Lords and ladies of the trail, good day.
I am in need of a favor and I come before you today to ask of it, if you will spare me the courtesy of listening. I have been instructed by my guardian, His Britannic Majesty's shipman Jonathan Hollom, to remain in close quarters with the wagons at all times. To stray from the path is dangerous, I know, for the what lies beyond is both wild and treacherous. I am in search, however, for a tree. A weirwood it is called, and native to the lands of my birth. Broad and majestic, with bark as white as snow and leaves as red as brightest blood; cut the bark and the wood will weep sap, not orange or amber, but again: red.
It is perhaps beyond hope to find one here but I am unable to traverse the wilderness myself to know for certain. Those among us who scout and hunt and trap, I entreat you humbly to be my eyes and bring word of whatever you may find.
I do not have much with which to repay such thoughtfulness, beyond the purse of my own gratitude. Though— I am to serve as tailor to the caravan, so if ever there is something in need of mending, please, do not hesitate to ask.
[ A pause as she presses her lips together and then the picture dips again with another curtsey before the video cuts out.
FOR ACTION: For anyone who'd like to come looking for Sansa instead of responding over the network, she can be found seated at the front of the wagon that she shares with Annie Edison as it crawls along the trail. ]