"You're in your drink, Ser." I said, turning a side eye at Lysa, who seemed conflicted about the whole thing. I understood. On one hand, this son of a bitch was threatening me for... talking to Meera Stark – not sure why, but that was that. He was angry at me, but I was pretty sure the guy was just looking for a reason to start throwing hands. Fair. On the other hand, Lysa granted each of them guest rights, which were held sacred across the Seven Kingdoms, especially in the North. So, unless he really started a pretty big mess, I could kill him and I honestly didn't want to. The dude was just drunk – not a Wildling or an Ironborn. He didn't deserve to die just for the crime of existing in my vicinity. "Remember that which the North holds sacred, bitch."

Meera stepped in between us. The Stark woman pushed the bitch away from me, towards the other warriors who were far more level-headed, I figured. Honestly, I didn't understand why the dude even bothered with that; it's not like I didn't just make my little display of personal power. Even without my magic, my physical stats that got carried over meant I was probably about as strong as freaking Captain America – the MCU one, not the comic book version. And, yeah, I could fold the guy no problem. "Rorik, don't dishonor your vows. Sit down, enjoy your meal, and drink with your fellows. Do not disgrace House Stark with your behavior."

"He consorts with demons, my lady!" The man pointed an accusing finger right at me. Was this guy from White Harbor? That sort of opinion usually only came from the dudes who believed in the Faith of the Seven. Those who worshiped the Old Gods, like everyone else in the North, I figured, was more open to the idea of magic and sorcery – even if my version of it would freak them the fuck out. "Guest Rights are reserved for men – not monsters wearing the skin of one!"

Hmm, he had a point there. At this point, was I even still human or was I closer in stature to the Others, just lacking the cold and white skin?

Still, there was something about this whole mess that made no sense to me. I stepped forward, briefly laying a hand on Meera Stark's shoulder. "Dude, what are you even trying to do? Are you hoping to die; is that it? Do you want the dead to rip you apart at my command, huh? I don't get it; why try to start a fight with me, of all people? It can't possibly be because I spoke to the beautiful lady Meera, here, right?"

"You consort with demons!" The man, Rorik, screamed again. Meera Stark stepped aside with a shake of her head. "I challenge you to a duel, Sorcerer! Prove your worth as a man! No tricks! No magic! Just steel!"

All eyes turned to me, though Lysa closed hers and sighed. And, for the life of me I could not remember if Westeros had a dueling tradition or not. Or maybe it did and I just forgot, but this seemed more like a Braavosi Waterdancer thing. Still, I didn't give a flying fuck. I raised a brow. "Seriously? Yeah, I don't want to. Ask someone else, you grackle."

The room went even quieter, if that were possible. Meera Stark looked torn between amusement and frustration, while the other warriors exchanged uncertain glances. Ah, right, none of them knew what retard even meant. Silly me. Rorik's face twisted with rage.

"Coward!" he spat. I had to hand it to him; the dude was no longer swaying and staggering from the alcohol and he did look kind of ready for an actual fight. "You hide behind your dark arts because you know you're not a real man! Face me!"

I sighed, rubbing my temples. This was getting old fast. "Look, Rorik, right? I'm not going to indulge your drunken bravado. Go sit down before you do something you'll regret. Or before I end up doing something I really don't want to do."

But Rorik wasn't backing down. He drew his sword, the steel catching the light of the torches, casting an ominous gleam across the room. Gasps came from the crowd. The man kind of just broke Guest Rights by drawing steel at me. Oh, he was definitely still drunk, then. Rorik's face was red as he screamed once again. "Face me, Sorcerer! Or are you afraid to prove your worth?"

Before I could respond, Meera interjected, her voice like ice. Still, I saw it in her eyes: concern. She didn't want the old warrior to get himself killed. "Rorik, put your sword away. This is not the place for this. You dishonor yourself and House Stark with this..."

"No, Lady Stark," Rorik snarled, his eyes never leaving mine. Fair enough. This guy had platinum balls. He was idiot, but a brave one. "This... thing needs to be shown its place."

I looked at Lysa, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. She understood what needed to be done. Good. Because holy shit this guy was becoming annoying. After a moment, I sighed and shrugged. "Fine. Let's fight in the courtyard. But if you really wanna fight like a man then let's fight without weapons or armor. We use only our fists. Got a problem with that or are you gonna back out like a little bitch with your tail tucked between your legs?"

My reasoning was rather simple: there was far less of a risk of me accidentally killing the dude if I wasn't using an actual bladed weapon. Plus, it'd allow me to humiliate him without having to injure him too much. Again, Rorik was a religious nutjob, but he was neither a Wildling nor an Ironborn, which meant – all things considered – he probably wasn't a bad guy. But, if he annoyed me enough, however, well... at this point in time, I'm no longer a stranger to killing. Why should I be? I was the most powerful motherfucker on the entire planet.

Rorik's eyes narrowed. "Aye, I accept your challenge, Sorcerer."

