Summary:
In the Neck, Howland Reed experiences a vivid, prophetic vision of Jon Snow, Meera, and Tormund standing as symbols of hope against a growing darkness. He tasks Meera with journeying north to find Jon, warning her of the dangers and urging her to trust in her skills and purpose. Meera's solitary journey through the wilds is arduous, marked by reflections on her past with Bran and her resolve to face the future.
In the Riverlands, Edmure Tully grapples with the burdens of leadership. A council of his bannermen reveals deep divisions and the growing threat of bandits plaguing the land. Edmure's growth as a leader is evident as he rallies his loyal lords, though absent houses and bitter tensions sow doubt. As Edmure prepares to lead his forces, he reflects on his late wife, Roslin, his love for his son Brynden, and the weight of the Tully legacy.
Notes:
Over the past few days, I've been writing like a man possessed. I've never poured so many words onto the page—digital in this case—and it's been exhilarating. My goal is to capture an epic scale, weaving in some of the Tolkien-esque visuals and grandeur into the beautifully intricate world George R.R. Martin created.
I'm not suggesting one style is superior to the other, but I find myself more naturally inclined to write with a tone reminiscent of Tolkien. That said, I want to honor the complexity and nuance of Martin's world, blending the two influences to create something immersive and compelling.
Constructive criticism is not only welcomed but encouraged. If anyone has questions, ideas, or thoughts, I'd love to hear them. This story is as much about exploration as it is creation, and I'm eager to see where it takes us. Once again, I do not own Game of Thrones, or A Song of Ice and Fire...If I did...I would be in a cabin somewhere enjoying a fire place!
Chapter Text
Graywater Watch
The air in the Neck hung heavy with mist, the scent of damp earth and moss thick in the air. Meera stood silently before the ancient weirwood tree, its gnarled face etched deep into the white bark, red sap bleeding from its eyes like tears. Beside her, her father, Howland Reed, gazed up at the carved visage with furrowed brows. His slight frame seemed even more fragile under the weight of his thoughts.
For years, Howland had watched the threads of Westeros' fate twist and fray. The North, once a land of unyielding strength, was now a shadow of its former self. Sansa Stark's reign, while outwardly strong, was riddled with poison. She played her bannermen against each other, whispering in ears and sowing seeds of mistrust. The North, unaccustomed to the sword-and-dagger games of politics, was fractured. Unity was an illusion, and the cracks were spreading.
Even the Riverlands, a region that had once stood as a tenuous ally, was distant now. Sansa's dismissal of her uncle Edmure Tully—treating him as an incompetent relic rather than family—had driven a wedge between their lands. Trade along the King's Road had slowed to a crawl, the caravans raided by bandits and butchered in the wilds. The Reach, under the rule of Bronn of the Blackwater, gouged White Harbor with inflated prices for grain and goods. Food had become scarce, and tensions in the North rose with the snows.
Howland's eyes narrowed as he thought of the Ryswells, always circling like vultures on the Neck's western borders. They had whispered into Sansa's ear, painting the Crannogmen as untrustworthy. The blame for the faltering trade had fallen upon the Reeds. Yet the Crannogmen were not so easily driven from their lands. The Neck was theirs, its bogs and marshes their ally, its labyrinthine waterways their fortress. Minor skirmishes with the Ryswells had been a constant thorn, but Howland's people held firm. Still, the blame and suspicion poisoned the North's view of them.
It was not just the North or the Riverlands. A deeper shadow loomed. Howland's thoughts often turned south, to King's Landing, to Bran.
Once, the Three-Eyed Raven had been Brynden Rivers, a man exiled to the Wall long ago. But Bran was no longer a boy or even wholly a Stark. Howland feared what Bran had become—or what had overtaken him. The Raven had no rivals now. The Others were gone, driven back into the void, and the flame of R'hllor had dimmed, retreating to Essos. The Raven reigned unchallenged, weaving the fates of men into his grand design. Howland saw the danger in that. Order without balance was tyranny.
The dream came upon Howland Reed like a storm rolling over the Neck, its dark clouds consuming his mind with an intensity that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The mists of the weirwood network opened before him, unveiling a sight so vivid it stole his breath.
