“I shall, my lord. And I shall command them to pray for the health of the king and his Hand as well.”  Hallyne the Pyromancer was waiting on him when Tyrion returned to his solar, and Maester Frenken had brought messages. He let the alchemist wait a little longer while he read what the ravens¹ had brought him. There was an old letter from Doran Martell, warning him that Storm’s End had fallen, and a much more intriguing² one from Balon Greyjoy on Pyke, who styled himself King of the isles³ and the North. He invited King Joffrey to send an envoy⁴ to the Iron Islands to fix the borders between their realms and discuss a possible alliance.  Tyrion read the letter three times and set it aside. Lord Balon’s longships would have been a great help against the fleet sailing up from Storm’s End, but they were thousands of leagues away on the wrong side of Westeros, and Tyrion was far from certain that he wanted to give away half the realm. Perhaps I should spill this one in Cersei’s lap, or take it to the council.  Only then did he admit Hallyne with the latest tallies⁵ from the alchemists. “This cannot be true,” said Tyrion as he pored over the ledgers⁶. “Almost thirteen thousand jars? Do you take me for a fool? I’m not about to pay the king’s gold for empty jars and pots of sewage sealed with wax, I warn you.”  “No, no,” Hallyne squeaked⁷, “the sums are accurate, I swear. We have been, hmmm, most fortunate, my lord Hand. Another cache of Lord Rossart’s was found, more than three hundred jars. Under the Dragonpit! Some whores have been using the ruins to entertain their patrons, and one of them fell through a patch of rotted floor into a cellar. When he felt the jars, he mistook them for wine. He was so drunk he broke the seal and drank some.”  “There was a prince who tried that once,” said Tyrion dryly. “I haven’t seen any dragons rising over the city, so it would seem it didn’t work this time either.” The Dragonpit atop the hill of Rhaenys had been abandoned for a century and a half. He supposed it was as good a place as any to store wildfire, and better than most, but it would have been nice if the late Lord Rossart had told someone. “Three hundred jars, you say? That still does not account for these totals. You are several thousand jars ahead of the best estimate you gave me when last we met.”  “Yes, yes, that’s so.” Hallyne mopped at his pale brow with the sleeve of his black-and-scarlet robe. “We have been working very hard, my lord Hand, hmmm.”  “That would doubtless explain why you are making so much more of the substance than before.” Smiling, Tyrion

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