Request for Baelor marrying a controversially young wife who is absolutely obsessed with him and just want to fuck him every minute of every day, whenever wherever 🥵 he is determined to keep up with her and they end up getting caught in embarrassing situations by the staff and courtiers. imagine: a lady in waiting walking in on them going at it in the gardens, a poor stableboy getting an eyeful of a princess on her knees in front of the heir, Maekar having to get his eyes bleached after catching them in the small council room. poor Baelor becomes the talk of the castle and his reputation of a stern, serious princes changes forever.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: You and Baelor get caught everywhere in his attempt to prove that he can keep up with a woman of your age.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x second wife!reader
─ word count: 3k (I am just as confused as you)
─ content: 18+ MDNI | harrasment| "violence"| (a girlie has to defend herself)| filthy shameless smut | exhibitionism | voyeurism | age gap | getting caught
─ a/n: There's nothing I love more than stressing out these old men. As always thank you for reading, likes, comments, requests, and reblogs🖤
The heat of the tourney grounds pressed against your skin and made the heavy silks of your gown cling to your body in ways that felt entirely too suffocating. You had slipped away from your septa and your handmaidens near the lists, needing just a moment of air, a breath of freedom that didn't smell of sweat, horses, and steel. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, but you had wandered toward the fringe of the encampment, where the canvas tents flapped in the wind and the noise was a dull roar rather than a deafening clash.
You thought you were hidden enough. You were wrong.
The knight found you near a stack of empty wine casks. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and reeking of cheap ale and stale sweat, his doublet unlaced to reveal a stained tunic underneath. He blocked your path, his shadow falling over you, and when you tried to step around him, he moved with you.
"Now, now, little dove," he slurred, his eyes raking over you with a gaze that felt sticky and unwanted. "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be wandering all alone. A man could get the wrong idea."
"I am returning to the Keep," you said, keeping your voice steady, though your heart hammered against your ribs. You lifted your chin, trying to project the authority your father had drilled into you. "Let me pass."
"Come now, don't be haughty," he laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He reached out, his thick fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve. "I could show you a good time before you scurry back to your tower. I bet you've never even had a real man between those legs, have you?"
Revulsion curdled in your stomach. You tried to jerk your arm away, but his grip tightened, bruisingly hard. "Unhand me," you hissed, your shyness burning away in a flash of hot anger.
"Feisty," he grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "I like that. Makes it better when you break."
He didn't see the slap coming. You swung your hand with every ounce of strength your fear and fury could muster, connecting hard with his cheek. The sound was a sharp crack that echoed off the nearby tents. His head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back a step, more from surprise than pain.
Before he could recover, you kicked him. You aimed for his knee but caught his shin, driving the hard toe of your slipper into the bone. The knight howled, a sound of pure, undignified agony, and crumbled to the dirt, clutching his leg.
"You little bitch!" he spat, tears of pain actually gathering in his eyes as he glared up at you from the ground. "Do you know who I am? I'll have you whipped for this insolence!"
"You'll do nothing," a new voice cut through the air.
The knight froze. You looked up, your breath catching in your throat. A man stood over the drunken knight, his presence instantly commanding the space.
Baelor. The Prince.
He didn't look at you. His eyes were fixed on the heap of a man on the ground. "I suggest you leave, before I decide that a knight who cannot hold his wine has no business holding a sword either."
The knight scrambled backward, his bravado evaporating instantly in the face of royal authority. He muttered a curse, scrambled to his feet, and limped away as fast as his injured leg would carry him, not daring to look back.
Only then did Baelor turn his gaze to you. The intensity of his focus made your knees feel weak, but not from fear. He studied your face, taking in the tears in your eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
"Are you harmed?" he asked, stepping closer. Up close, he was even more striking. He was tall, with the build of a warrior who had spent a lifetime with sword and shield, tanned skin, arresting eyes, lines of experience around his eyes that only added to his handsomeness.
"I am perfectly fine," you said, perhaps a bit too quickly, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands. "He was... he was just drunk."
"He was a fool," Baelor corrected gently. He looked around the empty patch of ground. "Where are your ladies? Your guard? Tourneys are no place for young maidens to be alone."
You bit your lip, feeling embarrassment creep up your neck. "I... I slipped them. I just wanted a moment of quiet."
A corner of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't a mocking smile — it was warm, amused. "I see. You handled yourself remarkably well. That was a formidable kick."
"I can take care of myself," you insisted, lifting your chin again, though your voice lacked its earlier bite.
"Yes," he said softly, his eyes roaming over your face with a new kind of interest. "That is apparent."
"Come. I will walk you back. I cannot in good conscience leave you here, waiting for the next drunkard to find you."
"I can find my own way."
"I have no doubt," he said, offering his arm. "But humor an old man. I would feel better knowing you reached safety."
You hesitated. You were annoyed at being treated like a child, at needing a rescue when you had clearly been winning the fight. But you looked at his arm — strong, steady, clothed in fine velvet — and then up at his face. He was incredibly handsome.
