A/N: The following is going to essentially be a one-shot, but for management's sake I'm breaking it into three parts. Pretty much, I couldn't sleep the other day and this is the result.

In Want of An Heir

1.

It was punishment, they said, for loving beneath her station.

Not that anyone could have blamed her—no, it was exactly the opposite. The soldier who had courted her was very handsome and attentive, making it so that she was showered in affection no matter the time of day. Rumor had it that they were planning to wed in secret, left-handed and against all others' wishes. Her father caught wind of this and, although it pained him to upset his only child, pulled strings to have the young soldier's post reassigned and quickly arranged a match for his daughter to quiet the remaining whispers about her character at court.

At least, she could say, that much of the gossip about her was true. She was stubborn and headstrong, refusing to be caged. Any marriage made for her was much later than most—she wanted love in her match, leading her to spurn even a duke's advances in years past. She read often and voiced opinions. Truly, she was the son her father never had, that her mother died too early to bear. Instead, to keep her name clear of scandal, she was wedded off to a man long-widowed and too grey-haired and stone-faced to be anything but cruel, she believed, as she first gazed upon him during the ceremony. It was a husband too good for her, it was then whispered, with a title too high and lands too great, settling because he was in want of an heir. She almost believed it herself, until night fell and the pair were shoved into a bedchamber.

"Give me your hand," he had ordered, holding out his own towards his bride of a few hours. Cautiously, she put her hand in his and watched as he took the ceremonial knife from his belt. He carefully made a small slit in her palm, along a crease so as to hide the wound, and watched as a tiny pool of red gathered. Sheathing the knife, he threw back the bedding and gestured at the mattress before beginning to undress. "They will expect you to have shed your maidenhood, and that most often means bleeding. Put a little where you're going to lie—it doesn't matter to me if you're maiden or not, and I don't intend on finding that out any time soon."

She stared at her palm, suspicious. "Isn't this… a lot of blood?"

"It is a lot of blood, yes, but the skeptical need lots of convincing, and there are many people skeptical about this wedding. This blood will go a long way for both of us."

The bride blinked at him curiously before doing as instructed, choosing a spot on the mattress sufficient to fool anyone. She turned to ask her husband something, immediately forgetting as she saw him stark-naked save for a pendant on his neck and the new ring on his finger. He took her bleeding hand in his and squeezed gently, gathering enough fresh blood to run down his length to give the vague suggestion he caused the bleeding mid-consummation. "In case we're walked in on in the morning," he explained. He then rumpled his hair and laid down on the bloodless side of the bed, going to sleep without another word.

'That is… odd,' she thought as she sucked her wound clean before undressing herself. She laid down in the bed and covered her naked body with the blanket—maybe a political marriage was going to be just that… one in name-only. He would eventually die and she inherit lands and titles and be able to have her choice of a second husband. It would be like the stories of women of old, who wed their way to wealth and power. She stared at the small scab forming on her palm and let herself drift to sleep.

Morning came and the couple was awoken by the shuffling of servants and a king who was far from shy. He talked to the groom as he dressed, back to the bride out of respect to her, mentioning all sorts of things at random. It was war this and enemy that and military terms she had never heard her father mention on account of being an internal politician. They were curious words, but not ones that confused her, and she decided that there was going to be plenty to discuss on the way to her new home.

'New home,' she frowned, realizing the finality of her situation. Once fully dressed the couple followed the king and were presented to court as the Marquis and Marchioness of Gallifrey, as the king saw the wedding bed and declared the marriage complete. Not wanting to argue with the land's highest authority, the members of the court clapped and congratulated and gave well-wishes for the union behind false smiles and niceties. By midday all final words were said and the newly-made Marchioness bid a tearful farewell to her well-meaning father before climbing into a carriage and beginning the week-long trip to her new home.

The Marquis was silent, staring out the window at the countryside. The only words he spoke to her were right before they had stopped for dinner.

