On what could very well be one of the final days of his life, Tyrion still has no answer. In fact, the question has only intensified, as Tyrion and audience members alike watch the tale of the boy and the beetle play out in the form of the Mountain and the Red Viper. Just as Orson smashed those little bugs to bits, so too does Gregor Clegane squash Oberyn Martell's head like a juicy zit that's ready to pop — and squashing Tyrion's last chance to survive his trial in the process.
With one grotesque pop of a head, Game of Thrones sacrificed one of its sexiest pawns to date, and put the life of the show's de facto leading man in greater danger than ever before, as if that was even possible. And for what? So that the so-called Mountain That Rides, who has been played by three different actors in four seasons, could have his rock star moment? So we, the viewers, could be reminded of how dark and twisted a world Westeros is? So we can sweat it out another two weeks, waiting to see how Tyrion digs himself out of this deep pit of despair?
Maybe it's all of those things, but maybe it's something simpler. Maybe it's the mere fact that on Game of Thrones, you can win, you can die, and there is a middle-ground, despite what some have said — and that middle-ground is life, and its often meaningless, meandering nature, embodied by the randomness of the beetle.
Consider the beetle, and consider Jorah Mormont. Consider that the bug sometimes lives if the bigger boot allows it. But even then, for Jorah, life is a lonely ride out into the desert marked by exile and dishonor for crimes committed a lifetime ago.
Consider Sansa Stark. Consider that the Disney princess façade of seasons past has cracked wide open, producing a politically savvy self-preservationist in its wake — a beautiful butterfly with all the cunning of the conniving Littlefinger.
Consider Arya Stark. Consider that even an insect, twisted and prodded by the various cruelties of life, can laugh in the face of the final straw — because the alternative, to break down and cry, is far too much to consider.
Consider Theon Greyjoy, who barely even considers himself anymore, and can only obey. Consider him little more than a domesticated, flea-ridden dog under the thumb of his master, newly legitimized Ramsay Bolton. Consider all of Theon's awful atrocities over the years, and consider whether or not the sentence he now serves fits those crimes.
Consider the snow castle.
Two weeks ago, near the end of Mockingbird, Sansa sat and played in the snow, a child for the first time in ages, molding the falling white winter into something familiar: Winterfell, her old home in the great white north of Westeros. A shadow of its former self in reality, Winterfell thrives in Sansa's memory, rendered into the physical realm in nearly note-for-note, all but perfect detail.
In seconds, Sansa's dreams and dream world come crashing down, thanks to snotty Robin Arryn decimating the treasured snow castle for no real reason beyond "just because."
Sansa's annihilated snow castle and Tyrion's tale of Orson's beetles symbolize life at large, and the way Game of Thrones continues to unfold. George R.R. Martin, David Benioff, and D.B. Weiss are all Sansa, building beautiful castles in the snow. They are all Sweet Robin, smashing the castle with all of the horrific unpredictability of a temper tantrum. They are Orson Lannister, crushing bugs without discrimination — bugs like the Starks, and bugs like Oberyn Martell — because that's what bigger creatures do to smaller ones.
Tyrion, like everyone else on Game of Thrones, is nothing more than a beetle under the shadow of a falling boot. Can he find safe harbor before the shoe drops, or will he end up on the business end of Orson's boot, like so many other great beetles before him?
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