Morning came with trumpets, bad decisions, and the smell of horse.
Aurion stood near the betting rails at the edge of the lists, holding a cup of something that was probably water but emotionally closer to regret. The fact he only vomited twice since reincarnating meant he was growing used to the drinking water. Whether that was good or bad, he hadn't decided yet.
The tourney grounds outside Stonehelm had transformed overnight. Where yesterday's melee field had been churned mud and scattered shields, now bright banners fluttered in ordered lines. White swans of House Swann hung proudly beside the black stag of House Baratheon.
Knights rode slow circles beyond the lists, armor polished to mirror brightness, destriers stamping like thunder held on a leash.
Aurion watched them with deep professional skepticism.
"Those are terrible investments," he muttered.
Beside him, the betting table was already crowded. Smallfolk, retainers, squires, and a few minor knights leaned over a plank balanced on barrels where two men kept a ledger and a growing pile of coin.
Aurion nudged forward.
The bookmaker looked up and squinted.
"You again."
Aurion smiled a little too brightly.
"Customer loyalty."
"You already robbed me once."
"Statistical anomaly."
The man sighed. "What do you want now?"
Aurion leaned on the table and surveyed the board scratched into the wood.
Names. Houses. Odds.
The opening tilt would feature several young knights hoping to impress the crowd before the more serious contenders rode.
One name had the shortest odds.
Aleric Swann, brother of the current lord Swann.
Aurion clicked his tongue.
"Predictable."
Another bettor nearby nodded toward the field. "Swann'll take half the tilts today. Best rider in the Stormlands his age."
Aurion didn't argue.
He had seen the man fight yesterday; Aleric Swann was extremely competent.
"Who's he riding first?" Aurion asked.
The bookmaker jabbed a finger down the board.
A minor marcher knight with a green sigil Aurion didn't recognize.
Odds: four to one against the marcher.
Aurion scratched his chin. "Hmm."
"Are you here to cheat me out of my coin again, you little shit?"
Aurion ignored him.
Instead he glanced across the tourney field.
The stands were already filling.
High above the lists sat the noble viewing platform. Bright silks. Shiny cloaks. Plenty of unearned confidence.
Aurion spotted a familiar figure among them.
Maris Baratheon leaned against the railing, watching the preparations with open boredom. Even from this distance Aurion could feel trouble radiating off her—whether it was the ostentatious lace at her sleeves or the knowing smirk that had gotten him punished by a creatively motivated Ser Gregor.
To her side stood the other Baratheon sisters, each dressed in equally impractical silks. The lace itself probably cost more than Aurion had won in the last three months of gambling. Which was impressive, because he had been very dedicated to gambling.
Goddamned rich kids.
Cassandra Baratheon sat perfectly upright, hands folded neatly in her lap, looking exactly like what a highborn lady was supposed to look like while watching men try to murder each with long sticks.
Floris Baratheon leaned forward excitedly, clearly enjoying the pageantry of bright armor and the field currently littered with horses, banners, and the bullshit honor.
And somewhere behind them, partially obscured by swan banners, Aurion caught a glimpse of Ellyn Baratheon speaking quietly with one of their father's men.
Four daughters of Borros Baratheon overlooking the lists like a collection of very well-dressed disasters waiting to happen.
The nickname Four Storms was, Aurion decided, not exaggeration but rather a public safety annouceement.
Aurion looked away quickly.
"Right," he muttered. "Business."
He leaned back against the wooden rail beside the betting tables and squinted at the field where knights were mounting up.
The fat bookmaker beside him was counting coins.
Aurion leaned over slightly, pointing at Ser Gregor in the distance who was busy eyeing his competition in silence.
"Tell me the odds of Ser Gregor reaching the finals."
The bookmaker followed Aurion's finger across the field.
Ser Gregor sat astride a horse that looked like it ate smaller horses for breakfast. His armor wasn't bright or polished like the others—it was dull, battered, and very much the sort of steel that had hit people before.
Around him, the other knights gleamed like decorative teapots, arms tied with ribbons from hopeful ladies.
The bookmaker squinted at the sight.
"That your knight?"
"'My' is a strong word," he said mildly. "I prefer to think of him as a promising financial instrument with legs."
The bookmaker snorted. "I ain't taking your bet this time, squire. You nearly ruined me last time."