Because I wanted to show off even more than I already did, I touched my [Zith Robes] and sent it straight into my [Bag of Holding], making it seem as if my clothes disappeared at touch, leaving me with only a pair of dark pants and boots. Shit it was cold here. But the gasps and wide eyes stopped me from shaking and making a fool of myself in front of everyone here. I might've forgotten about the fact that the [Zith Robes] essentially regulated my body's temperature perfectly so that I'd feel no discomfort no matter where I was, whether underneath the scorching deserts of Dorne or the biting cold of the Lands of Always Winter.

I did not miss the fact that both Lysa and Meera ogled me with barely-restrained gazes.

Heh. This form was hot as fuck, because I never would've gotten that kind of reaction if I'd been my old self.

Rorik barely flinched at my theatrics. The man's grip on his sword tightened before he threw it aside, the clang echoing in the now silent hall. He tore off his own armor, leaving him in a simple tunic and breeches. The guy was built, I'd give him that. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as he stepped forward, ready for a bare-knuckle brawl.

I motioned towards the door, and the crowd began to move outside, forming a loose circle in the courtyard. Torches were lit, casting flickering shadows across the space. The air was crisp, the night sky clear. I could see the stars winking down, as if they were eager spectators to the spectacle that was about to unfold – a spectacle of a fucking beatdown. The crowd formed a wide circle around us, including Lysa and her Household Guard with Halga, and Meera Stark and her warriors, many of whom did not look at all interested or amused by what was happening before them.

Hey, not my damn fault.

Rorik squared off against me, his fists raised. His face was set in a determined scowl, his breath coming out in visible puffs. He was a warrior through and through, and his eyes told me he wasn't about to back down. Fair enough. I had to respect his resolve, even if he was an idiot. My only dilemma now, I suppose, was weather or not I should end this quickly or draw out the fight and risk my nips falling off from the damn cold?

"Ready, Sorcerer?" he taunted, his voice a low growl. I could tell that he was similarly affected by the cold

I just smiled, flexing my fingers. "Let's dance, bitch."

The crowd held its breath as we circled each other. Rorik made the first move, lunging forward with a powerful right hook. I easily sidestepped, my reflexes far superior thanks to my carried-over physical stats. I landed a quick jab to his ribs, and he grunted, staggering back. Oh, I felt his bones rattling with those punches. And I really wasn't even trying. Huh... I realized right then and there that I honestly had no idea how strong I actually was.

Rorik's eyes blazed with anger. He came at me again, this time with more caution. He threw a series of punches, each one aimed at my head. I dodged and weaved, barely breaking a sweat. After a moment, Rorik made an all too telegraphed right straight. I surged forward and weaved under his fist and threw an attack of my own, right into his solar plexus. Food and drink and all sorts of nasty shit came spewing right out of his mouth as he fell to a knee onto the cold ground. I then grabbed him by the right ear and pulled his face straight onto the dirt, before grinning. "Had enough?"

I backed away as Rorik roared into the ground, bile and vomit spreading all over his face and beard. The rancid stench of alcohol and gastric juice filled the air. Ew. "Gross."

Rorik pushed himself onto his feet. He turned and charged at me, but I sidestepped again, tripping him up and sending him sprawling to the ground - again. The crowd gasped, some even laughed. I heard a few murmurs of approval from the crowd, many of whom were likely expecting me to cheat using sorcery, but were now finding themselves surprised by the fact that I, extraordinarily handsome man that I was, knew kung fu.

"Stay down, Rorik," Meera called, her voice tinged with both exasperation and concern. Yeah, that made sense. Rorik, man-child that he was, was losing this little fight like an absolute chump. "You're outmatched."

But Rorik wasn't listening. He scrambled to his feet, his pride not allowing him to concede. He should've done that. But he didn't. Because he was an idiot. No surprises there. He lunged at me one last time, and I decided it was time to end this farce. Before that, however, I was going to offer him one last chance. I raised a hand and caught his fist. "Rorik, admit defeat and this doesn't have to become painful."

"Never!" Rorik roared, trying to pull his hand away. I released my grasp and he stumbled back onto the ground. Dramatic. Just like a Telenovela. But how do I make this even more dramatic and nonsensical than it already was? I couldn't think of anything; so, I had my skeletons start doing the crab dance from Team Fortress 2. About a hundred eyebrows were raised and I was pretty sure one woman fainted.

Eh, good enough.

Rorik stood up again and, with a mighty roar, charged me yet again, likely hoping to perform a tackle, since he was physically more imposing than myself, even if I was a lot stronger. I didn't sidestep him, even if that would've been the smarter thing to do. Instead, I stepped forward, bent down, and surged up to grab him by the neck. I hoisted him up into the air. Rorik sputtered and kicked and struggled, but I held fast. Hmm... I was definitely a lot stronger than I thought I was, because Rorik was probably close to 90 kilograms and he didn't feel that heavy.

Rorik struggled, but it was futile. My fingers tightened as I spoke, my voice low and cold. For dramatic effect. "Yield, or I'll rip your head from your shoulders and turn the top of your skull into a damn dinner plate."

Nightfury chose that moment to arrive, his massive wings causing powerful gusts of wind as he came down from the sky and hovered above the castle, mouth wreathed in flame and eyes ablaze like bonfires. I then grinned as just about every single person around me, save for the natives of Bear Island began panicking. I grinned. "And I'll feed the rest of you to my dragon."

AN: Chapter 30 is out on (Pat)reon!