at his feet by the fire.

Not affection. Not quite. Approval, though. Cold, grudging, hard-won approval.

The kind that says: I still know what you are. But I know what you would do for her, too.

And after that, yes, sometimes people in Winterfell or even later, farther south, would catch strange glimpses of it. The beautiful, cruel prince strolling the yard or the godswood edge with a great black shadow at his side. No hand on fur. No fond words. No performance. Just a wary companionship forged in the understanding that they both belong, in their own dangerous ways, to you.

Which would only make Aerion more unbearable, honestly. Because once Blackwind gives him even that scrap of acceptance, Aerion would treasure it like a holy thing. Not because the wolf is gentle with him but because Blackwind looked into the ugliest parts of him, just like you did, and did not turn away in the end.

And for Aerion, that would mean everything.

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