At first, there was only darkness—a vast, unending void pierced by the faint glimmer of stars. Slowly, a dim light began to grow in the north, a radiance that shimmered like the first rays of dawn cresting over a snow-capped mountain. Within this light, the figure of a wolf emerged—a great white beast, its fur as pure as the snow, its crimson eyes burning like embers. It stood atop a jagged ridge, staring southward, unyielding and defiant. The wolf threw its head back and let out a howl—a long, mournful cry that shook the heavens, reverberating through the void like a battle cry from the ancient past.
Beside the wolf stood a man, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in silver plate that shimmered like moonlight. The armor bore the sigils of House Stark and House Targaryen—direwolf and dragon entwined in an unbreakable bond. A thick cloak of dark fur draped over his shoulders, and his hair, streaked with silver, fell in loose waves around a face that was both youthful and weathered by sorrow. In his hands, he held a great sword, its edge gleaming with a cold, blue light. Longclaw. The man's gray eyes burned with a quiet intensity, as if he bore the weight of a thousand lifetimes upon his shoulders.
This was no mere man. This was Jon Snow—Aegon Targaryen, the Prince That Was Promised.
To Jon's left stood a woman, her form lithe and her movements as fluid as a shadow dancing in the firelight. She was clad in silver mail that caught the light of the rising dawn, her weathered green cloak billowing in the wind. Her dark hair, braided and bound, fell down her back like a river of midnight, framing a face set with emerald eyes that blazed with unrelenting determination. In her hand, she held a silver spear, its tip gleaming as if kissed by starlight. She stood close to Jon, her presence a steadying force, her gaze locked on the horizon ahead. Howland recognized her instantly—Meera. His daughter. His pride.
On Jon's right was a mountain of a man, red-haired and broad as an oak. His beard was streaked with gray, but his blue eyes burned with unquenchable fire. He carried a massive axe slung across his back, its head etched with ancient runes that seemed to pulse with a faint glow. Tormund Giantsbane. He stood proudly, his stance one of unshakable resolve, his fierce smile a defiant challenge to the encroaching dark.
Together, they formed a trinity of fire and frost, of life and death, standing resolute against the gathering storm. Behind them, the light spread, and Howland saw armies rising—Free Folk, knights of the North, and others too indistinct to recognize. The light seemed to lend strength to all who stood in its presence, washing away doubt and fear.
Suddenly, the void shifted, and Howland's focus returned to the figures. The great white wolf, Ghost, stepped forward. The direwolf's massive paws crunched against the frozen ground, his head low, his crimson eyes fixed on the unseen darkness ahead. He let out a low, rumbling growl that swelled into a thunderous howl. The sound was primal, raw—a challenge to the very gods themselves.
Jon turned slightly, his gray eyes meeting Meera's. There was no need for words; a bond stronger than steel connected them. Meera nodded, her spear dipping slightly in acknowledgment. In that moment, Howland saw more than comradeship between them—there was a closeness, a trust forged in the fires of shared purpose and unspoken understanding. Tormund clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder, his grin wide and feral, as if to say, We will meet this together.
The three figures and the wolf began to march forward, their steps echoing like the drumbeat of war. As they moved, the light swelled, spreading southward like a tide of fire and ice. The darkness recoiled, but it did not fade—it swirled and coalesced, forming jagged spirals that loomed on the horizon.
The final image seared itself into Howland's mind: Jon raising Longclaw high, its blue light cutting through the shadows, as Ghost's howl reached a fever pitch, joined by the distant roar of countless voices. The three figures—Jon, Meera, and Tormund—were no longer just men and women. They were symbols, beacons of hope and defiance, the last stand against the consuming dark.
Howland awoke with a start, his chest heaving as though he had been running for miles. The echoes of Ghost's howl still rang in his ears, and the image of Jon, Meera, and Tormund burned brightly in his mind. Tears welled in his eyes as he turned to the weirwood tree, its ancient face gazing down at him.
"They are the light," he whispered to the silent grove. "The light that will challenge the dark."
Howland awoke, drenched in sweat, the echoes of the vision ringing in his mind. That was why he and Meera now stood before the weirwood. The ancient tree's presence steadied his resolve, its roots grounding him in the old faith. The Three-Eyed Raven's sight could not pierce here.