"How is your hand?" he asked suddenly, surprising his fellow passenger. "I know you said your skin was cracking in the dry weather."

"Oh…? Uh, it's fine. Thank you, milord." He must have thought others could overhear, thus disguising the real reason as to why there was a line of red along her palm.

"Don't give me that," he grunted. "We're married now—I am Johan and you are Clara and we don't have to adhere to liege lords and fair ladies amongst ourselves. I don't care what you've been taught… it's different in Gallifrey."

"Is it?"

"As long as I rule there, yes." He looked back out the window and exhaled sharply, ending the conversation.

It was the fourth day of the journey before he said anything else.

"I travel a lot," he mentioned.

"How much is a lot?"

"I'm sometimes gone for weeks at a time; my wife took care of things at home before, and her mother afterwards, and now it's your turn."

"What do you do that keeps you away for so long?" she asked. It was a legitimate question, as she did not personally know his duties.

"The Dalek Empire to the east, and the Cybera Kingdom to the north, for starters," he frowned. "You're from the south, where the only problems come via ships and a lack of rain. Keeping track of what goes on along the borders is rough work, and sometimes I have to stay out longer than expected. It has made me a well-known ruler and commander, but a distant husband."

"What does that make me?" She pursed her lips and frowned as she considered the options. "A youthful prize to rule in your stead? Or am I a means for you to produce an heir?"

A flicker of something crept across his face—something almost akin to a smile—fading just as quickly as it came. "You are my heir," he said, watching her eyebrows quirk in surprise. "I talked to your father before the wedding and he was very concerned that you and your children would no longer be able to inherit his title and wealth. Something tells me there is something of a succession crisis in Blackpoole, now that you have solved Kasterborous's, but you will never be in need or want of anything as long as you're married to me and that was what mattered to your father most."

"What if what I want is a husband?" she asked. He looked out the window and leaned his fist into his face, propping himself up by the elbow as she talked. "You married me without meeting me even once—how do you know that what I want out of life isn't a marriage made of love?"

"That… I don't know if I can give."

"Then I'm to sit at home a kept woman and run your house alone with no comfort at the end of the night?"

"No… you're allowed to have a paramour, or a string of them I suppose," he said, keeping his gaze out the carriage window. "If you need someone else in your bed, then that's your business. The only thing I ask is that I know who it is you keep around. Any child you bear is going to be considered mine, and I will raise and present to court as mine without fuss, though it will be nice to know whose son is going to inherit my lands."

"Is… is it because you have a paramour?" she wondered. He snorted and shook his head.

"No," he replied simply. With that the conversation ended and the ride back to Gallifrey became a wordless one.

The March of Kasterborous was a vast, curious expanse of land, the new marchioness discovered. She had grown up knowing it as a splotch on the map towards the northern and eastern borders, and now that she was married to its ruler she wanted to travel throughout the entire thing. It was larger than the map-splotches led on and held a great many hills and low mountains and valleys and glens worth exploring. The capital, Gallifrey, was no different, for just past the city gate a whole bustling city opened up where there should have not been room. In the dead center of Gallifrey a castle rose up and towards the clouds, looking as if it had many halls and towers worth investigating within its walls made of blue-tinged bedrock. It was grand and magnificent even in the waning evening twilight.

"The sky is red," she gasped, noticing the odd hue the above sky was taking on. She had seen painted pinks and oranges and purples streak across clouds, but never the sky itself stain in anything other than blues and blacks so far away from the sun.

"It's the atmosphere here; this far north the sky takes on a reddish color as the sun sets," the Marquis explained. "During the day the sky is as blue as the southern lands, but the night is red. It makes for a sight during the snows."

Now that was something. She wanted to ask all about it, what was in the atmosphere that made it do that, but before she could turn around he was gone. A maid whisked her off to bathe and change and sit for dinner, which she ate alone. Her chambers were attached to his by a door, which she peeked through before turning in for the night—empty. She crawled into her bed and went to sleep.

