[Claim] The Hewitts of King’s Landing

From his desk within his family’s quarters behind the kitchens of the Broken Anvil Arthur Hewitt was slowly totalling the gains and losses his organisation had sustained after an unexpected squire from the West had stormed to victory in the past week’s dockyard duels. The events weren’t so much duels, they could be more aptly be called outright brawls, and with their reputation for bloodshed they attracted only the most confident of fighters who were eager for what they saw as an easy pay out. But it wasn’t just the victors making more money than they knew what to do with; the young Westerlander had put some veterans of the duels in the dirt and as such many of the Hewitt’s customers had lost considerable money after betting on the longstanding favourites. Arthur, of course, shared in their commiserations with them over a drink at the Anvil afterwards, but upsets were always good for a bookmaker’s business.

He wasn’t the de facto leader of the Hewitts by any means, that title technically fell to his grandmother, old One Eye Madge, the owner of the Anvil. Madge had been old before Arthur was born, and now that he was rapidly approaching 40 with children of his own, she was certainly one of the oldest people in the city, if not the continent. With Madge’s age though, her mind had withered with her body, and having outlived all her children this left Arthur to lead the Hewitt clan in her place. This role saw him overseeing the Anvil’s everyday running, a successful business in its own right, but all the same a front for the money his family was pulling in as a bookmaker for the dockyard duels and whatever petty theft the children of the Hewitt clan could get away with as they roamed the winding streets of King’s Landing by day.

He smiled as he finished sifting through this week’s betting slip receipts, having totalled them up to the exact coinage he had finished counting only hours ago. His people were loyal, or they were smart, either way they knew better than to take cuts out the family’s profits. After filing the receipts away and locking them up he stood and went to the window. Only at that late hour, with the city lit dimly by a half moon, the streets were still. From the Anvil’s perch on the incline of Aegon’s High Hill Arthur could see the whole city. His eyes traced the skyline slowly, passing over the Dragon Pit, the Great Sept and Visenya’s Hill before finally settling upon the docks. Even at the hour of the wolf, with the rest of the city asleep, the docks still bustling with the transport of freight. The Hewitt clan could make good money from their current enterprises, but it was at the docks that there were fortunes to be made, where fine treasures from the North, South, East and West all found themselves. That was where their future lay, Arthur knew, not pursing a life of petty theft and bookmaking, but much work was required first.

The young Westerlander squire had talked of a Grand Tourney at Harrenhal that was to occur in the 6th month 216 AC. This was an opportunity for the Hewitts, the betting of common folk was of inconsequential compared to the wealth at the disposal of the nobility, as such he had dispatched his brother, Artemis (accompanied by two of the Hewitt’s men), several moon turns ago to seek out the Lord of Riverrun to be permitted to host a betting stand at the events.