He watches, but politely, simply waiting for the conversation to resume. It's good stew -- as good as he remembers it. The sort of thing you want to come home to after a chilly autumn day's hunting in the Wolfswood.

Eventually he says, "It's Gage's soup. He was the cook here when I was a boy, but he was killed... I don't know. When the Ironborn took the place, or the Boltons. Can't say which. The cook now is skilled, but not the same."

Nothing is ever the same as it was when you were ten years old.