"Daughter," Howland began, his voice thin but steady, "I know the past has not been kind to you. I know you still mourn Jojen."
Meera's lips tightened, her gaze lowering as her father's words touched the raw wound of her brother's loss. Howland's eyes misted, but he pressed on, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "War is coming to Westeros again. The dark gathers, and the winds of chaos blow stronger each day. You seek purpose, Meera, and I tell you now—it is not here."
Meera's brows furrowed in confusion, but she held her father's gaze.
"I have seen it," Howland continued, his voice breaking slightly. "You must go north. Seek the white wolf. Protect him, guide him. Stand beside him. That is where your destiny lies."
Meera's heart clenched at his words. She had always trusted her father's greensight, but this was more than a simple journey. It was a call to something greater.
"Father," she began hesitantly, "you ask me to leave our people, to leave you. I don't understand—"
"You will," Howland interrupted, his voice tinged with sorrow. "When the time comes, you will. But for now, you must trust me."
Howland's own heart ached. Guilt gnawed at him—guilt for staying silent all these years, for failing to stand beside Jon Snow when the boy had needed him most. He had protected Lyanna Stark's son, yes, but at what cost? His silence had robbed Jon of the truth, of the life he might have lived.
"I should have been there for him," Howland murmured, more to himself than to Meera. "I failed Lyanna, and I failed her son. But you will not fail him, Meera."
Meera, though confused and uncertain, nodded. She had learned never to discount her father's visions, no matter how strange they seemed. She turned toward the marshes, the path north stretching before her in her mind's eye.
"Trust not in ravens," Howland said suddenly, gripping her shoulder tightly. "He is always watching. I contest him as best I can, but I cannot stave him off forever. You must make haste. I have taught you well—you know how to go unseen. You can find hidden paths through the fog and snow. My men will guide you to the edge of the Neck. From there, you must make haste. No creature will hinder your path here, but beyond the Neck, I cannot say. Trust not the road, trust not in people, until you meet the White Wolf."
He paused, his voice faltering for a moment. Then, with an urgency borne of love and fear, he pulled her into a tight embrace. "Above all, daughter… return to me one day."
The two shared a long embrace, their hearts heavy with unspoken fears. Howland cursed the frailty of his aging body, wishing he could go in her place. But the burden lay with his daughter now, his last gift to the world. Meera felt his hand linger on her shoulder as they parted, his gaze filled with a mixture of pride and sorrow.
Meera was quiet, bowed under the weight of her pack. Enough food and provisions had been provided to get her far into her journey; she would eventually have to hunt to sustain herself, but her true hope lay in speed and stealth. Her father's men turned back at the Neck with many well wishes and fair winds. She was now on her own.
She avoided the King's Road like a plague, instead making her way north through hidden paths. Her green eyes were constantly fixed on her goal, the Wall. At night, she would sit in silence, often without a fire, to avoid drawing wandering eyes. During these quiet moments, her thoughts often turned to Bran.
She had given so much to the boy who became a king. She had carried him hundreds of miles on a sled, through snow and shadow, with Hodor and Jojen at her side. She had lost her brother, Jojen, and Bran had lost Summer. Hodor had sacrificed himself to give them time to escape. Through it all, the boy she had once known disappeared into something colder. When his transformation was complete, he had discarded her like a tool whose purpose had been fulfilled. Any future she might have imagined with Bran was dashed by his indifference. For years, she carried bitter resentment, but now, in her solitude, she pitied him. The Broken King was no longer human. He had become something else entirely.
Her journey northward was long and arduous. She made good time each day, traveling along animal paths and avoiding the roads entirely. When rivers crossed her path, she traversed them with the skill of her people, balancing across logs or using her spear to pole herself to the other shore. She caught small game unaware with her bow and prepared them over small, smokeless fires. At night, she often slept high in the boughs of trees for safety.
Weeks passed, and the wind grew colder with each step northward. One day, as the air turned bitter, she crested a rise and saw it—the Wall. Even at a distance, the massive structure loomed vast and indomitable, bathed in icy majesty. She stopped, leaning wearily on her spear, and gazed at the sight before her. She had seen it once before, but even now, its grandeur struck her anew.
