#crenellation taxes

[racefortheironthrone]

Did all the medieval nobles in real history have castles like in ASOIAF

All? No.

Castles were very expensive to construct and the right to crenellate was jealously controlled by the monarchy, so it was generally the wealthiest and most powerful among the nobility who had them.

However, a little bit lower down the rungs of the nobility, you had noblemen who could afford to build a castle, but not the crenellation tax that the king collected as his fee, and thus you got "adulterine castles." (To use a modern consumer goods analogy, these are knock-offs compared to the "Gucci" of a licensed castle.)

Yet further down, your broad middle of the nobility would most likely have a fortified manorhouse - which is taking the manor house, the one thing that pretty much all medieval nobles had by definition, and essentially building a thick walled extension and other defenses (like moats or ditches) around the manor house that let the residents withstand a bandit attack or brief siege.

So it's more a spectrum than a binary of castle vs. no castle.

[autodaemonium]

əknɪivdtʃʌʌəəklʌlvnɑh

Pronounced: uhkniivdtshuuuhuhklulvnahh.

Pantheon of: computer system, tactile property, containment, anisotropy.

Entities

Dʃnmɪinməiʌləɪdəəəəs

Pronounced: dshnmiinmuhiuluhiduhuhuhuhs Tactile Property: touch. Computer System: backup system. Legends: harmonization, interior decoration, naming. Prophecies: breach of duty. Relations: zfəʃaɪɪbspilənənrpdrdʒ (margarita), əruəmrfɪðvɪsfɛnðəbæl (quinone), əuðvəaɪzstʃðədəmttʃoɪəp (collateral).

Səəbeenrgnuæipətɛɒwɛ

Pronounced: suhuhbeenrgnuaipuhtayouway Tactile Property: texture. Computer System: platform. Legends: termination, bustle, field. Prophecies: pet sitting, stowage, baseball, high jump, vigilantism.

Tzɪtɒdʒdnzlɪəlssoɪləə

Pronounced: tzitoujdnzliuhlssoiluhuh Tactile Property: touch. Computer System: platform. Legends: detente. Relations: əuðvəaɪzstʃðədəmttʃoɪəp (proportion), səəbeenrgnuæipətɛɒwɛ (emerald).

Tɑəkəwaɪθðʒaɪnhtsaɪtəæv

Pronounced: tahuhkuhwaiththzainhtsaituhav Tactile Property: touch. Computer System: platform. Legends: slowdown, lis pendens, world series, strafe. Relations: əruəmrfɪðvɪsfɛnðəbæl (cosecant).

Utəzærlætnrræyyitɪsi

Pronounced: utuhzarlatnrrayyitisi Tactile Property: texture. Computer System: backup system. Legends: electronic counter-countermeasures. Prophecies: crenelation, experimental procedure. Relations: zfəʃaɪɪbspilənənrpdrdʒ (exonuclease), tɑəkəwaɪθðʒaɪnhtsaɪtəæv (property tax), əyrfhəkdonoɛɒheɪaɪkbn (freebie).

Zfəʃaɪɪbspilənənrpdrdʒ

Pronounced: zfuhshaiibspiluhnuhnrpdrj Tactile Property: texture. Computer System: platform. Legends: delivery, stultification, misconduct, plunk. Relations: tɑəkəwaɪθðʒaɪnhtsaɪtəæv (gutta-percha), əruəmrfɪðvɪsfɛnðəbæl (dressed ore).

Əruəmrfɪðvɪsfɛnðəbæl

Pronounced: uhruuhmrfithvisfaynthuhbal Tactile Property: touch. Computer System: backup system. Legends: reaffiliation, nomination. Prophecies: inquisition, contempt of court, singles, negligence. Relations: əuðvəaɪzstʃðədəmttʃoɪəp (stellite), tɑəkəwaɪθðʒaɪnhtsaɪtəæv (spray paint), utəzærlætnrræyyitɪsi (adenine), səəbeenrgnuæipətɛɒwɛ (fluoroboride).

