Hallyne bobbed his head. "Wisdom Malliard believes we shall be able to provide a full ten thousand jars, as was promised the queen. I concur." The pyromancer looked indecently pleased with that prospect.
Assuming our enemies give you the time. The pyromancers kept their recipe for wildfire a closely guarded secret, but Tyrion knew that it was a lengthy, dangerous, and time-consuming process. He had assumed the promise of ten thousand jars was a wild boast, like that of the bannerman who vows to marshal ten thousand swords for his lord and shows up on the day of battle with a hundred and two. If they can truly give us ten thousand…
He did not know whether he ought to be delighted or terrified. Perhaps a smidge of both. "I trust that your guild brothers are not engaging in any unseemly haste, Wisdom. We do not want ten thousand jars of defective wildfire, nor even one…and we most certainly do not want any mishaps."
"There will be no mishaps, my lord Hand. The substance is prepared by trained acolytes in a series of bare stone cells, and each jar is removed by an apprentice and carried down here the instant it is ready. Above each work cell is a room filled entirely with sand.