Steel were unsheathed before next words could follow. The Kingsguard on his right with his broad-shoulders and his white cloak fastened with a golden oak leaf lashed out first. He was only a blur of white as he brought his sword straight to his neck. The man moved fast yet with a practiced and seasoned movement similar of a bull.
Aemon ducked low quickly, and felt the wind of the passing blade ruffle his hair. It was too close. Before the Kingsguard kinght could recover from his overcommitted swing, Aemon moved forward, closing the distance on the second Kingsguard, a tall and dour-face somber man with dull, droopy eyes and with a rust-coloured beard. Though he did not know his name, the man stank of a particular arrogance, the kind that believed he will not be able to kill him.
He surged forward Blackfyre pointed sharp to his exposed ribs, a legendary steel promising to cut open the man straight through the armour.
But he heard movements on his left noticing a sudden and fast intervention. Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stepped in with a strike coming down that would have cleaved Aemon's arm off at the elbow, armor and mail be dammed. Aemon twisted hard barely managing it in time, and met the blow edge-on the valyrian steel, his wrist jolted nearly wrenching the sword from his grip.
The impact jarred his whole arm numb. His teeth clicked together with the force of it. Sandor was monstrously strong just like his brother. Aemon staggered back a step, the fine, intricate grip of Blackfyre slick with sweat, shaking feeling into his hand.
But he had no time to think as the dour faced Kingsguard with his shoulders hunched rushed to him and retaliated by trying to have a go straight for his belly. Aemon twisted aside at the last instant, catching the thrust against the flat of Blackfyre and shoving it wide.
They were circling him now. Four trained knights with no patience tried to pin him and cut him down like a cornered animal.
Kingsguard with golden oak leaf clasp came next, pivoting with surprising speed, swinging fast, aiming a low, diagonal cut to cleave across his chest. Aemon caught that strike as well, Blackfyre echoing like a bell as he intercepted the Kingsguard blade in the corridor but he could already sense the others tightening the circle, trying to give him least space as possible for movement.
He shoved forward with all his strength, using the momentum of Oakheart's own attack, throwing the man off balance directly into Sandor, who had stepped in to flank. The two collided and started snarling and muttering curses.
Aemon inhaled taking a deep breath and now finding the space spun sharply to the fourth man. The young boy around his age. With fine gilded armour that shined and a woollen cloak patterned sewn with coloured flowers. His stance looking polished and rehearsed. A bright lad trained for tourney jousts and melees and not for battlefield.
Aemon lunged at him with a flaunting sweeping strike too wide on purpose, a movement open enough to entice him to engage to an amateur looking swordman. The boy raised his sword to catch his dumb looking blow. However Aemon turned his wrists and pivoted on his heels at the last instant, an instinctive move he had honed on the slippery slopes beyond the wall against the Wildlings and the White Walkers.
With the feint done smoothly abandoning the boy entirely he drives Blackfyre straight toward his first target, standing by the side.
The dour Kingsguard hadn't expected the sudden, brutal shift in focus. His dull eyes widened, seeing a flicker of the movement too late just as Valyrian steel punched through his throat. The sound was a wet one, a ghastly sucking noise. As a choked gasp rattled in his throat, trying to cover it with his hands before a geyser of blood flooded from his mouth and the opening in his throat, spilling over his polished white breastplate.
He fell to his knees, clutching hopelessly at the black steel still lodged in his neck. Aemon ripped Blackfyre free in one brutal, downward motion and soon blood sprayed across the dark stone filling the corridor with the coppery scent thick in the air.
"Ser Meryn, you bast—!" Golden Oak clasped Kingsguard roared, his voice thick with stunned disbelief and fury.
He charged blindly, ignoring the Hound's sharp warning to hold his position. The circle was finally broken, and his fury had made him blind to see it. Flowery cloaked boy came in from the other side, his movements faster now, eyes blazing with fury at seeing a Kingsguard die because of him taking the opponent too lightly. Their strikes were quick, precise, and expertly trained but they were too reckless with anger.
Both of them pressed hard, a furious two-pronged assault trying to overwhelm him in rhythm with Flowery lad attacking with an elegant stabbing thrust and Kingsguard with Oak clasp looking low trying to hack his knee while Sandor circled wider around him, looking for a clean opening.
Soon Sandor stepped in. "Move!" he barked again but none of them listened.
Aemon shifted on his heels turning back to parry blow from him. His sword arm burned with a deep, painful ache from the clash with him. His breath came harsh, ragged in his throat as every clash of steel sent tremors up his shoulder.
But it was their anger and rage that made them predictable against him.
Aemon soon found an opening as he ducked a high strike from flowery knight, and using his momentum drove his elbow hard into breastplate of Kingsguard with Golden Oak clasp air whooshing out from his lungs.
Aemon did not hesitate after that, knowing a fight against three and many soldier coming from top will be difficult to handle. He threw his weight into a desperate, two-handed shove, driving the boy with flower cloak throwing him roughly over Sandor. He then turned to the Kingsguard still kneeling trying to normalize his breath from the elbow clash to his chest and with all the strength left he swung his sword straight at his neck, bringing his head down to ground.
He hesitated to attack the flower boy, he knew he could take him down right here, but he wouldn't survive the Hound's counter-strike What he needed now was a escape, Aemon spun on his heel and darted toward the corridor of the black cells.
"Coward!" Sandor roared, his voice thick with anger. Clegane whirled his heavy sword towards him, as it scythed through the air, aimed straight to him. Aemon threw himself to the ground, skidding on the stone, Blackfyre scraping against the stones. The sword passing inches above his back, chipping the stone where his head had been.
He scrambled on all fours suddenly hearing the footsteps from the narrow corridor a little bit in front.
"This way, My King!" A voice called out flirtatiously from the darkness ahead. He sighs with relief recognizing the voice, His Aunt Shiera Seastar is here.