You placed your hand on his arm. "Very well, my prince."
The walk back was a slow one. At first, you were silent, stewing in your annoyance, but Baelor did not press you. He spoke of the heat, of the tourney, of the specific breed of hawks his sons were training. You found yourself looking at him more often than not, watching the way the sunlight caught the grey in his beard, the way his amber eye seemed to hold a secret fire.
By the time you reached the shadow of the castle walls, your annoyance had evaporated, replaced by a strange, fluttering sensation in your stomach. He bowed over your hand before leaving, his lips brushing your knuckles in a gesture that was formal yet lingered a fraction of a second too long.
"Take care of yourself, my lady," he murmured.
You watched him walk away, and for the first time in your life, you felt a pang of regret that a conversation was ending.
The months that followed were a blur of stolen glances, secret meetings, and a court that whispered furiously about the Prince's new infatuation. Baelor agonised over the age difference, he was old enough to be your father, but the heart, as the poets often said, rarely listened to reason.
You fell in love with his quiet strength. He fell in love with your fire, your spirit, the way you looked at him not as a prince but as a man.
The wedding was a grand affair, but the wedding night was yours alone.
You had feared a duty, a fumbling, awkward encounter performed in the dark under the sheets. Instead, Baelor had treated your body like a holy site, worshipping every inch of you with a patience and skill that made you weep. When he joined you in the bed, the insecurities about his age, about his ability to please a woman in the flower of her youth, vanished in the heat of your touch. You were insatiable, and he rose to meet you, again and again, proving that experience and endurance were worth far more than youth.
But the whispers did not stop. If anything, they grew louder. Baelor heard them all. They said ladies your age were insatiable, that you needed a stallion, not an ageing warhorse. They said it had been too many years since Baelor had proven himself in the field, and surely he was failing you in the bedchamber. He saw the way men looked at you when you walked through the gardens, old lords and young squires alike, their eyes lingering on your figure, imagining they could give you what he supposedly could not. It ate at him, a quiet, corrosive jealousy. He loved you with a ferocity that terrified him, the thought of losing you, of you looking elsewhere because he failed you, caused physical pain in his chest.
He didn't need to prove anything to you. You were insatiable, it was true, but he was the only one who could quench that thirst. You didn't look at the young squires or the handsome knights. Your eyes were only for your husband. You wanted him constantly, the feel of his rough hands, the scent of his skin, the deep gravelly sound of his voice when he lost control.
You didn't care for propriety. You didn't care if the guards heard your cries through the doors of your chambers. In fact, the thought that they knew exactly what their prince was doing to his young wife only made you wetter, made you claw at his back harder.
It started in the garden. It was a secluded corner, or so you had thought, surrounded by high hedges. The sun was high, casting dappled shadows on the grass. Baelor had been reading a report on a bench, but you had other plans. You missed him. He had been in council for three days straight, and you felt like a starving woman denied her favourite meal.
You dropped to your knees in the dirt before him, not caring about the stains on your velvet skirts. You pushed his tunic up, your mouth finding the hard line of his stomach, trailing kisses downward until you reached the laces of his breeches.
He gasped, his hand tangling in your hair, his resistance crumbling instantly as your fingers worked the leather strings. "Someone will see."
"Let them," you whispered, freeing his cock. It was thick and heavy, already hard for you. You took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of him.
He groaned, a sound that was half-protest, half-surrender. "You are a wicked girl," he breathed, his hips bucking up slightly.
You pulled back and turned around, dropping to your hands and knees. You looked back at him over your shoulder, your hair cascading down your back. "Fuck me, Baelor. Please."
He fell to his knees behind you, gripping your hips with bruising force. He lined himself up and slammed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your fingers digging into the earth.
He took you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your backside, driving you into the dirt. There was no gentleness here. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, begging for more.
"Gods, you are tight," he gritted out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I love this cunt."
"It is yours," you moaned, your voice rising. "Only yours. Fuck me harder!"
The snap of a twig broke through the haze of your arousal. You didn't care, but Baelor froze. His head snapped up, his body tensing.
Standing ten feet away, clutching a basket of fallen flowers, was one of your maids. Her eyes were wide as saucers, her mouth open in a silent cry. She stared at the sight of her princess on her hands and knees in the dirt, being taken by the heir to the throne.
Baelor started to pull back, panic flaring in his mismatched eyes. "I told you this was a bad idea," he hissed.
"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless and desperate. You pushed back onto him, taking him deep again, clenching around him to hold him there. "Don't you dare stop. She has already seen."
The maid dropped her basket. Flowers scattered everywhere. She turned and fled, her footsteps pounding away on the gravel path.
Baelor groaned, the exhibitionism clearly infecting him too. He gripped your hips harder and resumed his rhythm, even harder than before.
The stables were next. You had intended to go for a ride in the Kingswood, a leisurely afternoon escape. But as soon as you entered the dim, hay-scented building, the privacy of the high loft overwhelmed you.
