The Bloody Gate guarded the mountain pass into the Vale, flanked by sheer cliffs, with room for only a dozen or so riders abreast.
Any army seeking to enter the heart of the Vale had to pass through here.
Petyr Baelish stood atop the walls of the Bloody Gate, gazing at the distant horizon.
At first, the red line was only a faint streak at the edge of the sky. Gradually, it spread into a flowing river.
The Lannister army slowly approached along the High Road through the Vale. The Roaring Lion Banner billowed in the wind, its embroidered golden lion seeming to gleam in the sunlight.
The hundred-thousand-strong army stretched beyond sight: red helmet plumes, red shields, red cloaks, winding through the valley.
Littlefinger watched the golden lion on its fluttering red field, and the corners of his mouth rose slightly.
This was the blade he had summoned, sharp enough and steady enough to cut through those stubborn lords of the Vale for him.
Waynwood, Corbray, Royce... you refuse to listen to Littlefinger, but surely you will listen to the Lannister lion's roar?
He calculated that once Tywin had subdued the lords of the Vale for him, he would finally hold real power over the Vale.
But could he keep his grip on a blade like Tywin?
Tywin was nothing more than a homeless cur now, driven out of the Westerlands by that Targaryen boy, fleeing to the Vale with the remnants of his defeated army.
If he wanted to gain a foothold in the Vale, he needed Petyr's support. He needed his provisions.
The Eyrie's granaries were in his hands. If Tywin's army wanted to eat, it would have to dance to Littlefinger's tune.
At that thought, his smile deepened.
He turned and descended from the walls, then