The Tourney at Ashford

There wasn't much for Derrick to do with most of the important people off at the castle receiving gifts of bread and salt, and it really wasn't the place for a retainer so Derrick had remained at the camp. It was quiet with most of the important residents off, but he was still keeping an eye open to his surroundings You never knew what might happen with most of the camp away.

Setting things in place for her house's return, Septa Braya found herself making busy work. She tended to what needed tending, finding herself a spot sat outside one of the many tents, and was concentrating on some needlework. Her brow furrowed in thought, her ginger hair swept back and held under light-coloured cloth tied around her head, knotted at the nape of her neck. She seemed meek and slight, as if a good gust of wind would knock her over. She was singing softly to herself as she worked, an old hymn about the Seven.

Derrick really wasn't that religious of a man, been mostly raised by soldiers he viewed religion a little differently then most others. Certainly he offered the occasional prayer to the warrior, but he'd have to think hard to remember all the other of the seven. He hadn't spoken with the Septa much either, they seemed to run in different circles. Derrick did recognize her though and after a few moments of consideration he made his way over.

He'd wait a few moments before addressing her, not really wanting to interrupt her singing.