An uneasy night passed and just as she felt as if her eyes had barely closed she opened them to find the sun streaming in through her window and her husband sitting on the edge of her bed with his back to her. He was fully dressed, with spectacles on as he thumbed through one of the books she had unpacked from her trunk the night before.

"You read this stuff?" he asked, looking over the rims of his eyeglasses.

"Yes…?" She pulled the blanket up to her chin, confused at his morning appearance.

"Well, that's likely going to change," he said, closing the book with a flourish. He placed the novel up on the shelf it came from and turned back to his wife. "Hurry up and get ready—I leave for the border in two days and we've got plenty to go over. Did you run your father's household for him?"

"Uh, no… that was his wife, Linda. She wasn't at the wedding because she's not exactly fond of me…"

"That explains your lack of visible leadership skills and your penchant for lurid escapism. Breakfast is in the dining room—dress, eat, and meet me in my study within the hour. Have a servant bring you there if you can't find the way." With that he left, pocketing his spectacles and leaving his wife of barely a week sputtering in shock. Did he possess any tact? It was a good thing that sharing a bed was only necessary for sleeping on the road, or else she would be tolerating none of this.

Forty-seven minutes later, the Marchioness Gallifrey strode into her husband's study with her head high and shoulders back. He glanced up at her momentarily, only to look back down at the paper in his hands.

"Come and sit; tell me what you think," he said. She approached the table and saw a multitude of papers and books scattered across the lacquered cherry-wood surface. Sitting down, she leaned over and skimmed the papers' contents.

"That's just the finances, isn't it?"

"Yes, but of what sort?"

"Well, that's all military right there," she said, gesturing to one portion of the list, "and that's all concerning the running of the march. Where are the personal expenditures?"

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Pardon?"

"You, now you and me, this castle, our food and clothes and servants… unless that's all lumped in under some code name I've no idea where it is."

"You've been here all of two minutes—how can you tell there's nothing in here about the castle?"

"I looked at the papers; it's not that difficult." She plucked a sheet from the table and leaned back in her chair, mulling the contents over. "This is the closest thing I can see to a personal bill, and it involves hosting the Earl of Adipose on a diplomatic visit."

"How can you say that?"

"With you being as skinny as you are, there's no way you can rack up this large an amount in food alone. Ugh… that man is atrocious."

The Marquis made a noise that was nearly distinguishable as a laugh. "Perfect."

"What…?" Now it was her turn to be confused.

"You said you never ran a household before, yet you seem to know exactly what these papers are about," he grinned, flashing a sliver of teeth. "Pretty young things with spread legs and wide hips are good enough for some, but I'd rather know I have a brain at my side."

"Thank you…?" she said, blinking apprehensively. "What's that supposed to mean? That you think I'm smart?"

"I know you're smart—I don't want just anyone running my house and ruling Kasterborous while I'm away. If you take such little time gleaning information like that, then I have no further doubts about my choice."

She tilted her head. "You chose a wife by taking a gamble on my brains?"

"I took a gamble on finding my successor and so far everything's turning up in my favor. Each time I head to the border my life is on the line, and to not have a Doctor in Gallifrey would be the first step towards the entire kingdom's doom."

"Doctor…? We're not doctors…"

"It's a local term, from before the lands were annexed," he explained, waving a hand around idly. "Back before then, those with the most authority were the physicians and their assistants. It wasn't because they held armies and levied taxes, but because they were wise and could take away others' pain. People listened to them and took their advice seriously, and eventually the title became synonymous with the rightful rule. I am the Doctor, and you are my Companion. Eventually you will become the Doctor, and by then hopefully you will have chosen someone to be your Companion, in whatever capacity that might be."

"You mean… you married me because you couldn't adopt me?"

He scowled in disgust, scoffing at the very idea. "People don't adopt their equals, not unless they have larger and darker issues at play. You will succeed me, and you will be brilliant. I can see you now, rising up from my ashes to squash the Daleki troops all fire and vengeance." He reached towards her and pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "We'd need bigger coins though."

