Late one winter night the great queen went for a walk in her garden. The Moon was full and shone on the deep white snow that hid the skeletal branches of the plants along the walk. The night was dark and deep, and only the brightest stars were shining. Everything was still, even the wind had ceased its blowing, and the only sound was the quiet tapping of her shoes on the paved walk.
She wandered through her garden, ending up by the spring. She sat by its edge and thought of the daughter she so wished she had. Hours passed, and the night deepened. As she finally rose to leave, a spot of color caught her attention.
She drew near the natural spring and saw, to her surprise and confusion, a rose of deepest red, untouched by the frost, floating in the spring. Intrigued, she removed her warm glove and reached out to grab it. By chance or luck, she immediately cut herself on one of its sharp thorns and bled. Her warm, bright blood dripped onto the white snow, and it looked so beautiful she could not resist the wish that sprung unbidden to her lips.
You and I would not have dared utter such a wish with such omens on such a night. You and I would have known better. But the world was young then, and the people, though wise and good, were inexperienced, and unaware of the chaos that can be wrought with naught but good intentions.
So, wish she did, in her ignorance, for a daughter, wise, graceful, and fair, with hair as dark as night, skin as pale as snow, and lips as red as blood.
Nine months later, to the very hour, the Queen's wish was granted.