Əuðvəaɪzstʃðədəmttʃoɪəp

Pronounced: uhuthvuhaizstshthuhduhmttshoiuhp Tactile Property: texture. Computer System: backup system. Legends: cold storage, pinball, presumption, embolectomy, cleistogamy. Relations: zfəʃaɪɪbspilənənrpdrdʒ (alpaca).

Əyrfhəkdonoɛɒheɪaɪkbn

Pronounced: uhyrfhuhkdonoayouheiaikbn Tactile Property: texture. Computer System: backup system. Legends: biological research, materials handling, permutation, discord. Prophecies: practical joke.

[warsofasoiaf]

In Fire and Blood, Jaehaerys passes a law (that seemingly was never repealed) that taxes any lord who builds/repairs a castle. Did this ever happen in the middle ages? It seems counter-intuitive to discourage your ostensible followers from building up their defenses, and I can't imagine the lords would be thrilled by the law either.

This was indeed a thing, the British crown dispensed licenses to crenellate. However, if I recall correctly, fees were rarely assessed on these licenses, and when they were it was a small amount of money. But @racefortheironthrone would probably know more than I would.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[villageandcottage]

Cottage Vs. Manor – What’s The Difference?

In feudal England, a cottager held a modest dwelling with a large garden to support a family in exchange for duty to the landholding lord. With time, however, “cottage” came to mean any modest dwelling. 

When most people think of a “cottage,” they envision a small, cozy residence in the countryside. On the other hand, a manor is an opulent setting with almost castle-like provisions on a smaller scale.

The royals utilized the house to remain with their family and troop before moving on to the next location and delegating maintenance to their staff.

But let’s dive into some of the the differences between cottage vs manor.

What Is The Difference Between A Cottage And A Manor

Today generally refers to tiny, traditionally constructed housing in British English. However, it can also be used to describe newly built homes that are meant to seem like older ones. Cottages can be freestanding homes or rowhouses, like those found in mining towns. 

Cottages were widely used as farm laborers’ essential housing. Today, the term “holiday cottage” refers to a specific type of residential rental property in England that provides its owner with beneficial tax treatment. Sometimes called a chalet.

A royal authorization was required to crenelate a manor house, even though manor houses were not typically built with strong defenses like castles. Walls or ditches frequently surrounded these settlements, featuring farm outbuildings. In the pre-police era, these fortifications were built with moats and drawbridges to protect against gangs of roving robbers and thieves. 

They also had gatehouses and watchtowers but lacked the keep, massive towers, and high curtain walls typical of castles. The great hall was the centerpiece of the manor home, with ancillary rooms constructed as the decline in feudal warfare made it possible.

Cottages are typically considered pre-modern structures, despite their widespread use in contemporary popular culture in a more generic and romantic sense. Older, pre-Victorian cottages typically feature low ceilings and exposed timber from the building’s frame, which can be an eyesore and even physically disrupt daily life.

During renovations, it is common to practice revealing once again the original timber purlins, rafters, supports, etc., of such buildings to give the impression of greater age and authenticity.

A lord and his big family might not be able to survive on the harvest from a single manor for an entire year, so he would likely only stay a few months there before moving on to the next estate where supplies had been stashed. As a bonus, the now-empty manor house could be thoroughly cleaned and repaired without disturbing the previous residents.

As a result, these non-resident lords had to name a steward or seneschal to serve as their representative in these affairs and to preside over the manorial courts of his many manorial domains. Each manor had a resident official, termed a bailiff or reeve in England, responsible for day-to-day administration.

Traditional cottages are small, usually semi-detached or terraced, and have only four rooms, i.e., two up and two down, while modern additions and renovations have made them much larger. One sort of cottage is called a “penty,” It is typically a small, one-room dwelling adjacent to a bigger property and used by workers or fishermen. Large, functional, and unpretentious homes have also been referred to by the name “cottage.”

Almost every great manor house in the Middle Ages had its deer park in the vicinity, enclosed with royal permission so that venison might be stored there. Royalty and their massive traveling entourage, which needed to be fed and entertained, were prohibited from hunting deer within these designated parks, as were nearby landowners and anybody else.

