[What a letter jumble that was. Tolkien would have gone stiff as an Ent at the sound of it. He gives it a repeat just for solidity's sake.] Daenerys.

[Richie shakes his head.] Oh, no no — Ireland was a whole other country, across the sea. Lots of them moved to America, which is where I'm from, you've probably met a dozen or more of us by now, judging by statistics. One of the police officers when I was a kid, Mr. Nell, he was right out of the old country. I nicked his accent for giggles when I was about yea high. [He holds up a hand, indicating a child of that nebulous prepubescence, approximately ten to twelve.] I'd forgotten all about it until I made a visit home. Haven't been able to stop using it since I woke up here.

[The literalness might be lost in the light conversation, but it's believable as some ordinary forgetfulness. The truth was up until a few months ago, he wouldn't have remembered Mr. Nell any better than what was really waiting for them under the sewers. They had met him that grim summer, so he had been scrubbed from Richie's brain by force until those slumbering recollections were needed. And now that Richie was here, and It was up there — now that it seemed the power of his voices could work on more than one singular monster, Mr. Nell's prattle was living in him stronger than ever.

That would be a lot of nonsense to start off an introduction on, however, and not much of it is safe to share. He waves the matter off.] But I'm babbling. Where are you from, Miss Targaryen? What's your house, what's your sigil?

[Since she's putting such importance on the stuff, he may as well ask. With a fluorescent grin he adds:] Mine's the bald eagle.