Chapter Text
The journey from Mr. Stool’s chaotic, foam-padded percussion dungeon back to the brightly painted sanctuary of the art wing felt entirely different from Aerion’s terrified shuffle through the school that morning. His legs still burned from the endless concrete stairwells, and his ears were ringing slightly from the crashing of cymbals, but the suffocating dread that usually sat square in the center of his chest was completely gone.
He pushed through the wooden door of the art classroom, the hinges giving a welcoming squeak.
The room was bathed in the golden, bruised light of the late afternoon sun streaming through the large windows. The air smelled instantly of that comforting, bizarre mix of lavender incense, wet clay, and acrylic paint.
And, just as she had been that morning, Kat was breaking the rules.
She was sitting half-in and half-out of the massive back window, her Care Bears hoodie bright against the dull grey exterior brick of the school. One leg was pulled up to her chest, her scuffed sneaker resting on the sill, while the other dangled casually over the radiator. She had a hand-rolled cigarette pinched between her fingers, blowing the thin stream of grey smoke expertly out into the chilly courtyard air so it wouldn't set off the ancient smoke detectors.
A pulsing bassline was currently vibrating through the floorboards. The Bluetooth speaker on her desk was blasting a mix of alternative rock and moody, punchy pop. Aerion didn't recognized the edgy, rebellious anthems playing, but liked the dark, sultry bass and the sharp, rapid-fire lyrics playing. It was a playlist saturated with sapphic, alternative anthems that pulsed with an unapologetic, chaotic energy. It was loud, it was angry, and it was entirely perfect for the room.
Aerion stood in the doorway for a second, watching her tap her ash against the exterior brick, completely at ease. He couldn't help it; a low, genuine chuckle slipped past his lips.
It was just so absurd. At St. Jude’s, a teacher caught smoking on the premises would be subjected to a disciplinary hearing before the board of governors. Here, it was just Kat, having a tab while some women belted out lyrics about stealing someone’s girlfriend.
Kat turned her head, catching the movement by the door. Her bright green eyes instantly locked onto him, and her face split into a welcoming grin. She didn't scramble to hide the cigarette. She just waved her free hand enthusiastically, motioning for him to come over.
Aerion walked across the room, weaving through the clusters of mismatched desks and overgrown pothos plants, and stopped next to the radiator by the window.
"Alright, chuck?" Kat asked, taking one last, quick drag before aggressively crushing the cherry of the cigarette out against the brickwork and tossing the butt into the tin can resting on the exterior ledge. She swung her legs fully back into the classroom, hopping down from the sill with a light thud. "You survived the wilderness. How was the rest of the baptism by fire?"
Aerion leaned against the wall next to the window, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. "It was... loud," he admitted, a small smile playing on his lips.
Kat laughed, walking over to her desk to grab a tin of mints, popping one into her mouth to kill the smoke smell. "Loud is the default setting here, mate. Tell me everything. Give me the full debrief. Did Miller do that weird, arrogant baton-twirling shit he does when he's feeling particularly smug?"
Aerion’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Yes! He had this massive wooden stick. He just kept spinning it."
"Knew it," Kat snorted, leaning her hip against her desk and crossing her arms. "The man fancies himself a Jedi or something. Did you survive the baseline test?"
"Yeah," Aerion nodded, feeling a flush of pride. "I finished it early. But I kind of got into an argument with a girl named Ruby about yeast."
Kat threw her head back and barked a laugh. "Ruby! Oh, she’s fiercely competitive, that one. Thinks she’s going to be the next Marie Curie. Don't let her bully you. If you know you're right, stick to your guns."
"Dr. Miller said I was right," Aerion said quietly, kicking at the linoleum floor. "I thought she was going to hate me. But she gave me her number after class."
"See? Respect is earned in the trenches, mate," Kat winked. "What about lunch? I saw Leo bolt out of the hall like his tail was on fire to come find me. Fucking hell, they really went at it, didn't they?"
Aerion blinked, the casual swear word slipping so effortlessly from her lips that it took a second to register. At home, swearing was a punishable offense. A vile habit of the lower classes, his father would say. But when Kat said it, it didn't sound vulgar. It just sounded honest.
Aerion looked at her, his heart beating a little faster. He thought about the disgusting grey slop, the deafening noise, and the sheer brutality of the fight. He wanted to see if the rules really were different here. He wanted to test the waters.
"Lunch was a bit... shit," Aerion said softly, holding his breath the moment the word left his mouth. He braced his shoulders, waiting for the inevitable reprimand, the sharp correction about appropriate vocabulary.
Kat didn't even blink.
"Absolute shit," Kat agreed wholeheartedly, nodding in deep sympathy. "I'm telling you, the shepherd's pie day is a certified crime against humanity. I've seen concrete poured with more nutritional value. You've got to bring a packed lunch, Duck, or you'll wither away."
Aerion let out a long, slow exhale, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. She didn't care. She wasn't policing his language or his manners; she was actually listening to what he was saying.
"And Cooky Stool?" Kat asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Did he make you jump out of your skin?"
"He slammed a ruler on a desk right next to me!" Aerion exclaimed, his hands flying out of his pockets as he animatedly recounted the story. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack! But... he let me play the drums. He actually stood in the booth and taught me how to hold the sticks so they bounce. He said I had natural rhythm."
"Look at you, a regular Ringo Starr on your first day," Kat beamed, clearly incredibly proud of him. "Stool is mad as a hatter, but he’s a genius when it comes to music. If he says you have rhythm, you’ve got it."
As they were talking, the rest of the form class began to filter into the room. It wasn't a structured, orderly entrance. Kids drifted in groups of two or three, laughing, complaining about their previous teachers, and dropping their bags onto the floor.