During the 1600s, many lords of manors moved out of their old manor houses, often near or in the village and next to the parish church. Instead, they built a new manor house inside the walls of their old deer parks. The situation became more private and relaxed.

What Makes A House A Manor?

The main residence on an estate is a manor house. Typically, they were between 750 and 1,500 acres in size. A large manor might have several villages connected, whereas a small manor might be so small that only a portion of a village’s residents was employed there.

The manor house’s original structure was a loose conglomeration of wooden or stone structures comprising a chapel, a kitchen, farm buildings, and a hall. The village’s business meetings were held in the hall, which also served as the location for the manorial court.

Before the advent of more modern mansions, the lord of the manor usually lived in a manor house. In the European feudal system, the house served as the administrative hub of the manor; in its grand hall, the lord’s manorial courts, community meals with the manor’s tenants, and large feasts were held. 

source https://villageandcottage.com/cottages/cottage-vs-manor/

[yggdrasilbohdi]

Bastille Day: A Celebration of French Unity

Friendships and family relationships are greatly strengthened by celebrating holidays together. This is especially true of Bastille Day, the holiday created to specifically honor and celebrate French unity. It takes its name after the Storming of the Bastille, an event that occurred more than 230 years ago. In 1880, Bastille Day was made an official holiday, and French people have been marking July 14th with concerts, speeches, fireworks, and other fetes ever since.  

These days, perhaps the most dramatic show of patriotism comes from the Air Force Patrouille de France acrobatic unit, with the trails of blue, white, and red smoke released by the fighter jets during the iconic Bastille Day military parade. This brief overview of how the holiday came to be should help get you in the Bastille Day spirit!  

What Was the Bastille, and Why Was It stormed?

The Bastille was a gloomy but formidable government fortress built in the 1300s to protect one of the primary entrances to Paris. The immense stone building was surrounded by a moat and protected by multiple drawbridges. Chains clanked as the bridge was lowered and raised. The Bastille had an exterior wall more than 100 feet high, with crenellations that soldiers hid behind but could still point muskets at the enemy. Windows in the Bastille were tall narrow slits that soldiers could shoot out of, but enemies could hardly shoot in. The slits allowed only small amounts of light to penetrate in. Inside was a maze of dimly lit corridors and cold, dank rooms. 

It was probably inevitable that the Bastille, in time, came to be used as a prison—one where political prisoners were often sent and held for long periods of time without trial. Some of these prisoners had been sent to the Bastille by the king himself, who needed neither a reason nor a trial to imprison someone. If people didn’t agree with him, the King could send them to the Bastille.

Under King Louis XVI, the social and political situation in France was more than precarious. The government was in debt, unemployment was high, and years of bad harvests had led to massive food shortages. In an effort to raise money, King Louis raised taxes not on the wealthy but rather on the poor—a strategy that increased the turmoil most French citizens were already feeling.  

By July 1789, insurrection and revolution seemed unavoidable. On July 14, rioting Parisians who had had enough of the King’s oppressive behaviors stormed the Bastille, ousted the guards, and freed all the prisoners. This last action was perhaps less dramatic than it sounds, since at the time of the storming, the Bastille held only seven prisoners—four of whom had been convicted of forgery, and another who had been sent there by his own family.  

Still, the day was indicative of a much larger uprising. The Bastille symbolized an abuse of power, and it had just been overthrown!  

Why Is Bastille Day Important?  

The Storming of the Bastille marked the start of the French Revolution. It was the beginning of the end for the monarchy. It represented a call for liberty, equality, and a more democratic form of government. Today, the holiday is an opportunity to celebrate French unity and the French way of life. The Bastille Day military parade is the largest of its kind, with thousands of participants and millions of viewers. July 14 can mean many things to many people, but for French people around the globe, it is a day to celebrate their country! 

Save Your Bastille Day Memories to FamilySearch—Then Find Your French Ancestors! 