Aurion placed a hand over his heart, wounded. Deeply wounded. Possibly fatally wounded.
"Ruined you? My good man, you gave me those odds."
"You fought dirty," the bookmaker said flatly.
Aurion blinked at him with wide, his innocence injured possibly, probably, eh.
"Dirty?" he repeated. "I fought like a true squire."
"You threw dirt in Swann's eyes."
Aurion lifted a finger.
"Swann ran face-first into my dirt," Aurion said. "Very different tone."
"You kicked mud into his helm!"
Aurion gave a modest shrug.
"He was winning."
"That's the point!"
"Exactly," Aurion said, pleased he was following along.
The bookmaker stared at him.
"You understand that's the problem, right?"
Aurion tilted his head thoughtfully.
"I'm struggling to see the issue. A problem presented itself, I applied a practical solution."
"You blinded him!"
"Temporarily reduced his battlefield awareness."
The bookmaker rubbed his face slowly, the way a man does when reconsidering every life decision that led him to this exact moment.
The bookmaker stared at him in disbelief. "You're the worst squire I've ever seen."
Aurion smiled pleasantly but did not respond.
The bookmaker looked like he was about three seconds away from throwing something heavy. Letting out a long string of creative and mostly inaudible curses, the bookmaker grabbed a small leather pouch from the table and debated whether or not to give Aurion his earnings.
"Anyway," he said, turning back toward the field, "LLovely doing business with you."
"You robbed me!"
Aurion looked back one last time reiterating once more.
"You gave me the odds."
"I didn't think you'd fight like a scavenging sewer rat!"
Aurion gave a small shrug.
"You should always account for sewer rats. They win more often than you'd think."
Coins clinked loudly as Aurion caught it against his chest.
"Take your winnings," the bookmaker growled, pointing toward the road with the righteous fury of a man banishing a demon. "And never come back."
Aurion weighed the pouch in his hand. His eyebrows rose slightly at the pleasant sound of coin.
He may have committed something morally reprehensible—but cheating, Aurion firmly believed, was just another word for initiative. As the age old saying goes, "if you ain't cheating, you ain't trying".
Besides, if the other squires had wanted to win, they should have thought of fighting dirty.
Or a healthy disrespect for the concept of honorable combat.
He tucked the pouch into his belt with the satisfied air of a man whose financial portfolio had just experienced significant growth.
Behind him the bookmaker was still muttering curses that sounded both creative and deeply personal.
Aurion ignored him.
Mostly because he was already thinking about how to spend the money.
And more importantly—how to turn it into more money. That island wasn't going to buy itself.
-
The trumpets sounded again, louder this time as the marshals began pestering the knights to prepare.
Long, blaring notes rolled across the tourney field like a declaration of extremely expensive stupidity.
Aurion stood beside Ser Gregor's horse and held the reins with the practiced patience of a man who had accepted that today would involve large animals, sharp sticks, and at least one poor decision made by someone with a title.
The charger shifted beneath its armor, stamping the ground with the confidence of a creature that knew it outweighed most problems.
Aurion patted its neck.
"Easy," he muttered. "You're about to carry a man whose plan for most situations is ride directly at it and see what breaks."
Ser Gregor stood beside them in battered plate, tightening the straps on his gauntlet.
Unlike the other knights, he had not polished his armor to mirror brightness. His steel was dull, scarred, and very obviously familiar with the concept of violence.
Never mind the fact that he was still terrible at polishing armor.
Aurion had, technically, tried.
For hours.
After that he had reached the professional conclusion that if Ser Gregor wanted shiny armor, he should consider the radical strategy of not getting hit with things.
Besides, dull steel had advantages. It didn't glare in the sun, didn't show scratches, and most importantly didn't reveal the increasingly creative shortcuts Aurion had been taking with maintenance.
Across the field the other competitors gleamed like decorative cookware.
Aurion glanced toward them.
Every knight had ribbons tied to their arms. Bright silks from hopeful ladies fluttered in the wind. Their shields were painted fresh. Their plumes stood tall.
They looked heroic.
Or flamboyant.
Dealer's choice.
Ser Gregor looked more like a blacksmith's failed project.
Aurion cleared his throat.
"You know," he said conversationally, "if you rode out there with a ribbon you might inspire the crowd."
Ser Gregor gave him a long, silent look.