Kat didn't usher them to their seats. She didn't demand silence.
Aerion watched in fascination as the students simply bypassed the desks entirely. They gravitated toward the wooden storage cupboards at the back of the room. Without asking for permission, they began pulling out sketchpads, sheets of canvas paper, charcoal sticks, watercolors, and sets of incredibly expensive-looking soft pastels. They claimed spaces on the floor, dragging beanbags into a circle, or stood at the tall easels near the windows.
It was a period of entirely self-directed, organic creation. The alternative rock music continued to pulse from the speaker, providing a steady, energetic background to the scraping of chairs and the rustle of paper.
"So, what about you, Aerion?" Kat asked, turning her attention back to him as she hopped up to sit cross-legged on top of her own desk. "What do you actually like doing? When you're not surviving flying rulers and grey slop, what's your thing?"
Aerion hesitated. He had been trained to answer questions like this with impressive, aristocratic hobbies. I ride horses, Miss. I practice classical fencing. I am currently studying intermediate Latin. But looking at Kat, in her blue Care Bears hoodie and silver nose ring, he knew she wouldn't care about any of that.
"I like reading," Aerion said truthfully, leaning his back against the cool glass of the window. "History, mostly. And mythology. I like reading about the old conquests. And... dragons."
Kat’s eyes lit up instantly. "Dragons? Oh, mate, you are speaking my language. Are we talking European mythology, the hoarders of gold? Or are we talking Eastern mythology, the water spirits?"
"Both," Aerion said, finding himself standing a little straighter as the familiar, comforting subject matter took over. "But mostly the anatomy and the lore of them. A lot of people get it wrong, actually."
"Do they now?" Kat asked, tilting her head, genuinely invested. "Educate me."
"Well, for instance," Aerion started, his hands moving as he explained, "in most modern movies, they show dragons with two back legs, and their wings act as their front arms. Like bats. But those aren't true dragons. Those are wyverns."
"Wyverns," a voice interrupted from the side.
Leo had wandered over, carrying a piece of black construction paper and a box of neon chalk pastels. He dropped the supplies onto the desk next to Kat's, leaning over. "Like in Skyrim?"
"Exactly," Aerion nodded eagerly, thrilled that someone understood the reference. "Wyverns are smaller, usually more aggressive, and they can't use front claws to grasp things because they don't have them. A true dragon has four distinct legs and a separate set of wings mounted on their back. They're infinitely more powerful."
"Wait, hold up," Sal chimed in, dragging a stool over and dropping a handful of charcoal pencils onto the desk. "So the dragons in Game of Thrones... you're telling me those massive, city-burning monsters are just wyverns?"
"Technically, yes," Aerion nodded, feeling a strange flutter of irony discussing the fictionalized version of his own family's ancient crest. "Based on anatomical heraldry, they are wyverns. Real dragons have six limbs total."
"Fucking hell, my entire life is a lie," Benji groaned, pulling up a chair next to Sal and instantly starting to sketch a jagged, cartoonish monster on a scrap of paper. "I'm going to ruin my brother's day with this information. He loves that show."
Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered around Kat’s desk. It wasn't a formal lesson, but it felt like one in the best possible way. Four or five students, including Leo, Sal, and Benji, were actively engaged in a deep, highly passionate debate about fantasy lore, video game monsters, and mythological anatomy.
Aerion was entirely in his element. He wasn't the weird kid with the silver hair anymore; he was the resident expert on dragon anatomy, and other kids were actually listening to him.
"It's fascinating, though, isn't it?" Kat mused, twisting a loose red curl around her finger. "How every single ancient culture on earth—from Europe to Asia to the Americas—has some form of a giant, reptilian flying monster in their mythology, even though they never communicated with each other. Makes you wonder if they found dinosaur bones and just filled in the blanks, or if something was actually flying around up there."
"Definitely dinosaur bones," Leo argued, snapping a stick of green pastel in half. "Imagine being a peasant in the dark ages, digging a well, and hitting a T-Rex skull. You'd absolutely think it breathed fire."
"I don't know," Aerion murmured, his eyes distant as he pictured the massive, ancient tapestries hanging in his father’s study. "Sometimes I think they had to be real. You don't just invent something that perfect."
"I agree," Kat smiled softly, bumping her foot playfully against Aerion’s leg. "I am firmly on Team Dragon."
Aerion was so incredibly relaxed, so completely swept up in the warm, accepting atmosphere of the group, that his strict, heavily guarded internal filter completely dropped.
"I have this dragon teddy from when I was a baby," Aerion said, his voice dropping into a fond, quiet tone as he watched Benji sketch. "My dad gave him to me. And he has the four distinct legs and the separate wings, so he’s a true dragon. I used to make him fight all my brother's stuffed animals."
The second the words left his mouth, the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the room seemed to freeze.
Aerion’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
The blood drained rapidly from his face, leaving him deathly pale. The realization of what he had just said hit him like a physical blow to the stomach.
I have a teddy.
He was ten years old. He was in a public school surrounded by street-smart, tough teenagers who got into fistfights over insults. And he had just openly, cheerfully admitted that he slept with a stuffed animal.
His cousin Valarr's cruel, mocking laughter echoed viciously in his ears. Are you serious? You're ten years old and you're throwing a tantrum over a stuffed teddy bear? His father’s furious, disgusted roar followed it. You are far too old to be clinging to a stuffed animal like a toddler!
Aerion’s breath hitched in his throat. He shrunk back against the radiator, his shoulders hiking up to his ears, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion of laughter. He waited for Leo to sneer, for Sal to roll her eyes, for Benji to call him a baby.
A boy standing at the edge of the group, a tall kid with a shaved head, let out a low, scoffing noise, his eyes sliding sideways to look at Aerion with clear judgment.
