An under-chamber that no one in the long histories of Jon's two royal Houses had ever known existed.
"It didn't happen all at once." Harry said, almost to himself as he told his tale to the man that he was now bound to – if only in the loosest of senses. Honestly, if it wasn't for the spell Teddy had cast on both him and the tomb, Harry wouldn't have any autonomy to speak of once woken – it was certainly that outcome the Wizengamot had desired to occur. But thanks to his cub and his cub's spellwork as well as Harry's own allies among the magical races, he wasn't the slave or mindless automaton he should have been.
No.
Now he could make his own decisions about how much – or how little – he would help his, to put it bluntly no matter how it grated at his pride, his rescuer.
Harry knew much of the current generation and their woes thanks to a common visitor named "Benjen" who had come often – more often than any other save Teddy himself – to speak to the statue of his lost lover. It was thanks to this knowledge that he now knew who his rescuer was – the child of Benjen, who must have been a Stark as he visited the tomb, and a Targaryen Crown Prince. Making his rescuer the rightful Heir to the Iron Throne if he understood the way things worked in his new world.
"Your imprisonment?" Jon asked as he studied the various engravings on the walls as he followed at Harry's heels.
Harry made a vague noise of agreement.
"It took them years to manage it." He supplied. "More than a decade passed after my glorious," he rolled his eyes. "Defeat of Tom passed before I was locked in that coffin above our heads. Oh," he waved a hand. "It wasn't immediate by any means. There were some rumbles after the shock of the Battle calmed down but – for the most part – people were happy the war was once again over and they could go back to their lives. A friend of mine was in office," Harry smiled at the thought of Kingsley with his colorful robes sitting in the doom-and-gloom of the Wizengamot chambers trying to herd the cats of the old houses and the department heads into some sort of order. "And things were good." He shook his head in mourning for that too-brief golden age. "So very good."
"What happened?" Jon pried as they came around a bend and he lost his senses with a gasp as Harry flicked his wand and sent out a spell illuminating the under-chamber. "By the Gods."
"No." Harry laughed, correcting his new friend. "By the goblins. The same who helped prevent the worst parts of the spell I was placed under, with some help from my foster-son and the knowledge he had access to from our family library."
Jon didn't know what goblins might be but he knew what he saw – and that was breathtaking indeed.
For this under-chamber that Harry had led him down to – concealed by the very expensive and very heavy casket he had half-slumbered in – was as large as the great Hall of Winterfell. And filled from rough-hewn stone floor to the smooth-worn ceiling that showed signs of a stonemason's hammer and chisel along with the same gold and silver inlays, with piles and stacks and mountains of gold, silver, copper, and bronze; besides the metals Jon's eyes didn't automatically recognize. Weapons were mounted on the walls, the like of which he'd never seen. Bolts and spools were wound with the gleam of silk and the gilt of real-gold and real-silver thread and delicate gauzes, stands and racks draped with fine leather and furs and materials Jon couldn't even identify.
It was a treasure-trove to beggar even the gold-shitting Lannisters and their prosperous mines or the fine material merchants of Myr and Lys, Tyrosh and Volantis, Dorne and the Summer Isles.
There were even casks and crates that held untold treasures, shelves filled with books and tomes and scrolls – even the sparkle and splash of precious stones both cut and uncut.
Jon turned back to his companion when he'd had enough of goggling over the riches no one had ever known existed, only to find Harry was no longer at his side. Rather, while Jon was fiddling with a pile of golden coins and warning Ghost away from a cask of who-knew-what, Harry'd made his way over to a shadowed corner Jon had initially missed in his inspection of the trove. Moving closer, he saw a cloth-and-wood training dummy like those used by young boys just learning the sword or bow or axe.
In the time it'd taken his new royal friend to regain his senses and press for more answers from the enigmatic warrior, Harry had stripped himself down to his skin, giving himself a brisk rubdown with a cotton cloth bespelled both damp and warm, and then washed and re-braided his hair with a flick of his wand, followed by a drying spell.
Jon's eyes widened at the sight of him, a warm blush hidden by the low light of the chamber – and warming other places hidden by his restrictive leather and wool trousers. Harry was all golden-cream skin and ebony hair, jewel eyes hidden as he was turned to his task of stripping the clothes and armor from the dummy that had spent far-too-many-years waiting for this moment. But he wasn't perfection, like a pampered princeling such as Joffery nor unmarred by the war he'd fought and won. Jon's clever purple eyes spotted and catalogued more than one scar marring the otherwise unblemished skin as Harry quickly donned the finely spun wool leggings, undertunic, and socks, hiding himself from view.
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