"I won."

"Won what? No one bet on anything."

"Well, we know I was right. You lived. Here you are."

"So you were right about that. I still feel like I died, though."

"I don't suppose I can blame you. So maybe we'll wait a few years before we have another."

"Are you mad? I'm never doing that again. Enjoy this one while you've got him."

"We can have one more."

"No more."

"Please? I want a girl next time."

"I'd have thought you'd want another boy."

"No, I'd like a princess."

"Well, you can go get one from the next wife, cause you're not getting one out of me."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Not one?"

"Not half of one."

"I'd have thought motherhood would have made you softer."

"I knew fatherhood would make you softer."

"You still sore he's a ginger?"

"No. At least he'll be pretty."

And he will. Unfortunately for me, the only trace of me that exists in this thing is the beauty mark next to his left eyebrow. He is his chokingly perfect father in miniature.

Oh, joy.

"Pretty as his mother?"

"Pretty as his father, gingersnap."

Robb chuckles. I suck in my stomach and hold the measuring tape around my waist, then check the number.

"Praise the Gods," I say.

"Success at last?"

"Twenty three. I'm two inches shy of my former glory."

"No one would ever believe that you're so vain."

Actually, I don't think anyone would be tempted to believe anything bad about me anymore, but that doesn't mean they won't try. But who cares? I have now done absolutely everything that is humanly possible shy of sprouting wings and using a magic wand to make all the women princesses and give all the men an extra three inches below the belt. And I can't help but feel sort of really proud of myself. I had a boy. On my first try. Beat that, you snow sucking scum.

I had worked all through the late, confined stages of my miserable pregnancy—which for some odd reason still hasn't been wiped from my memory—designing this damn dress. It ended up being a little bigger than me now since I've dropped so much since Ginger Junior popped out. We had to take it in at the waist three times before it fit me. Which is a terribly good thing, because it means that if I keep going like this, then it'll only be maybe two or three months before I'm back in proper shape. Mind you, this will be no easy task. Breastfeeding makes it hard to fit into some of my favorite dresses but dammit Piglet is mine and I don't like the idea of him sucking the life force out of anyone but me so the nurses with their scarily huge tits can go jump—tit first—in a lake.

I had imagined, when I was getting really huge, that I'd design a gown that could better be described as a piece of string simply to celebrate the fact that I could fit into one again, but let it not be said that shitting a child out has made my imaginary balls any bigger. I wouldn't dare have a gown made like that one I wore on the Day I'm Still Not Allowed to Talk About. But at the same time I wanted something that said 'fuck you' to whoever looks at me. Because this is it, this party. This is my victory lap. My first real victory lap because I've fucking won. From here on out, it's going to be nothing but victories because I've done everything right. Granted it was ridiculous most of the time but whatever. You win some, you lose some. It's called compromise. Welcome to adulthood. And I wanted something that sort of showed off my victorious mood without being called a trashy tavern whore and it's fucking cold up here so that ruled out a lot of options. So now I'm slipping into a gown of silver that announces my arrival thirty years before I actually arrive and you know what? Aside from the fact that my tits hurt like someone attacked them with a straight razor, life is good. Life is good enough for me to plant a kiss on Robb's cheek and maybe sort of almost consider toying with the idea of forgiving him for knocking me up with a ginger.

And there are no sleeves. Life is golden again.

People are eating like they'll never see food again. People are singing at the top of their lungs. People are drinking like sponges. Really dry sponges. And people are laughing. They're clapping. They're cheering. The last time everyone was in this good a mood was the Night Winter Came at the moment right after they all collectively orgasmed but right before they all fell asleep, when they were still caught in their fucked up limbo and not really thinking about the insanity they've just partaken in.

"Bless the Queen!"

"Long live the Queen!"

"Seven bless our darling queen!"

Bless her, save her, love her. Queen Israel Frey can do no wrong. Choke on that, motherfuckers.

"Are you ready?" Robb asks me, holding out his free arm. Piglet is lying wide awake in his other arm. He's awake but looking kinda drunk. Even now with the face of a newborn that looks identical to literally every other newborn I've ever seen, it's crystal clear this kid is gonna be a carbon copy of his dad.

Well, we can't have it all, can we?

"Of course I am. Where's Ser Garret? Oh, to see his face—"

"Israel," Robb nudges me and smiles as he leads us out to the overhead balcony.

The cheers are deafening. Piglets eyes are wider and he squirms in Robb's arm, unsettled by the noise. I look around at all of the shit eating monkeys that are burrowing their heads out of their assholes to get a look at the great job I've done. Hello, world. I think I've just dominated you.

"Long live the prince!" Edmure calls out, handing me a flower. I'm too busy staring smugly at the crowd to notice which flower it is, but whatever.

Frey Girl Triumph=strong.

Winterfell Haters Failure=twice as strong.

"Long live our darling prince," Catelyn repeats, kissing my cheek. She takes Piglet from Robb's arms and holds him close. "We've waited this long, Israel. Now for the love of the Gods, tell us his name."

I thought I'd already told them? Huh. Must have been drunk.

"Eddard," I say. "His name's Eddard."

They're all silent. Well, shit. This was supposed to be an honor. And it's not like I could find a lot of boy names that fit too well with the surname Stark. And I think I would have liked Ned Stark. I always imagined that I would have liked him a lot. Well, I certainly hope that I would have. How miserably perfect can one family be, right? At least one of them has to be close enough to flawed human to be likeable, and it might as well be their dad, right? Because…you know…if he was perfect, then he probably wouldn't have died.

Robb grabs my arm, pulls me close, and plants a big sloppy kiss on my face. I wince.

"Ew," I rub at my cheek, but he's already attacking the rest of me. "We're in public, Robb."

"I adore you," he says in response.

"Good, good, now get off of my face before you're forever branded as the King Who Couldn't Keep it in His Breeches."

"That doesn't actually sound too bad."

"Are you mad? Get off of me."

Robb laughs and holds me close. "You're perfect," he says.

"Almost perfect," I say back. "I've got two inches to go, remember?"

He just laughs at me. Through the crowd, I can see Talisa. I instinctively push myself away from Robb and give her a smile. It's a real one. Because if it weren't for her, I'd probably be dead with my belly sliced open and Robb would be alone up here dressed in black. She smiles back. It's strained, but there's something real under there and I know that she may be gone in a few weeks but we're gonna be okay. One day, maybe, this will all be behind us.

Not too far from her is Hogarth, and he's got this lopsided smile on his face and then he mouths something I can't understand or hear through the cheers. And then his eyes find Robb and he chuckles and it hits me that finding out whether or not Robb would squeal is going to become our next big mission. And the thought of how we'd go about trying to figure it out makes me laugh, too.

Catelyn hands me the Piglet and his whole face seems to relax when I'm holding him. I lean in close to his face and kiss his cheek. Fuck, his skin is soft. Why can't my cheek be soft like that? Like baby soft. Babies have it made.

I get closer to his ear. "These people are mad," I whisper to him. "Complete nutters. The whole lot of them. Even your father. Especially your father. But I'm going to assume that the Gods wanted to be fair so they've given you your father's face—but on the condition that you get my brain. And if that theory is true, then that means the two of us will have to stick close together to maneuver this place. So what do you say, Piglet? Are you with me?"

His face puckers like a choirboy's asshole. He's already bracing himself for the rest of his life. Count your blessings, Piglet. At least you got fair warning.

"Good enough," I say, holding him closer. "Welcome to the black and white."

-end-

There will actually be a third part. It's called Infinites and it's set from Robb's point of view. So…yeah. Thanks for reading.