Before the boy could even open his mouth to make a comment, Kat moved.
She didn't just speak; she slammed both her palms down flat against the top of her desk with a loud, ringing SMACK that made half the group jump.
"Shut up," Kat demanded loudly, her eyes wide with a sudden, overwhelming, entirely unfeigned excitement. "You have a dragon plushie?"
Aerion flinched, staring at her with wide, terrified violet eyes. He gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"That is so incredibly sick," Kat declared, her voice ringing out clearly over the alternative rock music, absolutely drowning out the judgmental boy at the back. She practically dove off the desk, digging frantically into the front pocket of her jeans. "You lot think a teddy is childish? Please. Look at these."
She whipped out her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen as she pulled up her photo gallery. She shoved the phone right into the center of the group, holding it out so everyone could see.
The kids leaned in, their curiosity piqued by her sudden, frantic energy.
On the screen was a picture of a massive, unmade bed in a dark, highly decorated bedroom. The bed wasn't just covered in pillows; it was an absolute fortress of stuffed animals. But they weren't cute, fluffy bears or cartoon characters.
They were incredible, bizarre, slightly gothic plushies. There was a stuffed Baphomet goat with red pentagrams stitched into its forehead, a black vampire bat with blood-red fangs, a three-headed Cerberus dog, and a sprawling, black-and-purple dragon with jagged felt spikes.
"I have like twenty of them," Kat announced proudly, swiping through the pictures of the dark, mythical stuffed creatures. "They’re called Kreeptures. They’re made by this alternative gothic brand called Killstar. I literally sleep in a fortress of demonic stuffed animals. They are works of art."
"Whoa," Benji breathed, staring at the screen. "That three-headed dog is actually huge."
"Right?" Kat beamed, swiping to a close-up of the Cerberus. "His name is Fluffy. He’s incredibly soft."
The tension that had paralyzed Aerion began to thaw, cracking apart like ice under a sudden, blazing sun. The judgmental boy at the back had closed his mouth, looking at the photos with grudging respect.
"I mean, I'm eleven and I still have my Build-A-Bear," Chloe, a quiet girl with heavily winged eyeliner, murmured defensively, crossing her arms. "He has a Darth Vader costume."
"I've got a extra large blue shark from IKEA," Leo shrugged casually, snapping another pastel. "Takes up half my bed. My mum tries to throw it out every year and I won't let her. Sharks are top tier."
"See?" Kat grinned, pocketing her phone and looking around the group. "Soft things are great. The world is a hard, sharp, absolute bastard of a place most of the time. If holding onto a stuffed dragon or a giant IKEA shark gives you a bit of serotonin, you hold onto it. Anyone who mocks you for finding comfort is just miserable and jealous that they don't have a giant shark to cuddle."
She looked directly at Aerion when she said it. Her eyes were fierce, protective, and entirely validating.
She had taken the weapon right out of the bullies' hands and dismantled it before they could even swing it. She had normalized it so completely, so effortlessly, that the entire concept of being 'too old' for a stuffed animal vanished from the room.
Aerion let out a long, shaky breath, the crushing weight lifting off his lungs. He wasn't weird. He wasn't a baby. He was just a kid in a hard world, holding onto a dragon.
Kat suddenly clapped her hands together, a brilliant, chaotic idea clearly striking her.
"Right! Listen up, you lot! Turn the music down for a second!" Kat shouted, her voice echoing across the large classroom.
A student by the computer quickly lowered the volume of the Dove Cameron track. The rustling of paper and the low chatter stopped as the thirty students turned to look at their eccentric teacher.
"I have decided on your homework for the weekend," Kat announced grandly, pacing back and forth behind her desk. "And since I am a benevolent dictator, it is not a written essay."
A few kids cheered quietly.
"For our double period on Friday," Kat continued, pointing a finger at the crowd, "I want every single one of you to bring in an object from home. But not just any object. I want you to bring in something you absolutely adore. A plushie, a teddy, a weird figurine, a strange rock you found on the beach, a football trophy—I don't care what it is. If you love it, and it brings you comfort, bring it in."
"What are we doing with them, miss?" Sal asked, leaning forward on her stool.
"We," Kat grinned, a wicked sparkle in her eye, "are going to set up a still-life arrangement in the center of the room. We are going to build a mountain of your favorite things, and we are going to spend two hours drawing it. And while we draw, we are going to have a highly civilized tea party. I will bring the good biscuits. The chocolate-covered ones."
The room erupted into genuine, excited chatter. A still-life tea party with their favorite things was infinitely better than copying fruit bowls out of a textbook. It was chaotic, it was personal, and it was entirely Kat.
"Understood?" Kat called out over the noise. "Bring your objects on Friday! Now get back to work, you gremlins!"
The music swelled back up, and the students eagerly turned back to their canvases and sketchpads, immediately launching into discussions about what they were going to bring.
The small group around Kat’s desk dispersed. Leo dragged his black construction paper back to his designated beanbag in the corner, and Sal and Benji moved to an easel near the sink.
Aerion stayed where he was, pressed against the radiator.
The excitement of the homework assignment hadn't touched him. Instead, a cold ache had settled deep in his stomach.
He waited until the immediate area around the desk was clear, and Kat was busy sorting through a tangled box of charging cables.
Aerion took a hesitant step forward. "Miss Kat?"
Kat looked up, tossing a frayed cord back into the box. Her smile was soft and immediate. "Yeah, Duck? What's up?"
Aerion looked down at his scuffed uniform shoes, his hands twisting together inside the oversized pocket of the tie-dye hoodie. His throat felt incredibly tight, the words struggling to push past the lump of grief.
"I can't bring him," Aerion whispered, his voice cracking violently on the last word.