Aurion raised both hands.
"Just offering branding advice."
Nearby, another squire struggled to lift a polished helm onto his knight's head. The knight's armor gleamed so brightly Aurion could see his own unimpressed reflection in it.
"Look at that," Aurion murmured. "That poor squire polished his armor for three hours this morning."
Ser Gregor swung into the saddle with the ease of someone who had been climbing into steel shells since childhood.
Aurion handed up the lance.
"Three hours," he continued, shaking his head. "Imagine the lost productivity."
Gregor settled the lance beneath his arm and glanced toward the shining knight.
"Maybe his squire's competent."
Aurion looked offended.
"I am extremely competent."
Gregor grunted.
"You polished my armor for six minutes."
"Six efficient minutes."
"You stopped halfway through."
"I conducted a cost-benefit analysis."
Gregor looked down at his breastplate his helm hiding his reaction, though he snorted at the excuse.
Aurion leaned on the horse's flank, watching the other knight finally mount up in a flurry of silk ribbons and shining steel.
"He looks like a decorative spoon."
Gregor adjusted his gauntlet.
"You talk too much."
"I provide morale support."
"You provide headaches."
Aurion pointed at another knight riding past with bright ribbons tied to his arm.
Gregor turned his horse toward the lists, lowering his helm in the process.
Marshals ushered the riders forward, forming them into a loose line near the entrance to the tilting lanes. The lesser knights and hopefuls gathered first—what Aurion privately labeled the cannon fodder bracket—while the higher-born competitors lingered nearby deciding who they would challenge in the opening rounds.
It was a system that seemed designed primarily to sort out the competitors.
More specifically, it allowed the nobles the advantage of choosing the weakest opponent they could find while still maintaining their idea of bravery.
Aurion leaned on the rail, watching the selection process unfold with the detached interest of a man observing livestock being inspected.
One knight rode slowly down the line, squinting at the assembled riders like how one would evaluate fruit.
"Hmm," Aurion murmured. "Bold strategy."
Another knight stopped in front of a particularly nervous-looking hedge knight whose armor appeared to have been inherited from several different relatives.
Aurion nodded.
"Yes. Excellent choice. Truly a terrifying foe."
The hedge knight swallowed.
The noble pointed his lance.
Challenge issued.
Aurion tilted his head. That bastard was stat padding.
Nearby, a pair of squires were watching the process with almost painful intensity. Their eyes were wide, unblinking, their posture stiff with reverence usually reserved for holy relics. This was clearly their first joust as participating squires.
Aurion leaned slightly on the fence rail, studying them the way Tom would study Jerry.
They didn't blink when a knight rode past.
They didn't blink when another knight turned sharply to issue a challenge.
One of them actually whispered, "Did you see that?" as if the knight had just performed a miracle instead of basic horse steering.
Aurion wondered how long it would take before they fainted.
He returned his attention to the line of riders just as another brightly dressed knight trotted along it, plume bobbing proudly in the breeze. The man looked from helm to helm, clearly searching for an opponent who appeared… manageable.
He slowed.
His horse turned slightly.
And then, quite unfortunately for him, he ended up directly in front of Ser Gregor.
There was a moment of hesitation.
Gregor sat in the saddle like a large knight-shaped lump of discarded metal. His armor looked as though it was being held together by spit, stubbornness, and the power of friendship.
The breastplate bore a crease that looked suspiciously like the memory of an axe strike. One pauldron was scratched to kingdom come. The other pauldron didn't quite match it at all, appearing to have been salvaged from an entirely different set of armor entirely.
The armor wasn't polished.
It wasn't decorated, save for the impressive collection of dents, scratches, and rust.
It wasn't even particularly symmetrical.
It wasn't very pretty.
Several pieces looked like they had been replaced over the years with whatever was on hand and forcefully shaped to fit.
Who said laziness never paid off?
His refusal to polish Gregor's armor had, quite accidentally, made the man look like a walking cautionary tale. Every dent, scratch, and suspicious crease suggested a long and intimate history with violence.
Happy accidents.
Ser Gregor looked like a knight who had just ridden back from battle, glanced around, and decided he still didn't have quite enough excitement in his day—so he'd joined the joust on the way home.
The knight stared.
Gregor stared back.
It was not an aggressive stare. Not particularly threatening.