"Bigger coins…?"

"You could post a sign on that face of yours and still have room left over," he said. Scrunching her nose, she smacked his hand away and frowned.

"You could stand to learn some manners." He laughed at that, unguarded and genuine, and continued the management lesson.

He was gone for a month. Daleki forces had infiltrated the border and were attempting the takeover of a village, which of course had to be stopped immediately. It took longer than expected, but he still returned in the end.

Upon his arrival home, the Marquis asked his wife how things went in his absence.

"The castle still stands and the people have yet to rebel—I think it is a good omen."

"Good." He took another bite of the chicken on his plate. "We might make a Doctor out of you yet."

Her first paramour was a lad of local stock, a merchant's nephew who called her Doctor and doted on her almost like her soldiering suitor had. Private and attentive and possessing a boyish charm she seemed to love; he was young though, and this made him someone whom she eventually had to turn away before he could convince himself she carried feelings for him.

"He was too vivid a memory for me, and it would not be fair to him or men past," she explained to her husband at dinner one night. They were eating in his study, taking a short break from a lesson in military strategy, making it so that no one else was around to hear. "He did nothing wrong—he was just too… he wasn't the right one. I need to be careful about who I choose."

"You'll find someone. Hey, if push comes to shove you can adopt him."

She glared across the table, far from impressed with his jest. "I too want an equal, I hope you know."

"Wouldn't expect anything less, my dear."

The first snow fell the night before her birthday, coating the ground in a thin crust of white that vanished by noon. Before that, however…

"Clara, wake up," he said, shaking her shoulder to gently rouse her. She opened one eye in an angry slit, tempted to duck beneath her blanket.

"This better be good."

"It is." He smiled and pointed towards her window. Reluctantly, she rolled out of bed and allowed her husband to guide her towards the window. She opened her eyes wider and gasped.

The sky was a deep red-violet, the sort she had become used to if she was awake at the break of dawn, but the ground below was crisp and white, blending in with the pale trees grown special in the gardens since the founding of the marquisate and very few other places in the kingdom. The sun had not quite risen, leaving a bright smear of ruby on the horizon.

"Come with me," he said, holding out his hand. She took it and allowed him to lead her out from her bedchamber and through the halls of the castle, eventually arriving in the gardens in nothing but their nightdresses. The first rays of daylight spilled over the wall and filtered through the trees, making the wet leaves nearly shimmer as if made of silver.

"It's beautiful," she gasped. Creeping up onto her toes, she touched a leaf off a bottom tree branch and giggled. Never before had she seen anything like it, even after a rainstorm. Sometimes it was silver wedged between green and blue, which was possible to see in a certain churchyard in the capital city, though this… red and violet and silver and white… no words she thought did her feelings justice.

None, however, until…

"Johan?"

"Yes?"

"It's cold; can we go inside now?"

He looked at her and his face went red; it had taken him this long to realize they were in their nightdresses and bare feet, probably looking very ridiculous. Quickly he ushered his wife back inside and put her back in her bedchamber to dress before going into his own. The Marquis looked at their shared door pensively, wondering how her day was going to feel now that she had such an interesting start.

On the other side of the door, the Marchioness felt that it was the best way to begin a birthday she had ever known.

"The Ninth Marquis, why was he not called 'Doctor'?" she asked. They were in their study, she curled up in the armchair with a large tome on Gallifreyan history and he at the table writing a letter.

"Hmm…?"

"Every other Marquis of Gallifrey has been referred to as 'the Doctor' in this book except him. Why is that?"

"Oh, that." He exhaled heavily and continued writing. "Kastaborous was overrun by the Dalek Empire in those days. The Ninth Marquis felt he had put the title to shame and refused to be called that, even after the fighting had died down and he abdicated the seat to his son. That's how I'm the Twelfth Doctor of Gallifrey, but the Thirteenth Marquis."