Baelor was checking on his black destrier. You walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your chest against his back. He smelled of leather and bergamot, a scent that made your head spin.
"I think I would rather ride my dragon than a horse," you whispered against his spine, your hand sliding down to the front of his breeches.
He turned in your arms, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, lifting you effortlessly and setting you on a bale of hay. He shoved his breeches down just enough, and you hiked your skirts up, opening your legs for him. He stepped between your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist before impaling you on his cock in one smooth stroke. You gasped, your head falling back against the rough wood of the stall wall.
"Ride me, then," he commanded, his hands gripping your backside.
The friction was exquisite, the stretch intense. You were lost in the rhythm, so focused on the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, that you didn't hear the approach of the stable hand until you heard a sharp intake of breath.
You looked over Baelor's shoulder. The young man stood frozen in the aisle, a curry comb in his hand, his eyes locked on the sight of his prince buried inside his princess. He stood there, his cheeks flushing red, watching.
Baelor realised what was happening, felt the way you clenched around him in response to the voyeur. He chuckled darkly against your neck. "You like being watched, don't you?"
"Yes," you hissed. "I want everyone to see how well you fuck me."
He redoubled his efforts, pounding into you harder. You cried out, your orgasm building fast and hot. When it hit, you shattered, your body convulsing, your cries echoing off the stone walls. Baelor followed you moments later, burying his face in your neck as he emptied himself inside you.
The stable boy was gone when you finally came down, but the knowledge that he had stayed, that he had watched every second, lingered between you like a third presence.
The small council chamber was the ultimate transgression. Baelor sat at the head of the table, surrounded by empty chairs, preparing for the afternoon session. He looked tired, lines of fatigue etched around his eyes.
You slipped into the room, closing the heavy oak door behind you.
"You look exhausted," you said softly, walking up to his high-backed chair.
He looked up, a tired smile transforming his face. "The realm does not rest, my love."
"Rest for a moment," you murmured, climbing onto his lap. You straddled his legs, your skirts pooling around you.
He sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in your cleavage. "You are a distraction," he mumbled, but his hands were already wandering, sliding up your back to pull you closer.
"I want to be your distraction," you whispered, kissing his forehead, his nose, finding his lips.
The kiss was slow and sweet, but it ignited a fire that had been smouldering for days. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you slightly.
"You are bare," he observed with a groan, his fingers encountering nothing but soft skin and wet heat under your layers of silk. "Do you wish to kill me?"
You hummed in response.
"Turn around," he breathed.
He lifted you and turned you so your back was pressed against his chest, your legs draped over the arms of the chair. He quickly unlaced his breeches, freeing his straining erection.
You reached down, guiding him to your entrance. You were dripping wet, ready for him. He gripped your hips and pulled you down onto him, filling you in one long, smooth glide.
"Gods," you gasped, your head falling back against his shoulder. He felt so big like this, stretching you wide.
He held you still, his hips bucking up slightly, grinding deep inside you. "I could stay like this forever," he whispered in your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck.
The door handle rattled. You both froze. The heavy oak door pushed open and Maekar strode in, followed by the other council members. They stopped short when they saw the tableau. Baelor sat in his chair, looking completely at ease. You sat on his lap looking demure, your skirts hiding the fact that your husband was buried inside you.
"My lady," Maekar said, confused. "I... did not realise you were attending."
"Just observing."
Baelor's hand rested on your hip, possessive and heavy. "Shall we begin?"
The meeting was agony. Every shift Baelor made sent jolts of pleasure through you. Every time he coughed or cleared his throat, you felt the vibration in his chest. You sat through discussions of taxes and grain with a dripping cunt and a husband who was slowly, subtly rocking his hips, keeping himself hard inside you.
When the other lords finally filed out an hour later, you were trembling with the effort of staying quiet. Only Maekar remained. He waited for the door to close.
He looked at Baelor sharply. "Is something the matter? You seem... distracted."
Baelor shifted, and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning. "I am perfectly fine, brother."
Maekar's eyes narrowed. He looked at you, then at Baelor, then down at the way your skirts were arranged, the way Baelor's arm was locked around your waist. The realisation dawned on his face slowly.
He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He looked at you both with incredulous eyes, then at his brother. "Have you no shame?"
Baelor threw his head back and laughed, a full, rich sound that made his cock twitch inside you. "I assure you, this was not my idea."
Maekar stormed out, shaking his head, muttering about madness and Targaryen blood.
Baelor kissed your neck, his laughter fading into a satisfied hum. "You, my pretty little wife," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, "keep getting me into trouble."
"I think you like it," you breathed, finally letting yourself move, grinding down onto him.
"I do," he admitted. "I love you."
He began to move again, intent on finishing what he had started.
The whispers in the court changed. They did not call him an old man anymore. They said the prince and his young wife were mad, insatiable for each other, unable to keep their hands off one another.
They were right.