Just the calm, patient look of a man who had already been hit with worse things than a jousting lance before breakfast.
The knight's plume drooped slightly.
He cleared his throat.
Then he very decisively turned his horse and rode several yards down the line before challenging someone who looked far more… Cooperative.
Aurion grinned.
Every knight of sufficiently impressive birth, heraldry, and self-importance had already chosen their opponents for the opening rounds. Those matches had all the ceremony—careful challenges, exchanged salutes, the whole polished song and dance.
Which left the rest.
The leftovers.
Ser Gregor was, unfortunately, in that category.
Meaning he would be jousting the other unselected knights until someone decided he was respectable enough to be invited into the proper bracket.
Aurion privately called this stage the meat grinder.
Marshals waved the remaining riders toward the tilting lanes like a man herding particularly expensive cattle.
A few hedge knights rolled forward.
One adjusted his helm.
One hissed a silent prayer or curse under his helm.
One stared at Gregor and visibly reconsidered his life choices.
Gregor simply waited in the saddle.
His opponent eventually rode forward: a hedge knight whose armor gleamed so brightly His poor squire probably polished it with his own tears. The shield bore a sigil Aurion did not recognize, which usually meant the knight was either newly made…
…or recently invented.
The hedge knight glanced at Gregor.
Gregor did not move.
He simply sat there in the saddle like a large pile of mildly threatening scrap metal.
Aurion leaned on the railing.
"Well," he murmured to no one in particular, "This should be educational."
The marshal raised the flag.
Both riders lowered their lances.
The flag dropped.
The horses lunged forward down the lane.
Wood smashed against shields.
Ser Gregor's lance smashed easily against the hedge knight's shield, shattering into a million pieces.
His opponent's skewed harmlessly out of reach as the hedge knight discovered the humbling mistress known as gravity.
There was a brief, almost thoughtful pause as the man hung in the air.
Then he hit the dirt with a sound that suggested several poor decisions had reached their natural conclusion. From the odd amalgamation of cough and gasp that followed, he was still alive. Just now littered with bruises and probably a broken rib or two.
Aurion nodded thoughtfully from the rail.
"Good news," he murmured. "He'll remember that for the rest of his life."
A nearby squire looked at him. "You think he's badly hurt?"
Aurion watched the hedge knight attempt to sit up, fail, and then roll slowly onto his side like a disgruntled turtle.
"Nah," Aurion said. "That's the sound of a man reconsidering his career."
The crowd roared approvingly.
Ser Gregor brought the horse back toward the rail at an easy trot, the broken stump of his lance still in his hand.
Aurion caught it as Gregor dropped it down to him, the splintered wood thumping against the ground beside the fence.
Aurion examined the ruined shaft thoughtfully.
"Good news," he said. "Your lance broke."
Gregor looked down at him through the narrow slit of his helm.
"That's what it's supposed to do."
"Yes, I'm just making sure you knew," Aurion replied, already rummaging through the rack beside him. "Like a dutiful squire should."
He pulled out a fresh lance and looked it over with the air of a man inspecting a suspicious melon. Not a minute after his inspection, Aurion tossed the lance over to the waiting Ser Gregor who caught it with ease.
Gregor caught the lance one-handed and settled it easily against the saddle.
He looked down at Aurion.
"You inspected that."
Aurion nodded solemnly.
"Of course."
"With what qualifications?"
Aurion folded his arms.
"I have watched you lose several jousts."
Gregor stared at him through the slit of his helm, amusement or exasperation he could not tell.
"That's not a qualification."
Aurion tilted his head.
"It's observational experience."
Gregor lowered the point of the lance slightly, testing the balance.
"Did you even check it?"
Aurion looked mildly offended.
"I shook it."
"You shook it."
"Yes."
Gregor was quiet for a moment.
Then, slowly—
"You shook the lance."
Aurion gestured vaguely at the weapon.
"If it had fallen apart, we'd have known immediately. That's efficient quality control."
Gregor's shoulders shifted with what might have been a sigh.
"You're a terrible squire."
Aurion brightened.
"I prefer the term cost-effective."
Down the list, the marshal lifted his flag again as the next pair of riders prepared.
Gregor adjusted the lance under his arm.
Aurion leaned comfortably on the rail.
"Just remember," he added helpfully, "Pointy end toward the other man."
