Dragon King AU | Arranged Marriage I
Slow Burn | Enemies to Lovers
Part II Moonrise and Mockery
You were promised to him before you could even walk-engaged to the Dragon King himself since you were three. Years passed, letters unread, portraits hung on palace walls. but now, for the first time, you're standing face to face.
The gown was heavier than expected.
Black velvet cascaded down your frame like shadow given shape, pooling just above your ankles where layers of gold ruffles peeked through. A pale, champagne-toned panel ran down the front, embroidered with delicate criss-crossing threads that shimmered like starlight when you moved.
The bodice—low and square-cut—was gathered in sweeping folds of gold silk, held at the center by a pearl brooch that seemed absurdly delicate compared to the weight of what it symbolized.
Duty. Alliance. Sacrifice.
You stood before the mirror, unmoving.
Behind you, one of your ladies-in-waiting—the youngest, a quiet girl from your homeland named Marelle—finished tying the last ribbon at your back. Her hands were trembling.
You caught her eyes in the mirror.
“What’s wrong, Your Highness?”
Her voice was soft, almost afraid to break the stillness.
You let out a quiet laugh. Bitter. Too sharp to be real.
“Well, let’s see…” you mutter, smoothing the front of your dress with gloved hands. “If I marry the king, my people will hate me.”
You turned away from the mirror.
"But if I don't marry him," you continued, stepping toward the open balcony where red smoke curled in the distance, "then both our kingdoms will go to war. Countless lives lost.
Entire villages burned. Families torn apart."
She remained silent, gaze fixed on the floor.
"At this point," you said dryly, resting your hands on the stone railing, "I think my only option is to fake my own kidnapping and hope I think of something better while I'm gone."
Marelle's eyes widened. "You wouldn't..."
You turned to her, a crooked smile tugging at your lips-half humor, half despair.
You both knew the answer wasn't simple. There were no right choices. Only the ones you could live with... or not.
Behind you, the temple bells began to toll-deep, ancient, fire-wrought chimes that echoed across the palace like a call to arms.
Time to stand beside the man who scorched the earth under his boots.
You inhaled deeply, let the heat fill your lungs, and turned back inside.
Your gown whispered around your ankles as you walked, every step heavy with the weight of two kingdoms—and the heart you weren’t sure you could save.
They had cheered for her when she entered the court. But it wasn’t warmth. It was the kind of applause one gives to a condemned gladiator—beautiful, tragic, already doomed.
The image of him standing above her, molten and monstrous in his fury, would not leave her. Neither would the way he looked at her. Like he was trying to figure out where to sink his teeth.
She’d meant to fluster him.
Not awaken whatever that was.
"Present yourself," the steward barked, loud enough to echo.
She curtsied, spine perfectly straight. "Princess of the Western Reach. Daughter of House__”
The nobles murmured among themselves. Some raised brows. Others laughed.
"So this is the girl meant to keep the peace?"
"She's smaller than I imagined."
"Pretty, though. I suppose if she's clever, she'll stay that way."
The reader's jaw tensed-but she smiled, sweetly.
"It's a shame," she said brightly, "that the rest of you weren't chosen to marry him. I hear the competition must have been thrilling."
Then-one sharp snort from the throne.
The silence that followed her quip stretched thin, taut like the string of a bow.
From the throne, the sharp snort twisted into a low, amused chuckle.
It was a strange sound coming from the Dragon King—humor edged with something dangerous, like steel dipped in flame. The nobles froze, unsure whether to follow his lead or pretend they hadn’t heard. But Bakugou rose from his seat in a single fluid motion, the dark leather of his robes creaking softly as he descended the marble dais.
The hall held its breath.
Your pulse beat like war drums beneath your skin, but you remained perfectly still, every instinct screaming not to flinch as he drew near. His presence consumed the space—commanding, scorching, impossible to ignore.
Tall. Towering. Unsmiling now, but curious, like a beast circling something unfamiliar.
“Tell me, Princess,” he said, voice low and coiled, “are you always this mouthy in foreign courts, or am I just special?”
You tilted your head. “Only for kings with tempers worse than mine.”
A few startled gasps. One poorly-stifled cough of laughter. You didn’t look at the courtiers. Your eyes stayed on him.
Bakugou’s lips twitched. “Careful. The last person who talked back like that lost their eyebrows.”