To think that Bran the Builder had crafted something so powerful, she thought. Its true purpose had been revealed during the Long Night, when it held back the wights and the icy tide of the Others. Yet, despite the horror it had contained, its majesty remained undiminished. A sharp, sheer wind cut through her, carrying the Wall's ancient chill. She bowed her head briefly against the cold before setting off again.
Castle Black lay ahead. She would reach it in a few days. Throughout her journey, she had sorted through her memories, the pain of the past and the uncertainty of the future. Silently, she vowed to herself that the past would remain where it belonged. Her purpose lay ahead. Whatever awaited her, she would face it with her head held high.
"Pray it's warmer where I'm headed," she muttered dryly to the forest around her as she pressed on.
Riverrun
In the warmer climates of the south, far from the winter chill of the Wall, Edmure Tully sat silently in his solar, gazing at a map of the Riverlands. Ten years ago, he had been a fool, laughed out of King's Landing. His niece and nephew had all but cut ties with him, viewing him as a bumbling relic. But captivity had tempered him. Time had taught him humility and forced him to reflect on his past mistakes.
Riverrun had been left to him in ruins, and the Riverlands—shattered by war—had seemed beyond saving. Yet, Edmure had taken up the challenge. He had opened Riverrun's vaults to aid his people, working shoulder to shoulder with the smallfolk to rebuild. He resowed fields, buried the dead, and rebuilt villages stone by stone. His efforts had earned the hard-won trust of his bannermen and the people of the Riverlands.
But it had come at a cost. His wife, Roslin, had never recovered from the shame and grief of her family's betrayal. The Red Wedding had left a scar too deep to heal. She had been a steadfast companion during the rebuilding, her kind words often buoying Edmure's spirits, but illness and despair had taken her three years ago. She had left behind a son, Brynden, who was now Edmure's sole family. The boy, only ten, was already wiser than Edmure had been at twice his age. Brynden took to his lessons with a diligence that made his father proud.
Edmure's thoughts turned to the growing unrest in the northern Riverlands. Bandits plagued the roads, their numbers swelling despite repeated efforts to root them out. Messages from Seagard painted a grim picture—these were no common brigands. They were organized, methodical, and brutal. Something darker lurked beneath the surface. Yet, the absent lords—the Haighs, Charltons, Erenfords, —refused to answer Edmure's summons. It was a slight he could not afford to address yet.
When he called a council at Riverrun, only his loyal bannermen attended. Jason Mallister's son, Patrek, came in his father's stead. The Blackwoods, Smallwoods, and Rygers sent their lords. House Vance of Atranta sent Lucian Vance, a cautious man who rarely ventured far from his lands.. It wasn't enough. Perhaps four thousand men in total had been gathered, far less than the might of the Riverlands of old.
Riverrun's Great Hall – The Council of Lords
The air in Riverrun's great hall was thick with tension as the gathered lords and their retinues broke their fast. Bread, hard cheese, and smoked fish filled the long tables, but the lords barely touched their plates. Edmure Tully sat at the head of the hall, his blue eyes scanning the room. The years had etched lines of hardship onto his face, but his gaze remained steady, commanding.
Brynden Tully stood silently near the hall's edge, his youthful face intent as he watched the proceedings. The boy had taken to observing his father's councils, a habit Edmure encouraged. The lessons of leadership were best learned early, and Brynden seemed eager to absorb every word.
The lords of the Riverlands were a varied group, each carrying the burdens of a war-torn land. Patrek Mallister represented Seagard, his father Jason having chosen to remain home to oversee defenses. The Blackwoods, led by the somber Lord Tytos, sat with grim expressions, their long feud with the Brackens an unspoken tension in the room. The Brackens had sent only their young heir, a thin youth who avoided the Blackwoods' glares. Lords Smallwood, Ryger, Wayn, and the cautious Lucian Vance of Atranta completed the assembly. The absences of Charlton, Haigh, Erenford, and Darry hung heavily in the room.
Edmure rose to his feet, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "My lords, we have much to discuss. For months now, the Riverlands have been plagued by bandits. Their raids have grown bolder, their numbers greater. They threaten our homes, our people, and the peace we've worked so hard to rebuild."
He gestured to Patrek Mallister. "Seagard has borne the brunt of these attacks. Patrek, tell us what you've seen."