Gregor turned his helm slightly toward him, snorting in response to the colored commentary.
Aurion nodded approvingly.
"Excellent. We're making progress."
Gregor snorted softly through the visor.
It was the sort of sound that suggested amusement had tried to escape and been strangled halfway out.
Aurion chose to take it as encouragement.
Down the lists another pair of knights thundered past, one of them losing a plume and most of his dignity in the process. The crowd roared approval anyway. Apparently accuracy was optional so long as something dramatic happened.
Aurion watched with professional interest.
The first day of jousting would only be to clear out the rabble. The second and final day would decide the winner, from the forty-three odd knights that gathered, twenty-two would make it to tomorrow.
The first day of jousting was mostly administrative violence.
Forty-three knights had entered the lists. By the end of the day that number would be reduced to ten—those fortunate enough to remain mounted, conscious, and only moderately dented.
Tomorrow would decide the winner.
Today was simply about clearing out the rabble.
Aurion leaned on the rail and watched another pair thunder down the lane. One lance shattered impressively. The other knight missed entirely and continued riding several yards before realizing his opponent had already been removed from the horse and the immediate conversation with gravity.
The crowd applauded enthusiastically.
Aurion nodded.
"Efficient," he murmured.
Beside him a young squire was watching with wide-eyed awe, gripping the railing like a man witnessing the height of chivalric glory.
Aurion patted him lightly on the shoulder.
"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "By the fourth round you'll start recognizing which ones are here to win and which ones are here to donate their armor to the ground."
The young squire only stared at him with a deep, suspicious frown.
Aurion blinked back innocently.
Tough crowd.
Down the lists another tilt ended with a spectacular crack of splintering wood. One knight remained upright. The other was introduced to the dirt at high speed.
Trumpets sounded.
Marshals rode forward, shouting and waving flags as squires scrambled onto the field to drag away broken lances and mildly broken men. The last tilts of the afternoon finished one by one until the lists finally grew quiet again.
By the time the dust settled, the numbers had thinned considerably.
Forty-three knights had arrived that morning.
Only eight remained.
Aurion leaned on the rail and squinted at the chalkboard where a marshal was updating the pairings for the final round of the day.
"Ah," he said.
Ser Gregor had drawn a knight from House Langward.
Aurion tilted his head.
The Langwards were respectable enough stormlander nobility. Not famous, not terrible. The sort of house that produced solid, dependable knights and extremely boring dinner conversations.
The Langward knight rode into position at the far end of the lists.
His armor was polished. His shield freshly painted.
Out on the field, Ser Gregor shifted slightly in the saddle, looking exactly like he always did: a large pile of dented steel mounted on an equally large horse.
Aurion picked up another lance and walked out toward the rail.
"Well," he said as he held it up for Gregor, "Last one for the day."
He glanced down the lane toward the waiting Langward knight.
"Try not to kill him," Aurion added thoughtfully.
A pause.
"Or do," he amended. "I don't actually know the man."
The marshals cleared the field one last time.
Splintered lances were dragged away. A disgruntled horse was led off by two squires who were pretending very hard that nothing embarrassing had just happened. The crowd settled again as the final tilts of the day was called.
Trumpets sounded.
Ser Gregor rode to his end of the lists, the heavy destrier stamping impatiently beneath him. Across the lane, the Langward knight lowered his visor with a calm, practiced motion.
Aurion leaned over the railing with the easy posture of a man who was not about to be hit by a charging horse.
"Alright," he called. "Remember the plan."
Gregor looked down the lane.
"Hit him."
"Exactly."
The marshal raised the flag.
Both riders lowered their lances.
The flag dropped.
The horses lunged forward.
Hooves thundered down the lane as both knights leaned into the charge. The distance closed in seconds—
CRACK.
Both lances shattered against shields in a violent spray of splinters.
Gregor barely moved in the saddle.
The Langward knight rocked slightly but recovered cleanly, bringing his horse around with practiced control.
The crowd roared approval.
Aurion clapped slowly.
"Oh good," he muttered. "Competence."
Squires ran forward with fresh lances.
Aurion grabbed one from the rack and jogged out to Gregor's side, holding it up.
Gregor took it without a word.
"Still alive?" Aurion asked.
Gregor snorted through his helm.
They rode back to their marks.
The marshal raised the flag again.