You smiled sweetly. “I have better bone structure. It’d be a shame.”
That earned a few more shocked murmurs—and then, unexpectedly, a laugh. From him.
Just once. Brief. But real.
He stepped closer, gaze dragging down your form like heat pressing into your skin. “Well,” he murmured, almost to himself. “At least you’ll keep court interesting.”
The steward cleared his throat, voice echoing: “Let it be recorded—the Princess of the Western Reach is officially received and acknowledged by His Majesty the Dragon King.”
Bakugou turned and strode back to the throne without looking at you.
You curtsied, turned, and walked the length of the hall with your head high and your heart slamming against your ribs. It wasn’t until the heavy doors closed behind you that you let your shoulders sag—only a little.
Marelle waited just beyond, eyes wide.
“You’re not dead,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” you said, exhaling slowly. “But I think I just challenged a dragon to a duel.”
The summons came less than an hour later.
You were to attend the High Council.
You nearly laughed when the steward said it—as though it were a jest. But no, he was quite serious. “His Majesty commands your presence.”
Marelle fretted as she fixed your hair. “They’ve never allowed outsiders into council. Not even other nobles.”
“Then I’ll just have to pretend I belong.”
You wore a dark crimson overdress this time—quieter, but no less stately. When you entered the council chamber, you understood why Marelle was nervous.
The room reeked of smoke and old power.
Ten dragons sat in half-circle formation around a crescent-shaped table of onyx, each clad in courtly attire that shimmered faintly with magic. They watched you enter like wolves waiting to see if the prey would run.
He didn’t speak when you entered—just gestured with two fingers for you to stand beside his chair. You did, carefully smoothing your skirts.
They launched into matters of defense, trade, and border disputes. You listened, saying nothing. But you watched—studied.
One lord, older than the rest, leaned back in his chair. Lord Sareth, if you recalled correctly. He regarded you over steepled fingers. “And what does Her Highness think,” he asked smoothly, “of sending dragons into the Ashlow Mountains? Surely her noble sensibilities find such violence distasteful.”
You inclined your head. “I find unprovoked violence distasteful, my lord. But cowardice masquerading as peace is worse.”
Bakugou tilted his head toward you, smirking.
“I wonder,” the older man mused, “how long you’ll survive in a court where even the walls have claws.”
You offered him a honeyed smile. “Long enough to learn which ones bite and which ones just bark.”
It was the only sound of approval that passed his lips all meeting.
They let you leave early.
Not out of kindness—you could tell—but to test you. To see how much of their venom you could stomach. You walked with careful grace back through the palace corridors until—
The voice was low, behind you.
Bakugou’s footsteps followed, slow and measured, until he stood at your shoulder.
“You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you,” you said without turning.
“You should be careful, throwing around sharp words like that in council.”
“No,” he said. “But it might make them think you’re trying to be Queen.”
You turned then. “Isn’t that the point?”
His eyes flared gold for a moment. “They’ll eat you alive.”
“Then they’ll have to chew.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
He stepped forward—close enough that the warmth of him pressed into your skin. His eyes raked over your face, intense and unreadable.
“You’re not afraid of me.”
You shook your head. “Not yet.”
His mouth twitched—half smile, half snarl. “Careful, princess. If you stare into a dragon’s eyes long enough, it might start thinking you want it to burn you.”
“Maybe I do,” you whispered.
For one breath, the air between you went molten.
“Be ready for the wedding rites,” he said, already walking. “The next court will expect something far more convincing than sarcasm.”
That night, you couldn’t sleep.
You sat by the window in a robe, bare feet tucked beneath you, staring at the moon. Marelle dozed nearby, curled on a fainting couch with a book half-open on her chest.
The moon hung pale and heavy, wreathed in clouds.
Everything about Draconfell pressed down like weight—its fire, its secrets, its King.
You flexed your fingers and saw the red line where your fan had bitten into your palm.
You didn’t regret your words in court. You regretted how much they’d meant.
“Are you afraid?” Marelle asked softly, half-asleep.
You didn’t answer at first.
“I think I’m more afraid of what will happen if I don’t succeed,” you said finally.
She nodded, and her breathing slowed again.
You looked back to the moon and whispered, “I just don’t know if I can win.”
Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter — I know it’s not much, but I really wanted to get something out there for you. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading, liking, and supporting the story so far. It truly means a lot and keeps me motivated to keep writing. <3
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