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Jehrillia Zo Zaaraq's enormous girth was spread across the silken cushions that were dotted across her litter, as a harem of slaves struggles beneath her, the litter's wooden polls bearing down on their tanned shoulders.

Vherick, her most trusted bodyguard, sat across from her, his ghostly helmet obscuring his features. The helmet was deathly pale, with a necrotic tinge to it,  giving it a complexion which made it look as though it had been crafted of bone. Perhaps it had been crafted of bone?

"What do you know of this 'Highgarden'?" Jehrillia asked in her honeyed voice, stroking a long tress of  dark hair. 

"A city of flowers," Vherick croaked, his voice muffled by the helmet "boasting some soldiers of note." 

The litter shook and thudded as they pressed on, bouncing over the dirt roads below. 

Jehrillia's fat, greasy hand closed around her goblet, as she took a hearty swig of Ghiscari wine, splashing some of the yellowish vintage over her gigantic chest. 

"My sister uses to whisper to me about the men of the Reach," Jehrillia smirked, her tongue sweeping across her plump lips "and the women, too." 

"There's no woman, nor man, half as much fun as a girl from Asahai." Vherick chuckled, his laughter escaping his mask in an echoey rasp. 


"I brought myself one of those perfumed pleasure girls from Lys for my name day," Jehrillia bragged "she certainly knew how to use her fingers." 

"Highgarden lies before us, your Exaltedness!" A booming, accented voice drifted in through the litter's flapping veil, as the slaves ever-so-gently lowered Jehrillia to the ground.

The enormous Easterner heaved herself out of her seat, her strained knee-joints popping loudly. 

"Let us meet this Lord Tyrell, then."