Kat stopped what she was doing instantly. She stepped out from behind the desk, closing the distance between them, and knelt down so she was at eye level with the ten-year-old. The manic, chaotic energy was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, intense focus.
"Why not, chuck?" Kat asked gently, her voice barely louder than the music. "Are you worried it’ll get ruined? Because I promise you, I will keep it in my locked drawer until—"
"No," Aerion cut her off, shaking his head miserably. A single, hot tear spilled over his eyelashes, tracing a clean path down his cheek. He swiped at it furiously, hating how weak he felt. "I can't bring him because I don't have him. My dad took him away."
Kat’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her face. "Took him away? Why?"
"Because I got expelled," Aerion choked out, the admission feeling like poison on his tongue. He had to tell her the truth. He had to let her know how bad he actually was. "I was expelled from St. Jude's on Friday. And when I got home... my dad had ordered the house manager to strip my room. They took my TV, my games, my books. They took everything. And they took my dragon. They locked it in the basement. Daeron—my older brother—he tried to get it back for me, but they said no. My dad said I was too old for it anyway, and that I was grounded indefinitely. I don't have anything to bring."
The silence between them felt heavy, suffocating.
Aerion kept his eyes glued to the floor, waiting for her to agree with his father. Waiting for her to tell him that actions had consequences, and that if he had just behaved himself, he wouldn't be in this situation.
But Kat didn't say any of that.
Kat’s face underwent a terrifying, instantaneous transformation. The warm, eccentric art teacher vanished. For a split second, Aerion saw pure, unadulterated fury flash in her bright eyes. It was a cold, sharp anger, entirely directed at the billionaire CEO she had never even met.
He took a ten-year-old boy's comfort object? Kat thought, her jaw clenching so tightly her teeth ground together. For a behavioral expulsion? What kind of draconian, emotionally stunted bastard strips a child's bedroom bare over a school incident?
She breathed out a slow, measured breath through her nose, expertly masking the violent string of curses she wanted to scream. She couldn't let Aerion see how angry she was; he would internalize it, assume he was the cause of her rage.
Kat reached out, gently placing a warm, paint-stained hand on Aerion’s shoulder.
"Aerion," Kat said softly, her voice incredibly steady and firm. "Look at me."
Aerion slowly raised his head, his violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Don't you worry about it, Duck," Kat said, offering him a fierce, determined smile that reached all the way to her eyes. "You are going to have your dragon for the tea party."
Aerion sniffled, wiping his nose on the sleeve of the hoodie. "How? Davis won't give him back without Dad's permission. And Dad won't listen to me."
"He doesn't have to listen to you," Kat winked, a wicked, conspiratorial spark returning to her expression. "He has to listen to me. I'm his teacher."
Aerion blinked, confused. "What are you going to do?"
"I am going to send a very official, highly professional, heavily worded email to your father and your nanny," Kat explained, her mind already drafting the exact phrasing. "I am going to inform them that it is a strict, mandatory, graded requirement for your Arts and Humanities curriculum that you bring in a specific object of personal significance for an intensive still-life module. I will tell them that failure to provide the object will result in an immediate failing grade for your first week."
Aerion’s mouth dropped open slightly.
"Rich, strict parents who care about academic standing absolutely hate failing grades," Kat smirked, tapping her temple. "It is the ultimate trump card. They can't punish you by withholding the dragon if it means you fail a class. It’s an excuse no strict parent can ignore. I’ll make it sound so incredibly academic, they’ll be begging you to take the plushie to school."
Aerion stared at her, utterly overwhelmed.
He had spent the entire weekend begging, screaming, and crying for his father to listen to him. He had fought the household staff. Daeron had tried to intervene. All of it had failed. His family was a brick wall of stubbornness and cold authority.
And Kat, this tiny, chaotic woman in a Care Bears hoodie who had known him for less than six hours, had just effortlessly scaled the wall and thrown him a rope. She wasn't just offering him a safe space; she was actively fighting for him.
The dam broke.
Aerion let out a choked, watery sob, entirely unable to hold back the rush of emotion. He didn't care that he was in a classroom full of older kids. He didn't care about Targaryen pride. He stepped forward and threw his small arms around Kat’s neck, burying his face into her shoulder, hugging her tightly.
Kat didn't hesitate. She immediately wrapped her arms around his small frame, hugging him back with fierce, maternal warmth, resting her chin on top of his silver hair.
"I've got you, chuck," Kat murmured softly, entirely ignoring the fact that she was currently holding a crying billionaire's son in the middle of a public school. "I'll get him back for you. I promise."
"Thank you," Aerion sobbed into her hoodie, his small hands gripping the fabric tightly. "Thank you so much."
They stayed like that for a long moment, the pulsing bass of the alternative rock music covering the sound of Aerion’s quiet tears. Kat simply rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles until the shaking eventually stopped.
When Aerion finally pulled back, he hastily wiped his face with his sleeves, his cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and profound relief.
Kat didn't draw attention to the tears. She didn't make a big deal out of it. She shifted gears smoothly, completely normalizing the moment.
"Right then," Kat clapped her hands together, standing back up and offering him a bright, easy smile. "Emotional crisis averted, diplomatic emails to be drafted later. Now, the most important question of the afternoon: Tea? Coffee? Hot choccy?"
Aerion took a deep, shuddering breath, the weight in his chest entirely gone. He offered her a watery, genuine smile. "Tea, please? Like you made it this morning."
"Builder's tea, splash of milk, two sugars coming right up," Kat saluted playfully. She turned her back to the classroom and shouted over the music. "Right, you gremlins! I am making a brew run! Who wants what? Shout 'em out!"
The classroom erupted into a chaotic chorus of demands.
