She took in the scene as she ran towards it.

The Hound was losing – badly. One arm was limp at his side and he had just a dagger in his other hand, and he was swinging it wildly in front of him.

Very wildly. Probably because there were pits of blood where his eyes were supposed to be.

The Mountain looked like a pile of shit too – his helm and breastplate were gone, and his flesh was rotted, and he streamed black blood from a dozen places – but he thundered on as if he didn't care.

Clearly Needle wouldn't stop him. So instead Arya dove at him from behind, dove to the floor, hugging one of his legs with both arms and clamping her knees around the other. Screaming: "Sandor shove him!"

(Theon had taught this to her, as a little girl. It was a prank that the two of them sometimes played on Robb when he was being too serious.)

The Hound launched himself forward in a desperate tackle. With Arya holding the legs the Mountain couldn't step back to give ground, and both of them crashed to the floor.

They. Weighed. A. Ton. But she got out from under all the feet and stood up, and saw that the Hound was on top, trying to punch. Gregor was strangling him with both hands – and going to roll him off before long.

"Girl?" the Hound choked out around his brother's grip. "Can't-... see."

So she'd even the odds. She felt completely calm; now that Cersei was dead nothing could upset her. She barked "Hold still," because the last thing she needed was to get her head knocked off by her partner's own flailing, and darted in quick to jab her blade one, two into both the Mountain's eyes. It took just a second.

The Mountain roared and surged up, sending everybody flying. She scrambled to her feet, but the Hound was too slow. Gregor caught him and slugged him. Held him by the neck and slugged him again. Flung him to the floor, where he lay facedown and gasping.

When the Mountain bent to feel around for his victim on the ground, though, Arya brought a huge rock down on his head two-handed. It knocked him off balance and he went to a knee. She picked up another rock and smashed him again, from behind, and then leaped back. She couldn't risk getting grabbed; she wasn't sturdy like the Hound; those fists would kill her.

When he turned towards her she backed away, and threw another rock. He lurched after her blindly, stomping and lashing out with kicks. "Over here, you big ugly fucker!" Not you, Sandor. She drew him further, hurling rocks and shouting at him. "Arya Stark just stabbed you in the eye! How d'you like being the one tortured?"

She weaved around in silence so he couldn't find her, then started throwing and screaming at him from another direction. "I hate you! You're dead! Even rats won't gnaw on you now!" A few rocks missed, but one caught him square in the face. Didn't seem to hurt him, but it felt good. "Got you, you stupid cunt! Burn in hell! Lick my balls!" While she yelled she retreated and circled, ran, dodged, threw. The Mountain gave chase, stumbling over chunks of stone all the way, and finally tripped.

She weighed her chances. She could jump on him... but she would be doing it alone; the Hound was still lying limp. And Gregor, leaking putrid black fluid from a thousand mortal wounds yet fighting on, seemed indestructible.

He's not worth your life. She repeated it to herself firmly. He's going to get his.

She lobbed one last rock, big enough to knock his head sideways and cost him his balance, then slipped past him silently to go to her friend.

"It's me – Arya," she hissed. Helping him up to all fours. "We have to go."

"He dead?" No, he's flailing away at empty air looking for us. When she didn't answer, the Hound grabbed her hard and coughed blood all over her. "Need- to-…"

"No." She would never be able to get him downstairs if he didn't cooperate. But why would he? He didn't mind dying; revenge was all I care about, he'd told her.

So she talked revenge. She put both her hands on his cheeks (down by the beard; not in all the eye-blood). "You don't owe him any mercy. Let him suffer and burn. Leave him."

She waited for a long terrible moment... and then he dropped his head. Giving in. She wasn't sure if she had persuaded him or if he was just too exhausted to fight her, but it didn't matter; he was getting up. "Can you walk?"

He reached towards his face, but hovered over the mess without touching. "Girl, I'm-..." His voice was high and unsteady; she'd never heard him like this.

But she'd heard his horror of what happened in the hills. "I know. I'm not leaving you." She positioned herself underneath his arm and started urging him forward. "Come on."

He staggered along beside her, tripping over what seemed like every rock on the floor and holding her around the shoulders hard enough to bruise. "Careful," she said, "There's stairs now. Put your hand on the wall."

She guided him most of the way down the staircase, but then a falling chunk of stone caught her on the shoulder and they tumbled the last ten or twelve steps.

They landed in a heap at the bottom. Arya was mostly all right; she'd fallen down plenty of stairs in her day. This time she'd twisted one ankle and knee, a wrist was maybe broken and she was going to have a bruise down most of her back. But she could walk (limp), and her head was together. "Come on. The tower's really falling, we have to get out."

The Hound rolled over towards her. "Leave me, girl," he said weakly, "You're good at that. Go on. But this time kill me first." He bared his teeth, not in a smile. "You'd bloody better. You told me... if I wanted to die... you wouldn't stand in my way."

She looked him over – last time, she hadn't really known how – and decided that he looked awful, but probably not too awful to live. "I lied," she said shortly. "Guess you're no good at the game after all." She moved his arms onto his belly, one at a time. "Now stand up." She got a good grip at his wrists, straddled him to brace her legs on the step beneath, and heaved with all her might.

He stood up.

TBC.

Worst game of Marco Polo ever.

Let me know what you think!