"Snow during the summer." It sounded a marvelous thing, and she someday hoped to see it. She'd never even seen snow before yesterday, when they'd crossed into Winterfell's barony lands. Guinevere leaned against the balustrade, gazing at the softly falling flakes, even on such a clear night. "It's so beautiful here..."

Then the rest of his words reached her ears, and the Princess couldn't help a slow flush that crept her throat and settled warm in her cheeks. "Well," she heard herself say after a moment or two, "it's part of my duty to give you an heir, Your Grace, but there's no law against providing only one, is there?"

She'd not hailed from a large family as had he; her mother had succumbed to fever when Guinevere had been just a small child, and her father, much older, had been aloof and distant, far too preoccupied with his crown and his kingdom to raise a daughter.