King's Landing, a warehouse.
The air was thick with the musty stench of old grain. Mountains of burlap sacks stacked nearly to the rafters filled most of the space, leaving only narrow paths between them.
Tyrion Lannister stood before one such pile, brow furrowed. His small figure looked insignificant amid the towering stacks, yet his mismatched eyes swept the room with sharp focus.
Bronn leaned lazily against a thick wooden pillar, arms crossed, wearing his usual mask of casual indifference.
"This is it?"
Tyrion's voice echoed through the cavernous warehouse, shattering the silence. He gestured toward the endless piles before him.
"Half the gold mines of the Westerlands spent on this? The lifesaving grain bought from that Eastern merchant?"
The steward in charge—a bloated, sweating minor noble—fidgeted nervously, wringing his hands and forcing a sycophantic smile.
"Yes, Lord Tyrion. Lord Baelish himself oversaw the transport. Everything's here, I swear it. I've guarded it day and night—no rats, no thieves, not even a shadow inside."
Tyrion ignored the man's flattery. He strode toward the nearest pile, the soles of his boots whispering against the floor.
The sacks looked new—plump, tightly sealed, neatly arranged. He pressed a gloved hand into one.
The feel was wrong. Not the firm, grainy weight of wheat—something coarser, heavier, unyielding.
A chill of unease crawled up his spine. His gaze snapped toward Bronn.
Bronn met his eyes, gave a nonchalant shrug, and drew his sword. With a quick slash, he split the sack wide open.
"My lord—!" the steward yelped, but dared not move.
A soft rush filled the silence.
No golden wheat spilled forth. Instead, fine, dry sand cascaded through the tear, pooling at Tyrion's feet with a faint hiss.
The warehouse went dead quiet.
Bronn straightened, dropping his arms from his chest. The look of bored amusement vanished, replaced by stunned disbelief.
He gave a low whistle. "Well now… quite the generous gift. That Easterner really outdid himself—thought the children of King's Landing needed somewhere to play, so he sent us a beach."
Tyrion's face darkened like a brewing storm. His small body trembled with fury.
He crouched, plunged both hands into the pile, and scooped up two fistfuls of sand, letting it trickle slowly through his fingers.
"Sand…"
The word came out through clenched teeth, thick with rage barely contained.
He motioned to Bronn, who drove his sword through several more sacks. Every single one spilled nothing but sand.
"All of it—sand!!"
The steward collapsed to his knees with a thud, trembling violently.
"My lord, I swear! It's not my fault! Lord Baelish handled everything! The moment the ships docked, the cargo was sealed and stored—I swear, I didn't know!"
He babbled incoherently, tears and snot streaking down his face.
"Baelish…"
Tyrion spat out the name, drawing a long, shaky breath to restrain the urge to draw steel. Then, through gritted teeth, he barked, "Come on."
...
The Red Keep, office of the Master of Coin.
Petyr Baelish lounged in a high-backed chair, sipping lazily from a golden goblet of Dornish Summerwine. His posture was relaxed, his smile faint and polished.
Then the doors slammed open.
Tyrion stormed in, his small frame radiating fury, Bronn following behind with folded arms and a smirk that said he was ready to enjoy the show.
A flicker of surprise crossed Littlefinger's face before his usual poise returned. Setting down his goblet, he greeted smoothly, "Lord Tyrion? To what do I owe this—"
Tyrion didn't answer. He strode straight to the ebony desk, his movements clipped and deliberate.
From beneath his cloak, he produced a bulging linen sack, its seams caked with dust and sand—the very same kind from the warehouse.
Littlefinger's smile froze. He stared at the sack, a chill creeping up his spine.
Expressionless, Tyrion untied the cord, gripped the bottom of the sack, and upended it with a violent motion.
Whoosh—!
A stream of golden sand poured out, spilling across the polished desk like a miniature desert.
Littlefinger's mind went blank. The color drained from his face in an instant.
Sand. It was all sand.
That Easterner… had filled the ships with sand.
And he—Petyr Baelish—had signed the deal himself.
The realization hit him like a hammer. Inside, a storm raged—humiliation, fury, disbelief.
For the first time in years, the master of whispers and smiles felt like a fool stripped bare before the world.
Tyrion's voice shattered the heavy silence.
"Lord Baelish, is this the grain you spent half my father's gold mine on, shipped all the way across the sea? How utterly ingenious of you..."
Littlefinger opened his mouth, throat dry. "My... my lord Tyrion... this... this must be a misunderstanding. I... I saw them loading the ships myself—it was all the finest grain, I swear, I—"
"'Saw it yourself?'"
Tyrion let out a cold laugh. "The top layer, perhaps? Baelish, you're one of the cleverest men in the Seven Kingdoms—nothing escapes your notice, not even the whiskers on a flea-ridden rat. Are you telling me you were too stupid to check the ship's hold? To open a few sacks at random? Or is it that you already knew? That you and that Easterner conspired together—trading sand for Casterly Rock's gold? Hmm?"
The memory of Littlefinger's earlier betrayal—framing him and leading to his capture by Catelyn—flashed through Tyrion's mind, stoking his fury.
That little schemer was definitely hiding something.
"No! Absolutely not!"
Littlefinger protested frantically. "My lord, I swear by the old gods and the new—I never betrayed House Lannister, nor did I collude with any foreigner! I only wanted to bring the grain back quickly to relieve the shortage. That Easterner seemed perfectly straightforward—I was deceived! That damned swindler tricked me! He tricked all of King's Landing!"
Tyrion stared at him coldly, his mismatched eyes devoid of warmth.
"Tell me, Baelish," Tyrion said, his voice dripping with mockery, "you—of all people—let some Easterner from across the Narrow Sea cheat you out of piles of golden dragons with such a pathetic trick? And now the whole city faces famine and riot because of your negligence. Will you be the one to take responsibility?"
Littlefinger said nothing. Tyrion's piercing gaze pinned him in place like a blade.
With a cold snort, Tyrion turned away. "Lord Baelish, I trust this will be the last time. And find a solution—quickly. Even if you have to catch the rats of King's Landing and feed them to the starving, you'd better give me an answer."
Littlefinger's face went white as parchment. He could no longer form a coherent defense.
He felt as though he had stepped into a trap—one carefully laid, waiting just for him.
...
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