You can’t celebrate a big holiday and make new memories without taking a few pictures, right? Afterwards you need a place to store those memories. With your free FamilySearch account, you can save photos, family documents, and even voice recordings in FamilySearch memories. Your account is always free, and your memories will be safely stored for future generations to enjoy and appreciate. You can also search through your family tree to discover if you had ancestors who were alive during the French Revolution.

On July 14, take time to celebrate Bastille Day. Then come to FamilySearch, and see what you can learn about your own French family history! 

Discover Your French Heritage

[endeavorsreward]

T I M E C R A S H (Pt. 1)

The mercenary team hired to protect the princess marched forwards, leading the chocobos along the river. Slow but steady, like the passing of time.

The Algost Mountains formed a shelf where the highlands ended. During the dry season, at the river's calmest, there was a fordable pass which some enterprising merchant or cutthroat had found in a century past and linked with a simple bridge of rope and wood. Lesalian nobility had men come and fix it annually and kept it tax free, not out of largesse but to provide a route for their own to ferry contraband. It was patrolled, but only lightly. At some point, its nature as a way around the official crossing had left it named for history's most reviled traitor, but its location was something of an open secret. He'd have to bring the princess there, but once past Germonique's Crossing, he might well be into the arms of the Black Lion and lost to them.

Gaffgarion had gotten ahead of them somehow, but the young man that the others kept looking to for guidance, he just moved steadily and with a grimace. And then, suddenly, there was the cry of a hawk somewhere to their north, and he broke into a run.

The young man, for his part, was puzzling over his own motivations, his own feelings. He knew who it was that he'd find at the Crossing, and he couldn't yet fathom what it would mean to face him here, in this place, with these stakes. He vaulted over a boulder and turned the corner at the cliffside, and as the bridge came into view it took his fears and gave them form.

His rival there stood, weapon drawn, but not at the princess, who cowered at his back, but instead at five knights whose own blades were raised in turn. Another two lay dead at their feet. Despite standing on the Limberry side of the Crossing, they were of the Order of the Northern Sky.

“Stand aside, ser!” The knight's leader pointed with his blade. “You are defeated! Surrender the princess, and no more blood must needs be spilt!”

“You mean yours?” Seifer Almasy let his gunblade hang in his hand, almost lazily. “You're full of it, and I'm not gonna let you kill her.”

Squall Leonheart drew his own gunblade, preparing to charge the hill, only to see Gaffgarion standing at its crest, by the bridge, looking directly at him. The knight on the river's other side called out.

“Hmm. It seems we are no longer alone. Gaffgarion! Kill them all!”

Squall's fellow SeeD formed up behind him, and his trigger finger twitched.

***

The cart’s wheel hit a stone and jostled, and he awoke suddenly, gasping at terrors that fled in the hot Ul’dahn sun. He rubbed at his face; he hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

“Y’all right lad?” A grizzled merchant in a too-heavy coat and a blond beard gave him a sympathetic smile. “You were moanin’ somethin’ fierce for a while there.”

He sat up straighter, glanced at the other occupants in the cart, a pair of white-haired twins of no more than sixteen who were making a point not to look at him. He sighed, waved the older man off.

There was a whistle out front and the sound of talons in dirt, and the cart slowly ground to a halt. Weighed down with goods, the wagon needed the support of the balloons tied to either side to lighten the load enough for the two chocobos to tote it; slowing down was a gradual, awkward affair.

“You there – halt!” called out a rider ahead, and Wiegraf Folles placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. The merchant, however, shook his head, and he forced himself to relax.

“S’only the Brass Blades, lad, relax.” The merchant, whose name was Brendt, shifted positions and crossed his legs to appear further casual as one of the men came ‘round back to inspect the cart’s cargo—and its passengers. “You’re dressed as one of those new adventurers... guessin’ you really are new to Ul’dah, eh?”

“I don’t remember,” Wiegraf mumbled.

The female of the two twins glanced over at him, but was quick to look away. She, both of them, had longer, pointed ears.

“That right? Hmm.” Brendt scratched at his beard. “Since the Calamity, memories have been all kinds of messed up, can’t argue with that one.” The word Calamity resonated with Wiegraf in a way he couldn’t define. He mopped at his brow, watching instead the Brass Blade root through the crates and sacks. “Most folk can’t recall the Warriors of Light, but you hear now and again about someone forgetting more.”