"That seems awful," she frowned. "He brought peace to the march and refortified the border… shouldn't he still be recognized?"

"That was not for us to decide," her husband replied. "All we can do now is make sure that we do not fall victim to the same pitfalls he did. My time as the Doctor, as well as yours, can still benefit from him."

She sighed sadly as she looked back in the book at the etchings, one young and dark-haired and sulking, and the other worn and greyed and beaten. His eyes were the same though—sad and full of emotion. He looked as if he required a long chat and a good pot of tea, something she'd gladly give him had she the ability to turn back time.

'No, I still wouldn't,' she thought, glancing over at her husband. There was no need in pondering the what-ifs of history; the past was the past and in that moment, at the very least, she was content.

The second paramour was a dignitary from the heart of the kingdom.

He had been trapped at the castle by a large snowstorm, one that would not let up and allow travel for more than a few miles in the open. Only the most seasoned veterans of the Kasterborous winters braved the whipping cold and blowing snow, effectively grinding all activity in the march to a halt.

The Marchioness did not think much of him at first, but as the days went by and she remained in close quarters with him, cabin fever took her, as she would later claim, and a two-week fling began as she kept the bookish, oddly-charming man at her side at all hours save for sleep. It was only after the blue skies cleared her head that she realized how much of a bore he was, not to mention a dead-ringer for her deceased father-in-law. Slightly unnerved by the portrait that hung in the hall also appearing on her arm, she dismissed him with gratitude for the company and grateful she had not gone so far as to invite him to her chambers.

It was painful for the Marquis to watch his wife fret over her personal decisions, worrying her brow into lines she was too young for, so to make her feel better (and put him at ease), he had her room adorned in white carnations and red gladioli, with colorful orchids at her bedside. The following day she was cheerful again, putting a smile on her husband's face as he watched her walk through the halls with a lift in her step not seen during the duration of the snowstorm.

He wasn't precisely sure how he felt, other than that it was comforting to see her happy.

The people who lived in Kasterborous had a generally ambivalent opinion of their lord. He wasn't a cruel man, nor had his father been one, though he remained unpleasant to deal with. They still had to pay taxes, but nothing too arbitrary in nature. The border remained fortified and any breaches were swiftly dealt with. They were not rich, but they were not grossly poor, and the capitol was only lavish when catering to the needs of visiting dignitaries. The title of Marquis may have been an inherited one, but he had more or less earned the title of Doctor, which was something not all his forebears did.

So when it was time for the anniversary of his wedding that Spring, the one to the young woman from further south than anyone cared to venture often (which was not even that south at all), it became a local holiday without fuss. There were no great parties—only closed businesses and sitting in at home with a good cup of tea. The people hoped the day was being used well by the Doctor, to work on procuring the heir he so desperately required while not being bothered with the matters of the land's workings. He had wedded and bedded her, so it was logically only a matter of time before the union bore issue and children once again ran down the blue-grey walls of Castle Gallifrey. The new Companion was young yet; she had time enough to bear a child. That, they imagined, would be preferred to her inheriting the Doctor's duties while searching for an heir to adopt.

She had time, he had time, it was all a matter of time.

"Who sent you?" the Marchioness asked, her voice cold and stern. The man before her sat silent, staring back with no expression to discern. They were in a tent near a military encampment along the border; showing the lady her troops was a project that was supposed to be completed before the summer rains, but with the metal-armored men and their clockwork weaponry being caught just outside the camps, one could only wonder their mission. The Marquis put a hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her back.

"You might want to let me handle this," he said. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man studying them, memorizing their faces and mannerisms. "Go back to our tent—I'll meet you there later."

The wind carried screams to her as she sat in their personal tent, the outside surrounded by trusted guards that kept a sharp eye for anything that dared come near the future commander that they were already willing to die for. Eventually the noise died down and the Marquis found his way back to his wife. His jacket was gone, leaving only his waistcoat and rolled shirtsleeves. Eyes wide, brow knit, and a scowl on his lips, he sat down in a chair, facing a corner.