"Hot chocolate, miss! With the little marshmallows!"
"Coffee, Kat! Black! I'm dying over this essay!"
"Tea! Three sugars!"
Kat laughed, waving her hands as she walked toward the cluttered tea station in the corner, immediately setting the kettle to boil and grabbing an armful of mismatched ceramic mugs.
Aerion stood by the radiator, feeling entirely untethered, but in a good way. He didn't know what to do with his hands.
"Oi, Targaryen!"
Aerion turned. Leo was sitting on a paint-splattered beanbag in the corner, surrounded by Sal, Benji, and a few other kids from lunch. He was waving a neon pink chalk pastel in the air.
"Come over here!" Leo shouted over the music. "Come show me how to draw those wyvern wings! I keep making them look like deformed chicken nuggets!"
Aerion smiled, walking over to the group. He dropped to his knees on the linoleum floor, pulling himself onto the edge of the beanbag.
Leo pushed the sheet of black construction paper toward him, offering him a handful of neon pastels. "Show me the anatomy, dragon master."
For the next half hour, Aerion was completely absorbed. He took the pink pastel, ignoring the chalky dust that immediately coated his fingers, and began to sketch the skeletal structure of a bat wing over Leo's drawing. He explained the joints, the membrane, how the claws would attach.
It was messy. It was entirely unstructured. Benji was accidentally leaning his elbow into Sal's charcoal sketch, Sal was complaining loudly, and Leo was trying to blend neon blue and pink pastels with his bare thumbs, resulting in a vibrant, chaotic smear across the paper.
Aerion’s hands were stained with chalk. He had an accidental smudge of purple across his cheek from where he had scratched an itch. At St. Jude’s, such a mess would have resulted in being sent to the washroom to scrub his hands raw. Here, it was a badge of honor.
A few minutes later, Kat appeared beside their beanbag fortress, carefully balancing a tray loaded with steaming mugs.
"Delivery for the goblin corner," Kat announced, setting the tray down on a clear patch of floor. She handed Aerion his yellow sun mug, the tea perfectly brewed. "There you go, Duck. Careful, it's hot. If anyone's is wrong, shout up and you can swap with someone, or I can go remake it. I am not a trained barista, so lower your expectations."
"Thanks, miss!" the group chorused, eagerly grabbing their respective drinks.
Aerion wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip. It was sweet, milky, and perfect.
He watched over the rim of his mug as Kat continued her rounds, delivering drinks and checking on the students.
She walked over to the far wall, where a group of kids were standing in front of a half-finished mural of a city skyline at sunset. They were painting directly onto the plaster.
Kat didn't just stand back and offer empty praise. She walked right up to the wall, pointing out the perspective of the buildings, suggesting a darker shade of orange for the shadows. One of the students laughed, handing Kat a thick paintbrush.
Kat didn't hesitate. She kicked her scuffed sneakers off, hopped up to sit cross-legged on an empty, paint-splattered desk pushed against the wall, and started painting alongside them, her red space buns bobbing as she added a streak of fiery crimson to the sky.
Aerion sat on the beanbag, surrounded by neon pastels and kids who actually wanted to hear what he had to say, drinking a cup of tea made exactly the way he liked it.
He looked at the chaotic, fiercely protective woman painting on the wall, and the realization washed over him like a warm wave.
His father had sent him to King's Row Academy as a punishment. He had intended to break Aerion’s spirit, to force him into compliance through hardship and isolation in a 'hell pit'.
But Maekar had made a life-altering miscalculation.
He hadn't thrown Aerion to the wolves. He had inadvertently handed him a map, pointed him down a bright yellow brick road, and led him straight to the only place in the world where he actually belonged.
The heavy bass of the alternative rock playlist had mellowed into a softer, acoustic indie track.
For the last forty-five minutes, Aerion had existed in a state of absolute, unbothered peace. He was covered in neon chalk dust, his fingers stained a vibrant pink, sitting on a beanbag and debating the aerodynamic logic of dragon wings with three others who actually cared about his opinion.
It was a feeling he wanted to bottle and keep forever.
"Right, you lot! Ten minutes to the bell!" Kat’s voice suddenly rang out, cutting through the low hum of chatter and music. She had abandoned the wall mural and was standing by the sinks, aggressively scrubbing a paintbrush under the tap. "Wrap it up! Lids back on the paints, brushes in the jars, and for the love of all that is holy, please do not wipe your chalky hands on the walls!"
A collective, theatrical groan rose from the thirty students in the room.
"I mean it, Benji, put the charcoal down!" Kat pointed a soapy finger at the boy sitting next to Aerion. "And if anyone wants their planners written in day, chuck them on my desk now or forever hold your peace!"
At St. Jude’s, the end of the day was marked by rigid order. Desks had to be aligned perfectly. Bags packed in absolute silence. And a teacher asking for a planner was akin to a death sentence—it meant a demerit, a detention note, or a scathing letter home to your parents about your poor posture or lack of focus.
Aerion watched as several students actually scrambled to dig through their bags, pulling out their cheap, spiral-bound planners. They didn't look terrified. They looked eager. They casually tossed the little books onto the center of Kat’s paint-splattered desk.
"What does she write in them?" Aerion asked quietly, leaning over to Leo.
Leo was furiously scrubbing at a patch of blue pastel on his jeans. "Whatever you need her to, mate. Sometimes it's just a note to your folks saying you did a good job so they get off your back. Sometimes it's the homework. Sometimes she just draws a really cool doodle in the margins. It's proof that you survived the day."
Aerion looked down at his own backpack tucked under a nearby desk. He thought about his father. He thought about the icy silence that awaited him at the Targaryen estate, and the certainty that Maekar would ask his tutors for a report on Aerion's behavior. If Aerion came home empty-handed, his father would assume the worst. He would assume Aerion had spent the day setting fires or starting fights.
