"No. I know perfectly well who I am, but you seem to have forgotten who you are." With this Greatjon went towards the wall and tore two of the axes down. For any other man, each one would have to be wielded with two hands, but in his, they looked almost too small. One he wanted to throw over to Bolton, but stopped when he was waved off. "What? Is the new champion of the First Men afraid? You are just a bloodless traitor who needs to be taken down a peg or ten."
Nobody spoke as a faint mist came from the small ring on Boltons right hand, coalescing into a white weirwood staff topped by a blade made from blue ice. When he spoke again, it was barely louder than a normal man spoke, but for him it seemed like shouting. "I am Roose of house Bolton, heir to the Blothrauth Kynmund of the Dreadlands." He grinned as he slowly lowered himself into a fighting stance.
"And I will carve these words into your flesh until you squeal them with the proper reverence."