[It would be kind of rude to leave his coat on now, so Bard takes it off and drapes it over the back of a rickety-looking chair on his way to the kitchenette (which is honestly a full kitchen by his modest standards).]

Back home. The Master of Lake-town, who taxed us until we couldn't see straight; the dragon Smaug, who ransacked Dale and Erebor for all their treasures, as dragons do; and Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Erebor, who contracted the dragon-sickness and so refused to honor his debts to my people.

[As he talks, he finds a bowl in the cabinets and a spoon in a drawer and, lacking a ladle because apparently whoever used to live here didn't believe in such things, carefully pours himself some soup. He really is hungry after trudging through the snow all day, but even if he weren't it would be easier than acknowledging the way Mirena continues to look at him as if she knows his face.]