Aerion scrambled up from the beanbag, his chalk-stained fingers fumbling with the leather straps of his bag. He pulled out the cheap, empty planner the miserable receptionist had shoved through the glass window that morning.
He walked over to Kat’s desk and carefully placed his blank planner on top of the small pile.
Kat walked over, drying her hands on a stained rag she kept looped through the belt of her shorts. She hopped up onto her chair, pulling a bright purple gel pen from behind her ear.
"Right, let's see what damage we've got today," she murmured to herself, pulling the first planner toward her.
Aerion lingered by the edge of the desk, his heart beating a little faster. He watched her work. Kat didn't use a generic stamp or a pre-printed sticker. She opened each book and took her time, her tongue poking out slightly from the corner of her mouth in concentration. She wrote a few sentences in each one, her handwriting a chaotic, looping scrawl that matched her personality perfectly.
When she finally reached the bottom of the pile, she picked up Aerion’s blank, brand-new planner.
Aerion held his breath. He had missed his first two classes. He had hidden in her room. He had technically broken the rules by not attending English and Maths. She had covered for him, but what if she put it in writing? What if his father saw that he had skipped?
Kat flipped to the very first page. She didn't look up at him. She just clicked her purple pen and started writing.
Aerion stood on his tiptoes, trying to read the looping letters upside down.
To Mr. Targaryen Guardian, Kat wrote in bold, confident strokes. Aerion has had an absolutely brilliant first day at King’s Row. He integrated seamlessly into the form, showed incredible kindness to his peers, and demonstrated a remarkable, advanced knowledge of historical mythology during our afternoon session. He is a joy to have in class. I look forward to seeing him thrive here.
Aerion stared at the page, a painful lump forming in his throat.
She completely skipped over the fact that he had been practically catatonic with panic all morning. She omitted his absence from his first two periods entirely. She didn't mention the expulsion, the behavior, or the stiff, scratchy uniform he had abandoned in her cupboard. She painted a picture of a successful, happy, incredibly smart boy.
She was handing him a shield to take home to his father.
Kat didn't stop there. She dropped down two lines and underlined the next section heavily.
MANDATORY HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT: For our upcoming double-block Still Life module, it is a strict curriculum requirement that Aerion brings in an object of deep personal significance from home by Friday. Aerion has selected his childhood dragon plush. Failure to provide this specific object will result in an automatic failing grade for the module, as it is integral to the emotional mapping portion of his assessment. Please ensure he has it for his next lesson.
It sounded so incredibly official. It sounded like the kind of high-level, elite educational jargon that Maekar Targaryen respected and feared in equal measure. Emotional mapping portion of his assessment. It was absolute nonsense, but it was brilliant nonsense.
Kat signed her name with a dramatic flourish, snapped the planner shut, and handed it back to Aerion with a sharp, secret wink.
"There you go, Duck," Kat said softly, her voice pitched so only he could hear. "Airtight. He can't argue with the curriculum."
Aerion took the planner, clutching it tightly to his chest. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much."
"Don't mention it," Kat grinned, standing up from her desk just as the loud, grating buzzer sounded through the school, signaling the end of the day.
The classroom erupted. Bags were zipped, chairs were scraped back, and the sudden, frantic energy of freedom flooded the room.
Kat moved to stand right by the wooden door, holding it open. She didn't stand there to act as a security guard checking uniforms; she stood there to say goodbye.
Aerion stepped back, grabbing his coat from the cubby and shrugging it on over his borrowed tie-dye hoodie. He watched the dismissal ritual unfold in complete fascination.
"You did great work today, Chloe, loved the shading on that skull," Kat said, offering the quiet girl a bright high-five as she walked past.
"See you tomorrow, miss!" a boy shouted, bumping his fist against Kat's extended knuckles.
"Don't forget to text Ozzie and tell him the homework, Leo!" Kat called out, reaching out to affectionately ruffle Leo's messy brown hair as he bounded out the door.
"Will do, K! See ya, Aerion!" Leo shouted over his shoulder, disappearing down the hall.
Every single student got an acknowledgment. A pat on the shoulder, a fist bump, a quick compliment on their art. They gave her quick side-hugs or waved frantically. They loved her. It was entirely, blindingly obvious that this chaotic, messy woman was the emotional anchor for half the kids in the building.
Finally, the classroom was empty, save for Aerion and Kat.
Aerion stood by his desk, his bag slung over his shoulder, the purple ink of his planner burning a hole in his pocket.
Kat turned back to him, resting her hands on her hips. She looked around the wildly messy room. Desks were pushed out of place, chalk dust coated the floor in a fine neon powder, and the sink was splattered with murky grey water.
At St. Jude’s, Aerion would have been forced to stay back and scrub the room spotless with a toothbrush for the crime of dropping a pencil.
Kat just let out a long, theatrical sigh and waved a dismissive hand at the chaos. "That is entirely tomorrow Kat's problem. Today Kat is clocking off."
Aerion giggled softly. "Do you have to clean it all yourself?"
"Nah, the cleaners come through around six," Kat said, walking over to the back of the room. She grabbed a set of keys from her pocket. "But I try to make it look like a bomb hasn't completely gone off in here. Come here a sec, Aerion."
Aerion walked over to where Kat was standing near a heavy, reinforced metal door tucked between two large storage cupboards.
"So, you know how we walked through the entire maze of the school this morning to get to the front gates?" Kat asked, gesturing to the metal door. "This is the fire exit for the art wing. It leads directly out to the staff car park at the side of the building. If you want, you can have your driver drop you off and pick you up right here at this door. Saves you having to wade through the absolute madness of the main courtyard every morning."
