And as I watched, I became more and more sure of it. There was something happening there. His face was like the page of a book written in a language I didn't understand. But he wasn't mindless. He had his reasons. And I became possessed with knowing what they were. I began to spend inordinate amounts of time watching him. I would eat my lunch in the garden, chewing my mutton to the music of "khuun, khuun, khuun..." And when I wasn't watching him, I was thinking about him. Father droned on about the family legacy and I thought about Orson's beetles. I read the histories of Targaryen conquests. Did I hear dragon wings? No. I heard: Khuun, khuun, khuun. And I still couldn't figure out why he was doing it. And I had to know, because it was horrible, that all these beetles should be dying for no reason.
Every day around the world, men, women, and children are murdered by the score. Who gives a dusty fuck about a bunch of beetles--?
I know, I know. But still, it filled me with dread. Piles and piles of them, years and years of them. How many countless living crawling things smashed and dried out and returned to the dirt? In my dreams I found myself standing on a beach made of beetle husks stretching as far as the eye could see. I woke up crying, weeping for their shattered little bodies. I tried to stop Orson once.
He was twice your size.
He just pushed me aside with a "khuun" and kept on smashing. Every day...until that mule kicked him in the chest and killed him.
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