Minutes passed and the silence between them grew deafening. Before long she could not take it anymore and placed a hand on his shoulder, just as he had done.

"It's okay."

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is. We're both still here, yeah?" She slid down to sit in his lap and gently held the side of his head against her chest. It was more physical contact than they'd had in their entire marriage combined, but something told her it needed to be done. Sure enough he began to shake, and wrapped his arms around her waist timidly.

"Everything's not okay," he said. "You say it is, only because you are still good. I have not been good for a very long time."

"You've been good as long as I've known you," she replied sweetly. She smoothed his hair—wild and windblown compared to the start of the day—and held him tighter. "I know… I know it's not what we do, but I think a lie-down will do you good."

"You think so…?"

"I know so." She stood up and led him over to the bed, making sure he was down and comfortable before climbing in and tucking herself beneath his chin and within his grasp. He held her close, his whole body trembling.

"He was paid to kill you," he whispered hoarsely. "I refuse to be twice-widowed, mercenaries be damned. You will rule Kasterborous from the high seat in Gallifrey one day, I promise, and the only one you will have to answer to is the king. That day will come, and I will make sure it happens. I have my heir; I need no other."

With a heavy sigh he pulled her in closer and remained silent, shivering occasionally from the chill seeping in through the creases in the tent. Eventually she used a foot to kick the blankets towards her hands, unable to reach due to him falling asleep mid-hold and refusing to move. She covered them both and settled in, knowing that her being there, being alive, was enough to placate him. The last thing he needed was another succession crisis on his hands, where even simple villagers whispered rumors about the state of the march thanks to a lack of answers about the future. At least with her as the head of the household and being trained in war, there was hope that she could be a solid interim while a child waited to come of age. It was a hope far-flung in their current state, they both knew, but dwelling on it only made things worse.

They laid there, she wrapped protectively in his arms, until morning broke. She woke to an empty bed, still warm from his company. The corner of her lip twisted up—her husband was a good man, she decided, for only good men felt such pain.

The portrait was not large, but she could tell that its importance was held above most of the others that she had seen while wandering the many corridors the castle provided on cold and rainy day. It was one of her husband, brown-haired and smooth skinned, with a woman as young and fair as he. The Marchioness was so interested in studying the faces peering out at her, that she did not notice her husband's presence until he put a hand on her shoulder, bending slightly to murmur in her ear.

"My father was best friends with her parents and we were betrothed as soon as she was born," he explained. "You grow up hearing of miraculously perfect couples… well… we were one."

"Was it an accident or sickness or…?"

"Childbirth. I went from preparing to present my father my firstborn, to announcing that the marquisate was to go into mourning. It might as well be ancient history; I wouldn't concern yourself with it."

She looked up at him, frowning morosely. "It hit you hard though, didn't it? Her death?"

"It hit everyone hard, not just me. My father never really recovered, and there were people in the hills and villages that still could not believe of her passing even after ten years. She was not a universal favorite, but when the ruling family loses its future, everyone starts to panic."

"You wish you could bring her back, don't you?" she asked. He stared at her, sadness flickering across her face.

"I used to, but I gave up on that long ago. Besides, had she lived, I highly doubt you'd get on."

"You take multiple wives in Kasterborous?" she scoffed.

His eyebrows raised and he laughed in disbelief. "No, not at all! It's just that there would be the chance you were my daughter-in-law, and how awkward would that be then? Grooming my son's wife to become Doctor after me? Protecting her and treating her as if she were my equal? That would be an outrage."

She giggled quietly, wrapping her arms around her husband in a hug. Confusion brought on by the sudden contact froze him in place; neither of them had a scrape with death, and neither of them required comforting. He stood there hunched over her in the empty hall, hands unsure of where was appropriate, and heart racing at such a pace it was as if he had two.