Smear Peace
Twenty-Fifth Day of the Tenth Month 293 AC
Tyrion was many things to the people around him. Wizard, noble scion, dwarf and fool, a young man who learned to tumble and to jest with the best of performers, to raise the ire of his Lord Father if nothing else. Having managed to live decently, respected and to have even his own counsel valued--for what else could he offer but the fruits of his own intellect? These things all Tyrion knew, knew the debt in truth he owed to the family that more than merely tolerated his presence, knew that he should be greatly angered at the bundle of sorcerous parchment unfurled before him, his small legs swinging idly from atop his cushioned chair, a cup of wine in the other hand.
But he was instead
fascinated, by the care and imaginative mind that had wrought this besmirchment upon all that his Uncle and Aunt had built. The depiction of his father with his pinched, stern expression stuffing his pockets with Targaryen heirlooms was amusing, more so the fact that every half-truth and lie used to needle the man, there were a dozen disconcerting accurate accounts that could have only been obtained by a spymaster on par with the Spider in Kings Landing. Hell, perhaps greater, Varys wasn't a Dread Sorcerer who could pluck the truth from a man's mind with more ease than baser torment and simple torture ever could.
Uncle Gerion marched into the room, his grim visage and bland tone almost comedic when juxtaposed with the harried expression his Lady Wife bore. "Tyrion, have--" the Laughing Lion blinked, gaping at Tyrion as the dwarf pressed his lips together, eyes exaggeratedly wide as he flipped the pamphlet over and pointed at the lurid imagery of Robert 'occupying himself' with some admittedly curvaceous company. Not at all surprising if more than a handful of these will be deemed irrecoverable from the abuse they're liable to suffer from some randy sellsword or draper. "You read it, already," his kind nuncle intoned, bewildered. "That's not even one found in the Westerlands--" he stared at the small pile of bundles on the desk nearby, shaking his head in bemusement.
Tyrion had his ways, yes.
His small finger tapped the part of the page where his sweet sister made a fair rendition of the Mad King atop their monstrous throne of swords, smiting random supplicants with sorcerous arts, who were then bodily carted off by awaiting Kingsguard who all bore expressions of men half-asleep, horror or stolid resignation in their eyes.
Oddly enough, an accurate rendition of Jaime stood alone off to the side, white-knuckled grip on his sword and staring a thousand yards ahead into nothing. "This Targaryen is an artist and a cold bastard. Too clever by half, but he apparently forgot to take the piss out on the stunted heir, lying forgotten, away from his father's own seat." Tyrion, amused despite himself, was almost feeling
left out of something 'fun'. His expression tightened slightly at Lanna's gimlet stare.
She huffed a breath, leaning over the dwarf's desk and dropping another stack of the things carelessly. She breathed in deeper still and let it out in one mighty exhalation, fingernails digging into the wood and leaving faint scratches. "Fuck," she said eloquently, and Tyrion agreed there wasn't much left to be said. Collect a hundred bundles of parchment, light a fire hot enough to burn the impossibly tough things, and there'd still be nine hundred more where that came from. And that's just where they bothered to look, he imagined. How far had these been scattered?
"It seems to me," Tyrion said, tossing the copy he had stolen atop the rest, "that Viserys Targaryen is perhaps a mite resentful." Both Lord and Lady glared at him. He held his fingers a small span apart. "Just a mite."
"We didn't stop the slander of him when it was our turn," Gerion pointed out, sighing lightly as he sat opposite of his nephew. "Honestly, I'm surprised it took this long for it to bite us in the arse, though I didn't quite imagine it'd end up like
whatever this is. He's acting like he's already won."
"Hasn't he?" Lanna said darkly, looking up with a pained expression. "Half of Westeros is angry, and, damn his eyes, he made sure to aim that anger sure as a lance to the heart." She shook her head, frustration mounting in her expression as she tossed the whole lot into a nearby hearth, and it did no more than flare up a moment, completely intact and not phased in the least by the heat and licking flames.
The conversation halted as they stared at the ridiculous sight. "We could bury them," Gerion pointed out, diplomatically.
"No point," Lanna sighed, "They're all marked. He'd find them, and it's almost more trouble than it's worth to keep them scattered apart. Keep collecting them, but..." she shook her head, trailing off. "What will we do when Tywin's rage has turned cold again? He'll want this answered to." Gerion made to speak but Lanna smashed a cup aside, "Gerion, every time Tywin casts a stone, Viserys Targaryen responds with a measured hand, always outdoing him in spite, hurting precisely who he means to hurt, whereas Tywin will crush anyone who stands in his path, and the people notice that, they hate it as much as they love the 'hero' who killed monsters and saved villagers from their own folly in the Riverlands. That should have been our work, not this butchery."
Tyrion noted she had likely not taken the allusion of her allowing a 'witch' to burn behind her back as she carried out Tywin's will very well.
"What more can we do? Father always gets his way," Tyrion pointed out quite reasonably,
except was it at all reasonable? Tyrion thought.
What reason was there be found in any of this?
To that, none of the three could say, all stewing in shared anger, directed at enemies without as much as those within.