Patrek stood, his youthful face stern. "My lords, these are no mere bandits. They strike with precision, hitting undefended villages and poorly guarded caravans. They take what they can carry and burn the rest. Their cruelty is... deliberate. Entire families slaughtered, homes turned to ash. This isn't theft—it's terror."
The hall fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Then Lucian Vance cleared his throat. "And you're certain they're not just desperate smallfolk? Starvation can drive men to madness."
Patrek shook his head. "If that were the case, we'd see disorganized rabble. But these attacks are planned. We've driven them off more than once, yet they return, stronger each time. Someone is leading them."
Tytos Blackwood leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing. "Do you think the Freys have a hand in this? Their bastards and remnants are still scattered across the Riverlands."
"That's a bold accusation," snapped the young Bracken heir, his voice cracking with nervousness. "Not all Freys were monsters."
Tytos's gaze turned icy. "A Frey killed my kin at the Red Wedding. Monsters, every one of them."
Edmure had heard enough of the Frey talk" and a Frey was my wife Tytos"
At that the Blackwood lord tilted his head down in shame.
The Bracken heir bristled but said nothing further, sinking back into his chair.
Lord Smallwood chimed in, his tone skeptical. "And yet what of the absent houses? Charlton, Haigh, Erenford—they had ties to the Freys. It's no secret they prospered under Frey rule."
Lucian Vance raised a hand. "We should be cautious before casting blame. Absence is not proof of guilt."
The lords began to murmur amongst themselves, their voices rising as accusations and counterarguments flew. "We need proof!" one lord exclaimed. "It's treachery, pure and simple," argued another. The room grew louder, the unity Edmure had worked so hard to foster fraying before his eyes.
"Silence!" Edmure bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. The hall echoed with the sound, and the lords fell into stunned silence. Brynden flinched but held his ground, watching his father with a mix of awe and apprehension.
Edmure's blue eyes blazed as he swept his gaze over the room. "Are you not all lords here? Then act the part! We are Riverlords, bound by duty to our people and to each other. If we fall to bickering, the Riverlands will be torn apart—again."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. Some lords looked chastened, others merely quiet.
Edmure straightened, his voice steady. "Patrek is right. This is no ordinary banditry. Their cruelty, their precision—it reeks of something darker. But I will not judge the absent houses. Not yet. We need unity, not division. Through unity alone will the Riverlands stand."
He gestured to the map spread across the table. "Here is what I propose. Each of you will contribute men and resources to a combined force. This force will scour the Riverlands, root out these brigands, and put an end to their terror. Patrek Mallister will lead the vanguard, as Seagard has the most experience dealing with these raids. I will oversee the campaign personally."
Lucian Vance frowned. "And if the absent houses resist this plan? Or worse, if they are complicit?"
Edmure's jaw tightened, but he held his composure. "If they resist, they will answer for it. But I will not cast judgment without proof. The Riverlands need justice, not vengeance."
Tytos Blackwood nodded, his voice grave. "You have my men, Lord Tully. The Blackwoods stand with Riverrun."
One by one, the lords voiced their support. Smallwood. Ryger. Wayn. Even the Bracken heir, though his agreement was reluctant, as if forced by duty rather than conviction.
As the council adjourned, Brynden approached his father. "Will it be enough?" the boy asked quietly.
Edmure placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his expression softening. "It will have to be. The Riverlands have bled enough. It's time to fight for the peace we've earned."
Two weeks had passed since the council, and dark wings had carried darker words. Ravens flew to every corner of the Riverlands, summoning men to Riverrun. From their banners came a host—not the mighty armies of old but a patchwork force of four thousand, a shadow of what the Riverlands had once been. Even the Brackens had sent a token force: a small number of bowmen and a captain to lead them. It would have to be enough.
In his solar, Edmure Tully stood alone, donning his armor. The polished steel caught the light, glinting as he methodically fastened each piece. His hands moved with practiced care, but his mind was far from the task. His gaze drifted toward the distant window, where the murmurs of men and horses preparing for departure filtered in from the courtyard below. This was not the first time he had ridden out in defense of his lands, but it felt different now.