Aerion’s eyes lit up. He wouldn't have to face the terrifying, shoving crowds. He wouldn't have to walk past Simone the miserable receptionist. He could just slip right into the safety of Kat's room.
"Can I really?" he asked eagerly.
"Course you can," Kat smiled, unlocking the heavy deadbolt. "I'm always in my room by seven-thirty anyway.... Or try to be, drinking my body weight in coffee. Just knock. Some the other kids come through that way as well"
"I... I think my driver is waiting out front today, though," Aerion realized, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Thomas said he'd park on the main street."
"No worries," Kat said cheerfully, grabbing her oversized canvas tote bag and swinging it over her shoulder. "I'll walk you out front. Then I'll loop back around to my car. Make sure you don't get trampled by the herd."
"Yes, please," Aerion agreed instantly. He didn't want to navigate the yellow brick road alone.
Kat locked the back door securely, and the two of them walked out into the main hallway, Kat pulling her classroom door shut behind them and locking it with a sharp click.
They turned toward the glass-enclosed walkway. The yellow-painted floor stretched out before them, bright and obnoxious in the late afternoon sun.
Kat suddenly stopped, turning to Aerion with a wildly mischievous glint in her eyes. She bent her elbow, extending her arm out toward him like an exaggerated, aristocratic gentleman offering a lady a dance.
"Shall we, Mr. Targaryen?" Kat asked formally, her British accent thick and theatrical.
Aerion stared at her arm, a grin breaking across his face. He didn't hesitate. He reached out and hooked his small arm through hers.
"We shall," Aerion agreed.
Kat let out a loud, delighted laugh. And right there, in the middle of a public school hallway, the ten-year-old heir and the twenty-something alternative art teacher linked arms and began to skip aggressively down the yellow brick road.
"Follow the yellow brick road!" Kat sang out at the top of her lungs, her trainers thudding against the floor.
"Follow the yellow brick road!" Aerion echoed, his voice ringing out clearly, entirely unburdened by the expectations of his last name. He felt ridiculous. He felt light. He felt like a kid.
As they skipped past the double doors of the yard, the door swung open.
Markl stepped out, wiping a streak of clay off his handsome face. He stopped dead, staring at the sight of the tiny pierced woman and the silver-haired boy aggressively skipping past him.
Markl threw his head back and let out a booming, echoing laugh. "You are absolutely insane, Kat!" he called after them.
Without missing a beat, and without breaking her skip, Kat raised her free hand into the air and cheerfully flipped Markl off over her shoulder.
Markl just laughed harder, shaking his head and retreating back to his studio.
Aerion was giggling so hard he could barely breathe. He had never seen an adult flip another adult off in a professional setting. It was the most wonderfully chaotic place on earth.
They unlinked arms when they reached the dull, beige linoleum of the main building, walking side-by-side through the thinning crowds. Everywhere they went, students and staff called out to Kat.
"See ya, Kat!"
"Have a good one, miss!"
"Bye, Aerion!" Sal shouted from down a side corridor.
Aerion waved back eagerly. He felt like a celebrity by association. Being 'with Kat' was like walking around with a protective, impenetrable forcefield. No one looked at his hair. No one questioned his eyes. He was just one of Kat's gremlins.
They pushed through the front doors and out into the crisp, biting chill of the late afternoon air. The front courtyard was mostly empty now, the wild stampede having long since dispersed onto the surrounding streets and toward the bus stops.
Aerion’s eyes scanned the street lined with battered sedans and rust-spotted hatchbacks.
It didn't take long to spot his ride.
Idling smoothly against the curb, sticking out like an expensive, polished sore thumb amidst the urban decay, was the sleek, pitch-black Targaryen town car.
Standing by the rear door, looking incredibly tense and anxious, was Thomas the driver.
Aerion’s stomach did a complicated, nervous flip. The magic of the yellow brick road was ending. Reality was sitting right there, waiting to take him back to the silent, sterile mansion and the cold fury of his father.
"There's my car," Aerion said quietly, pointing a chalk-stained finger toward Thomas.
Kat followed his gaze, her sharp eyes taking in the pristine, hundred-thousand-pound vehicle and the nervous posture of the driver. She nodded slowly, hitching her canvas bag higher on her shoulder.
"Right then," Kat said, her tone shifting seamlessly from chaotic art teacher to fiercely protective guardian. "I think I'll just have a quick word with him, yeah?"
Aerion swallowed hard. "Okay."
They walked across the cracked asphalt toward the curb.
Thomas spotted them approaching. He immediately noticed the stark differences in his young charge. Aerion had left the car that morning wearing a pristine, expensive uniform. Now, he was wearing a dark grey and red tie-dye hoodie, faded black jeans, and his hands were coated in neon pink dust.
Thomas let out a heavy, incredibly weary sigh, his shoulders slumping. He squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second. Lord have mercy, the driver thought miserably. He's been in a fight. He's ruined his uniform. He's joined a gang. Mr. Targaryen is going to fire me on the spot.
Thomas braced himself for the worst as the tiny pierced, red-haired woman marched right up to him.
"Hiya!" Kat chirped brightly, extending a paint-stained hand. "I’m Kat. I’m Aerion’s form tutor and art teacher."
Thomas blinked, cautiously shaking her hand. She had a grip like a dockworker. "Thomas. I am... I am his driver. Is there a problem, Miss? Did he... did an incident occur?"
Kat didn't just answer him; she launched into a, rapid-fire barrage of fast-paced, thickly accented British slang that hit the older man like a verbal hurricane.
