Old man of the forest.

A/N: This is a background on the Mc and who he is; he is like a god, and so is his family, which is the first royal family of westores. The true story will begin at the start of the Game of Thrones books. A year after Jon and Robb are born. We will discover his role in all the books, and believe me, we will go into fire and blood, and we will see his role in House of the Dragon. What we see from the house of the dragon is him remembering what happened; you will see just how powerful he is. 

They called him the man in the woods, the old man of the forest, the father of the North. He was Rumored to have given the whole of the North to the Starks. It was even rumored that Brandon the Builder was his son. Some say he was the white hart itself and pure and beautiful in every way. A man would look at him, and they would confuse him for a woman; even a woman fell in love with him; his beauty was unmatched; they say the father had pointy ears that were how you knew you were speaking to him.

 He had been with the children for thirty years; he had counted the days, the weeks, the months, the years, and it all came to thirty years; living with the children had given him a new perspective on life. Thirty years was fast for mortals, but for him and the children, it was but a fraction of time; he wondered if this were how it would feel when everyone was immortal. Would humanity be able to achieve anything? It was a question that had questions within but led to no answer.

 They had taught him how to speak to the forest. The trees were alive, grew, became old, and eventually died. Sometimes, they were sacrificed to the gods. All life came from the old gods and would return to them, but Rickard was an Exception.

 He had not seen these gods the Children spoke of, making him less inclined to believe their ideals. A simple truth is what he believed: magic was real, and it was his to use as he felt.

 "What makes you different?" A question Marsh had asked him once: yes, he looked different and thought differently, but the children were sentient creatures capable of thought and learning. He believed them naïve for saying he would be their king, but he had learned that many of them were wise, small and short but wise in their own right.

 "Many of the children do not trust you." And it was indeed true. Why should they trust him? He was a pale man taller and more different than them, and they had been told he was the one who would save their species. Many had created images of the immortal demon head. And he always looked like them in their mind.

 But this was different; they did not like different. They were so similar to humans but so different. The children were primarily peaceful people but master planners. Some may ask who won the Game of Thrones. The answer would be the children of the forest.

 They had played the long game like a turtle and won.

 Rickard had been with the children for some time now, and every night, he would hear a song, a hum. He would come to the nexus of where it came from, but it was only the weir wood tree, alone in the small area, snow-covered small patches, a pond surrounding it, and a bridged island of stone making it connect from the small moat that had been naturally created.

This had occurred multiple times and eventually garnered Marsh's attention. She was a green seer who had a deep connection with her ancestors. She would hear their spirit stuck in the weir wood; more than anything, they wanted to share their wisdom.

Rickard walked to the tree, the face that had been carved on it, its eyes began to bleed profusely, as he was about to touch the white bark of it, he was stopped, he was in a trance, a powerful one, "Do you wish to die?" the hand that had stopped his arm was small four fingers, and it was veiny green.

Waking from his trance, confused about how he got there, he did not know. "Hmm, it would seem that you need to be trained in the art of the mind. For now, don't listen to the voices; no matter what they promise, some wish to have you as a vessel."

 The world was dark, and Rickard had just learned that he had been bewitched. They had sung a song to him, one of pleasure and leisure. He had seen his mother, his father, his wife, and his daughter, but then he remembered he never had any of that, a family of his own; he was orphaned.

 From that day on, Rickard had learned to dance, sing, and write runes; the language was barbaric and missed certain things crucial for a tongue to be spoken. Each night, he would drink from Marsh's Pouch, and the drink would enter his mouth, and he would visit the old white tree in the center of others. He knew its name; it was at the tip of his tongue, and this place he knew where it was, but it did not come to him.

 He danced when all the others gathered, and they, too, danced with him. He knew their ways without them telling him. He sang and danced like them. In his ecstasy and drunkenness, he managed to sleep with Marsh's daughter. How this had happened, none knew, but the wailing and screams of a Lorki were enough to discern.

 A child of the forest did not cry when giving birth; it was a peaceful thing for them. But Lorki had given birth to a child of pale skin, green eyes, Ashen hair, and a small horn on the side. This child is what would later come to be known as the first of the Green Man.

 The children did not trust him before, as he was not one of them; he was different, but now, since he had a child with Lorki and the child smelled like them, they had accepted him; Durin was the child's name it meant who is like his father, Having pale skin.

 Before, he had pretended to be one of them and wanted to learn their ways, but as he held his child in his arms, he knew he needed to create something for him, a place of safety from persecution and the world's harsh realities.

 As he sat upon a mountaintop, he looked into the distance. The sun was rising. On his head was a crown made from Antlers, and pelts were made for his garments. On his face were blue runes. Below the cliff were multiple clans that had gathered.

 The sun rose and hit the cliff. Rickard walked to the tip of it and held his son. In the cold winds, a red line of deer blood was on the boy's forehead. "Today I say to you, my people, meet my son, my firstborn, Durin, of the line Rickardsson."

 They began to sing to the earth, the winds wailed, and the forest grumbled. A change was happening. The world and its forest had accepted the child's name. The boy was born from the most royal of all royals, the first son of Westores.

 Rickard's eyes went white as he held the boy to the world, bare for it to see. He had seen them, the First man of Westores. In thirty years, they would come, cross through Dorne, and from there, cut down the weir woods, and war would erupt.

 Now, as he sat in his cabin, sharpening a blade with a smooth rock, his son entered. The boy's leather pelts covered him, and on his head were his horns; they were grown now, protruding out. They curved in, and in their line, gold was embedded.

 "Father, all diplomatic relations have failed; they do not listen. We urged them not to cut down our tree, but they continue to do so; they kill our people in droves; even the giants wish to ally with us." Durin said.

 He was a man grown now but still a boy in the ancient ones' eyes.

 "I told you before that it was useless, but you did not listen," Rickard said. "But that goes to show you have a good heart, which I admire; time was nigh; the First Man was bound to have bad relations with us, but that does not mean they will continue to do as they please.

 If war Is what they want, then it is what they will get. "