Second tilt.
The charge came faster this time.
Both knights leaned lower, aiming carefully—
CRACK.
Gregor's lance shattered across the Langward knight's breastplate. The Langward knight's struck Gregor square on the shoulder with a brutal thud.
Gregor shifted in the saddle.
Not much.
But Aurion noticed.
The crowd gasped.
Both men stayed mounted.
"Hmm," Aurion murmured.
Gregor turned his horse slowly.
Aurion walked out again with another lance.
"Alright," he said casually, handing it up. "Minor note."
Gregor looked down at him.
"You're bleeding."
A thin line of dark red was creeping down from the joint of Gregor's pauldron.
Gregor glanced once at the shoulder.
Then back at the lists.
"Later."
Aurion nodded and handed him the lance without another comment.
The marshal lifted the flag again.
Third tilt.
The horses roared forward.
This time Gregor didn't aim for the shield.
He drove the lance straight into the Langward knight's chest.
CRACK.
The impact launched the man clean out of the saddle.
There was a brief moment where the knight hung sideways in the air, limbs doing several confused things at once—
Then he hit the ground with a tremendous crash and rolled twice in the dust.
His horse kept running without him.
The crowd erupted.
Gregor rode on several paces before slowing and turning his mount.
Aurion leaned comfortably on the rail.
"Well," he said thoughtfully.
The Langward knight groaned somewhere in the dirt.
"Technically alive."
Gregor reached up and flexed his injured shoulder slightly.
Aurion watched the movement.
"Ah," he said. "That one's going to hurt later."
The cheering followed Ser Gregor off the lists.
Not loudly—not like when some shining noble unhorsed a rival in spectacular fashion—but there was a solid rumble of approval from the crowd. The sort reserved for a clean, decisive hit and a man who very clearly knew what he was doing.
Aurion followed a few steps behind, carrying the ruined stump of Gregor's last lance and trying to look like a responsible squire instead of a man who had spent the morning committing small-scale financial crimes.
Gregor rode slowly now, the excitement of the charge gone. His horse snorted as they passed the barriers, marshals waving them through toward the staging area behind the lists.
Aurion watched the way Gregor sat in the saddle.
Then he sighed.
"You're doing the statue thing."
Gregor didn't turn his head.
"What statue thing."
"That statue thing," Aurion said, gesturing vaguely. "The one where you pretend nothing hurts while sitting like a slightly offended statue."
Gregor dismounted.
It was a little slower than usual.
Aurion caught the reins and tied them off to a post while Gregor stood there, helmet still on, breathing steadily through the slit.
"Well," Aurion said, strolling back over, "Good news."
Gregor looked down at him.
"What."
"You didn't die."
A pause.
"That's usually my goal."
"Ambitious," Aurion said approvingly.
He stepped forward and began working at the straps beneath Gregor's pauldron. The leather was choked with sweat and dust, the buckles pulled tight from the impact earlier.
"You got hit pretty square in that third tilt," Aurion continued. "I was impressed. Most people fold when a Langward knight tries to remove their skeleton."
Gregor grunted.
The buckle finally came loose.
Aurion lifted the pauldron away and immediately winced.
"Ah."
Gregor glanced down.
"How bad."
Aurion tilted his head, inspecting the swelling bruise already spreading across Gregor's shoulder.
"Well," he said carefully, "It's not broken."
Gregor exhaled.
"Yet," Aurion added helpfully.
Gregor gave him a long, slow look.
Aurion smiled.
"I like to manage expectations."
They removed the rest of the armor piece by piece. The breastplate came off with a dull metallic clatter and was set against a nearby crate, its surface scratched and dented from the day's work.
Gregor rolled his shoulder once.
Then stopped.
Aurion nodded.
"Excellent. That's the exact reaction I was hoping for."
"It's fine."
"Of course it is," Aurion said. "Which is why we're walking to the healer."
Gregor opened his mouth.
Aurion raised a hand.
"Before you say anything heroic, remember that if your arm falls off tomorrow I'm the one who has to explain it."
Gregor closed his mouth again.
They walked toward the healer's tents while the last of the riders cleared the field. Squires hurried past carrying broken lances and dented helms, while somewhere behind them the crowd slowly began to disperse.
Another day of the tourney finished.
Another collection of bruised knights and broken equipment.