"Problem? God, no, absolutely zero problems, the lad had an absolute blinder of a day!" Kat beamed, speaking at a dizzying speed. "He’s brilliant, absolutely top tier. Breathed right through the baseline assessments, practically taught my afternoon module on mythology, and he’s a natural on the drums. Cooky Stool is obsessed with him. Right, so, two quick things you need to pass up the chain of command for me."
Thomas stared at her, entirely wide-eyed, struggling to process the sheer volume of words. "I... a blinder?"
"First thing," Kat barreled on, gesturing to Aerion’s borrowed clothes. "Strict health and safety policy in the art wing. The standard polos are a fire hazard around the kilns, and they restrict mobility during large-scale canvas work. So, he’s to wear his own clothes from now on. Casual, comfortable, things he can get paint on. Non-negotiable, it’s in the risk assessment."
"A... a fire hazard?" Thomas stammered, looking at the stiff white polo shirt folded neatly inside Aerion’s open backpack.
"Massive," Kat nodded sagely, lying through her teeth with conviction. "Second thing. I’ve written a very important note in his planner for his father. We are doing an intensive, emotionally mapped still-life module starting Friday. Mandatory curriculum requirement. Aerion must bring in his childhood dragon plushie for the assignment. If he doesn't have it, it's an automatic fail for the term, and the school board gets terribly fussy about failing grades this early in the year. You make sure his dad reads that planner, yeah? Life or death, that dragon."
Thomas looked from the tiny, intense woman to Aerion.
Aerion had both hands clamped firmly over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent, suppressed laughter. He had never seen anyone bulldoze Thomas before. The driver looked like he had just been run over by a very colorful, very fast truck.
"I... I will ensure the message is relayed to Mr. Targaryen immediately," Thomas promised, sounding slightly dazed. "A... a dragon plushie. For a mandatory assessment."
"You're a diamond, Tom," Kat grinned, clapping the bewildered driver firmly on the shoulder.
She turned her attention back to Aerion, her chaotic energy softening instantly. She didn't treat him like a fragile piece of glass, and she didn't treat him like a delinquent.
Kat reached out and affectionately ruffled Aerion’s silver-white hair, messing it up even further. "You did so good today, Duck. I'm properly proud of you. And I look forward to having you in my class for the rest of the year."
Aerion looked up at her. He looked at the winged eyeliner, the silver septum ring, and the bright, fierce kindness in her eyes. He thought about the yellow brick road, the tea, and the way she had actively fought a billionaire CEO to get a stuffed animal back for a ten-year-old boy.
Aerion didn't think about his aristocratic manners. He didn't care that he was in public.
He stepped forward, throwing his arms around Kat’s waist, burying his face into the soft fabric of the Care Bears hoodie. It was the same easy, unburdened affection he had seen her students give her all day.
Thomas actually gasped, taking a half-step back. Targaryens did not hug. They certainly did not hug the staff.
Kat didn't miss a beat. She wrapped her arms around Aerion, hugging him tightly, resting her chin on his head. "See you tomorrow, Aerion," she murmured softly. "Back door, remember? Save you the walk."
"See you tomorrow, Kat," Aerion whispered back, his voice thick but happy.
He pulled away, offering her one last smile, before turning and sliding into the plush, pristine leather interior of the town car. Thomas hurriedly shut the door behind him, sealing Aerion into the quiet, soundproof luxury of the vehicle.
Outside the window, Aerion watched Kat go.
She didn't just walk away quietly. She was loud, theatrical, and dramatic. She shouted goodbyes across the parking lot to a group of older students smoking near the bike racks, waved wildly at Mrs. Higgins—who offered a stiff, disapproving nod in return—and threw a peace sign at the caretaker sweeping the steps.
Aerion rolled down the tinted window just a fraction, wanting to watch her leave. He expected her to walk toward the bus stop, or maybe unlock a battered, brightly painted old hatchback covered in bumper stickers.
Instead, Kat strolled casually toward the far corner of the staff parking lot, pulling a set of keys from her pocket.
Aerion’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Sitting in the VIP spot of the dingy, concrete lot was a car that looked entirely alien in this neighborhood. It was a pristine, vintage, jet-black Bentley Continental. It was a car that cost more than most of the houses on this street combined. It was the kind of car his Uncle Baelor drove.
Kat nonchalantly hit the unlock button on her fob. The heavy headlights flashed.
Aerion tilted his head, his brow furrowing in deep, profound confusion. What? How did a public school art teacher who wore tie-dye and collected demonic plushies afford a vintage luxury car?
Kat pulled open the heavy driver's side door and slid into the plush leather seat. The engine roared to life with a deep, guttural, expensive purr that rattled the loose gravel in the lot.
Before putting the car in gear, Kat rolled the driver's side window all the way down. She casually placed a cigarette between her lips, sparking a silver lighter and taking a long drag. At the exact same moment, she cranked the volume on the car’s stereo system. The pulsing bass of an aggressive alternative rock track exploded from the Bentley’s speakers, completely shattering the quiet afternoon air.
With a squeal of expensive tires, Kat slammed the car into gear and sped out of the parking lot, a cloud of grey smoke and loud music trailing in her wake as she disappeared down the street.
Aerion sat in the back of the town car, his jaw hanging slightly open,mesmerized.
In the driver's seat, Thomas was staring blankly at the empty spot where the Bentley had just been, his hands gripping the steering wheel in a white-knuckled vice.
"Master Aerion," Thomas said finally, his voice entirely hollow, staring blankly out the windshield. "What in the bloody hell is going on at this school?"
Aerion let out a bright, unrestrained laugh, pulling the red and grey hoodie tighter around his shoulders. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the drumming schedule and the folded piece of paper with Ruby’s number on it.
"I don't know, Thomas," Aerion smiled, settling back into the leather seat. "But I think I’m going to like it.