His thoughts turned to Brynden, his son and heir. At ten years old, Brynden was already more than Edmure could have hoped for. The boy excelled in his lessons, both in the solar and the yard, yet remained grounded, never letting arrogance take root. Edmure felt a pride that swelled so strongly it was almost painful. He had come to terms with his own shortcomings as a youth, but seeing Brynden, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope. The boy was everything Edmure aspired to be but had never managed in his own youth.
The memory of an event two years prior surfaced, unbidden but vivid. Brynden had been paired against an older, more aggressive boy in the training yard. The youth, a squire training for knighthood, had taken a cheap shot at Brynden's pride.
"Coward," the boy sneered. "Frey blood's in your veins, isn't it?"
Brynden froze, his face flushing red. For a moment, Edmure had feared his son might retreat, wounded by the words. Instead, Brynden roared like a storm, tackling the older boy to the ground. The yard erupted as Brynden unleashed a flurry of punches, fueled by years of whispers and quiet insults about his lineage. It had taken guards and the master-at-arms to pry him off.
Edmure had arrived moments later, his expression thunderous as he surveyed the scene. Gripping Brynden firmly by the arm, he turned to the master-at-arms. "Deal with the other boy as you see fit. He'll need to learn discipline too."
Brynden had barely said a word as Edmure marched him to his solar, depositing him on the far side of the desk. The boy stood slouched, his head bowed, awaiting punishment.
Edmure had stared at his son, his expression unreadable. Then, to Brynden's shock, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"You know," Edmure began, his voice lighter than expected, "your namesake would have been proud. The Blackfish would have chuckled at that display."
Brynden's head shot up, his wide eyes meeting his father's.
"But," Edmure continued, his tone sharpening, "while I am proud you defended our name, I am also disappointed. You acted below the station of a lord."
Brynden's head lowered again, guilt shadowing his young face.
"Son, look at me." Edmure's voice softened. "You are my heir. Your actions carry weight. As lords, we must keep our emotions in check. Gods know I struggled with that when I was your age—and well into manhood. It took me years to earn back the respect I threw away with my foolishness. You are better than that. You're twice the man I was at your age."
Tears welled in Brynden's eyes as his father approached, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You will be punished. You'll muck stables for a season, and the other boy will face his share of discipline too. But never doubt this: I am proud of you, and I love you. Remember our words, Brynden. Family, Duty, Honor."
"Father," Brynden's voice cracked as he hesitated, "will you tell me about Uncle Blackfish?"
Edmure had laughed then, sweeping his son into his chair and regaling him with tales of the legendary Brynden Tully. The memory warmed Edmure even now, two years later, as he fastened the last buckle of his armor.
Departure from Riverrun
The courtyard was alive with movement as men mounted horses, their banners snapping in the brisk wind. Edmure's black destrier pawed impatiently at the cobblestones, its breath steaming in the morning air. Behind him, Brynden stood stoic, dressed in his finest doublet. Though he tried to hide it, his clenched fists betrayed his struggle to maintain composure.
Edmure turned to his son, his expression softening as he approached. Kneeling slightly to meet Brynden's eye level, he placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are the lord of Riverrun while I am gone. Your words carry weight and our family's legacy. I trust you, Brynden. You will not disappoint me."
Brynden nodded, his voice thick with emotion. "Will you return, Father?"
Edmure hesitated only a moment before smiling warmly. "Yes, my boy. I will. And I will return to a son who upholds our words: Family, Duty, Honor."
Pulling his son into a tight embrace, Edmure whispered, "You have good advisors. Trust them, but trust your own judgment too. Listen to your heart, but above all," he tapped his temple lightly, "listen to your head."
As Edmure mounted his destrier, he turned back to Brynden, a winning smile on his face. "And don't get too comfortable in my seat," he teased, winking.
Riding to the head of the column, he met Patrek Mallister, who awaited him astride his own horse. "Patrek," Edmure muttered, his voice heavy, "I fear I've left the best part of me behind."
Patrek smiled knowingly. "Aye, the best part of me is back in Seagard. Little wretches grow on you. Gods, I miss them already. Come, my lord, let's put some bandits in shallow graves and get back to our broods."
Edmure barked a laugh, his spirits lifting as the column began its march. The gates of Riverrun creaked shut behind them, and the banners of the Tullys and their allies fluttered as they set forth to defend their land.