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“By the Graces…” Jehrilla wheezed with what little breath she could force out “Never have I loathed steps as furiously as I do now.” The winding stone stairway which led up to Alerie’s chosen meeting place would have been quite the climb for anyone not used to such towering ascents, but to the obese slaver it was like scrambling vertically up a cliff face of barbs and hot coals. 

Her chunky legs screeched in agony with each laboured step, and sweat poured down her milky flesh. It was a struggle to squeeze her gargantuan bulk through the narrow corridor, and a greater challenge still to muster the strength to pull herself up the next step which lay ahead, in a seemingly endless cycle of whirling, twisting torment. Her heart heaved inside her, it's desperate thumping ringing in her ears as it beat faster and faster and faster. 

Jehrilla stumbled, panting and gulping down huge mouthfulls of air, into the chamber, before crashing down on top of a pile of silken cushions. She oozed out into the room around her, and every time her stomach rose or fell it looked as though she would burst right out of her scaley attire. 

She listened through a haze of exhaustion as Lady Alerie spoke, using the opportunity to recover both her breath and her composure. By the time the Tyrell Woman was finished, Jehrilla was still dripping sweat, but was at least able to form sentences without pushing herself to the brink of death. 

The Wise Master bowed her head respectfully when the young woman called her beautiful, and nodded solemnly when she mentioned her plan to torment this [i] Lord Crakehall[/i]. 

The red haired woman’s proposition was nothing if not enticing. With a harem of noble slaves from the West, Jehrilla would be the envy of all the other Wise Masters, and would have enough gold to keep her coffers overflowing with coin from decades to come. She ran her eyes over the reachwoman. Whilst she was lacking in a full-figure, and her bust could never dream of matching the slaver’s own generous bosom, she did have a certain youthful physique to her.

[i] If you like bedding twigs which snap as soon as the excitement starts.[/i] 

“This is an opportunity that I would be foolish to turn down, My Lady Tyrell.” Jehrilla spoke in her usual, soft yet hoarse manner. Her voice had a slight scratchiness to it; silky and comforting, whilst also grating and croaky at the back of her throat. “But backing a single side so early on in this inevitable conflict, without first surveying my options, would be just as foolhardy.” 

She extended one fat hand, scraping the gold rings which were woven around her chubby fingers against one another. 

“Thankfully, the Western Lords would be no more likely to trace my men back to me then they would to house Tyrell.” 

Whilst this might not necessarily be true, Jehrilla could always sell her slaves to another faction somewhere down the line, then get a royal pardon from whoever came out on top, in return for new trade routes and the support of Yunkai. 

“None of the other lords or ladies know of my being here, and it seems that shall work in both of our favours.”

Jehrilla had a trinity of slave soldiers  and mercenary companies under her command, each fashioned from some of Yunkai’s, and indeed the Free Cities’, greatest fighters. 

The Company of the Black Delight were well-built and rippling with muscle; clad in light armour and wielding weapons adorned with crooked hooks and spikes. No fighters revelled in combat so much as those who fought beneath the jagged helms of the Black Delight, nor were any other band of Essosi soldiers surrounded in as much dark mystery and superstition. 

The Giggling Griefs were a flamboyant combination of deadly performers and bloodthirsty gladiator's from the most perilous of fighting pits. Many years ago they had been a company of murmurs, who learnt to defend themselves during their travels between the Free Cities. Once their master had discovered that his dancers and jugglers had an aptitude for fighting, he set about building his own mercenary company. Characterised by their extravagant dress and outrageous personalities; the Grief’s danced and fluttered across the battlefield, hacking and slashing as they wove beneath their enemies’ blades. 

Finally, came the Bloodsoaked; an unruly rabble of vicious killers, kept in line by captain Vherick, who also happened to be Jehrilla’s most trusted bodyguard. The Bloodsoaked had been infamous during the years after Daenerys Targaryen reclaimed the throne, when they had risen to prominence working as enforcers for the crumbling slaver dynasties.   

“With the assurance of House Tyrell, my soldiers could set sail by tomorrow's end.” Jehrilla declared with a delicate grin, painted elegantly across her full lips and slithering up the corners of her mouth.