“You eat meat, right?” Jason Momoa asks as we pass through his interim Toronto residence—a three-story Victorian—into the backyard, where two massive tomahawk rib-eyes hiss and smoke over a glowing grill.

“Here, grab one,” he says, snatching up the hunk of meat, childlike grin smeared across his signaturely hirsute face. The intense greeting seems medieval, classic Momoa—downright Dothraki—so I do as Khal Drogo instructs, holding up a smoldering, frenched rib bone just long enough for a selfie.

Checking the photo, Momoa issues the next directive. “We can’t post these,” he says poignantly. “You can see the houses behind us.” It’s odd to hear a man who embodies nomadic warlords and towering superheroes concede to such precaution. But inadvertently revealing your exact location to 16 million Instagram followers is a no-no, whether he’s hanging here or at his actual home in Los Angeles’ Topanga Canyon.

There are other pics that he’s more eager to share, namely of an antique Land Rover just secured in a swap for two vintage Harley-Davidson choppers, a rare trade from his collection. “I usually just hoard everything when it comes to bikes and trucks and cars.”

One might guess as much from the ’36, ’37, and ’39 Harley knuckleheads parked on the grounds. “Those are just my choppers. My other bikes are on the way here,” he admits. “I love them all—knuckles, pans, shovels. They’re all different, they all sound great, and they’re all fucking awesome.”

And though he craves the sound “when you kickstart the bike and the motor growls right back at you,” the self-proclaimed “gas and oil guy” knows it’s a guilty pleasure. As a fierce advocate for ocean health, he’s making the shift to electric. “A lot of my trucks have been converted into e-vehicles,” he says. “I run solar power, and I love Harley’s electric LiveWire. You twist the throttle and jump to 100 miles an hour in three or four seconds. It’s a whole different sport, and there ain’t nothin’ about it except—bravo!”