#werehound

Or, well, not precisely werewolf. I want a werehound. More specifically, I want this man to turn into a great hulking Pyrenean Mastiff.

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Are people gonna be disappointed when they learn he’s not a wolf, but just some “common mutt”? Bet your ass they are, right up until they actually see him. Someone will probably clock what breed he is, and that only heightens the absurdity because that’s a guardian dog. Those guys are bred to fight wolves and make bears think twice.

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Not to mention, what do you mean he’s big as a dire wolf?!!?!

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Just like his human shape, he's unnaturally big even for his breed. And he’s not even fully grown. He’s gonna think his weird proportions are because he’s a werecreature man, but no. He’s just young, so he’s all legs and big paws. Give him a couple of years and a proper diet, and he’s gonna be the size of a large polar bear.

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The burial of Ser Arlan is gonna be done by hand, half transformed into paws as he tries not to break down and start whimpering.  

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He’s still gonna meet Egg like in canon. But Egg will be wondering about Dunk’s weird mannerisms, but not think much of it until one brisk night, when he ends up suddenly waking up overheating because he’s basically buried under a bear.  

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Lyonel is gonna clock him as something non human almost immediately. That’s half the reason he tries to stomp on his feet. And in Dunk’s befuddlement of the situation, he accidentally flashes him with eyes that reflect weirdly under the low light, and teeth that should not belong in a human mouth. Lyonel is delighted. Here is something interesting. Something rare that should not be calling itself a hedge knight and dressed like a farmer. (He’s still not gonna join him at Storms End but now there’s another component to why not.)

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Baelor and Maekar do not clock it when he appeals for them to vouch for him, despite the fact that they really should. Were creatures used to be a lot more commonly employed by the crown, but for some reason or another, they fell out of favour, the population got diminished, or some other reasons for them to now be rare.  

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Ashford still goes down. He still ends up in a trial of seven, but this time the thing that stumbles up after collapsing into the mud is not a man, but a very pissed off werehound.

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Suffice to say, the Ashford tourney goes very quiet and then very much not. The stand goes wild. The following fight is short. What is a sword against a creature with chainmail over a loose hide and a solid, double layered coat, who can move twice as fast as you, even when encumbered by the remains of armour made for a man?

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And as soon as he gets his teeth properly in you?  

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Aerion’s sword shoulder will never be the same.  

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There you are, a prince in the dirt under the weight of a common mutt. Its teeth are in your face, it’s slobbering over you. You look at this creature who punctured your vambrace with its fucking teeth like it was nothing, and who’s about to clamp its jaws over your throat. A MUTT bested a dragon. The rage and embarrassment will haunt you for the rest of your life.

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Dunk will transform back enough to grab Aerion by the throat, hand still tipped with fur and claws, through a throat made for growling, and between teeth made for rendering flesh, the demand for him to rescind his accusation still rings clear across the field.