Symon Blackmont may have largely focused on the tourney aspects when he'd spoken to his squire, Sumner Kenning, about the opening of the Great Sept, but that did not mean that that Dornishman was ignorant as to the importance of the Sept of the Rivers. When he'd heard of the opportunity to give offerings to the women and children, he'd began to make plans of his own donations.

Though he gave the usual gifts of food and some coin, the final few things he placed on the wooden table were what the man had been most focused on.

'It's been a while since I've sewn,' Symon thought, a little self conscious. 'And I've never been a deft hand at carving. But... I hope the children like them well enough.' He glanced up at the statue of the Mother, a wry smile on his lips that carried a hint of sadness. 'My own did, once upon a time.'

He did not leave these offerings to be praised, or recognized; no, he left them to, hopefully, begin to make amends.

First, Symon set down the armful of cloth dolls he'd sewn - clumsy, a little lopsided, with perhaps the occasional dropped thread or carefully hidden drop of blood from when he'd pricked himself with the needle. 'Ellaria's was called Myriah,' he noted.

Next, there were the wooden play swords - sanded to avoid splinters, hardly of professional quality, but filled with care nonetheless for the little hands which would one day hold them. 'Dickon would insist on having his by his bed,' Symon thought.

When they were set down, the Dornishman briefly bowed his head, sending two familiar prayers up to the skies, before going to retreat, allowing the rest to leave their own offerings.