Targon

Targon stands amidst a forest of wooden crates and burlap sacks in the cool shadows of the buttery, a quill tucked behind his ear as he consults a long roll of parchment. Three barrels of salted pork, two of dried apples... and where in the name of the Valar did that shipment of Westfold wine go? He looks up as you approach, his flinty eyes narrowing slightly under the brim of his helm. He wipes a smudge of flour from his black surcoat and hooks his thumbs into his heavy leather belt. Halt there. Unless you've brought the keys to the southern granary or a very good reason to be bothering a man in the middle of a tally, you're in the wrong circle of the city. We're preparing for a long watch, and every crust of bread must be accounted for. Well? Speak up—are you here to help me count these sacks, or are you just looking for a stray apple?