Which is how he caught the man remove a small pouch from his own belt before holding it up. “Somnus.”

Brendt only smiled. The boy twin’s mouth edged ever so slightly downward.

Wiegraf wanted to speak up. To say something about the honor of knighthood, maybe, or perhaps even that if he was so willing to be unsubtle in his ploy for extortion, there was likely someone above his rank and class to which the technique would be better suited. But what happened next was that a cadre of beastmen attacked. He did not know them as Amal’jaa, only saw their scales gleam in the high sun. They came with weapons drawn, and chaos erupted quickly.

***

The Galbadian streets to each side of the procession were solid masses of people, rising and falling in waves. The leader of the sniper team gave the scene one last glance before he was to head underground, where the carousel lay. The eyes of the people were glassy, one set after another, and their expressions didn't match the words and gestures coming from the float where the Sorceress and her knight were taking in the hollow adulation. He shook his head and descended—time was short.

The marksman, for his part, was already waiting, seated, checking his weapon in silence. They exchanged a single look, and waited for the carousel to rise. As well, his other teammate, kind-eyed and soft, gave him a warm look that flashed once to fear, then again to resolve.

Elsewhere, they knew the gateway team was poised within the arch in Galbadia's central plaza, waiting to trap the parade float beneath. The timing had to be perfect—too soon, and the Sorceress would see the trap and be free to react. Their most professional member lead that team, and he could close his eyes and picture her adjusting her glasses, telling the young man with the upswept blond hair to be quiet, the young brunette to sit still. Her hand was likely resting on the switch, ready to throw it.

20:00:00. The carousel began to rise.

His fists clenched as the machinery roared and the air rushed into the compartment, as their platform reached up towards the sky. Holograms flared to life around them. The marksman took a long, deep breath and took aim.

The gate clenched shut before the float, and the marksman fired straight and true.

And then everything happened at once. With a casual wave, the shot dissipated, and he was leaping over the side. Time to, as an instructor once told him, “display adaptability in the field,” and he didn't wait to see if his teammates were following behind as he took a parked vehicle and launched it top speed towards the float, cutting a swath through the throngs of possessed (and dispossessed) gathered to see his target. The crowd erupted in flashes of red...

...As a series of crimson cloaks were flung to the sky.

He was leaping from the car through the bars of the gate onto the parade float even as his team began disarming the guards surrounding the arch, but it seemed he was expected. As his head rose to view the Sorceress, her knight took a step forward, blocking his view and drawing his weapons, a pair of corkscrewed bolt sabers that sparked against each other and then split apart to reveal a face contorted in anger.

Ace took one look at Machina, and drew his cards.

***

In the depths of the Mist-soaked tomb of Dorgalua Raithwall, she stood before the door, watching as the rotating crystal shattered, felt the brand of Belias, the Gigas burn into her. Her hand went involuntarily to the place where it sizzled, her skin feeling almost as if the brand crawled across her like an insect, dug in its fangs, just above her left breast.

“It was guarding the treasure all this time?” asked the pilot behind her, and she turned.

“It is the treasure.” Power enough to start changing things. Power enough to make it right.

“Oh.” His shoulders sank. “Foolish me, thinking it would be something that’d get us out of this mess.”

She rolled her eyes and approached the door, which opened to her without a touch. The heavy stone slid with the weight of history to admit her, and they all followed as she climbed the stairs to where the Dawn Shard lay, suspended in air, in Mist, above a plinth of sculpted metal.

They stood there, stunned at the sight of the prize they’d sought, and she finally moved to take it...

“What?” she whispered, as a vision appeared before her, faint but real, standing, watching, and her hand fell at the sight of the eighteen year old girl who smiled back, welcoming, regarding fondly.

Lightning’s knuckles shifted inside of her gloves as she found herself rooted in place, watching Serah watch her. Not seeing the boy at her side take a step forward either, not realizing he saw it too, as nobody else did, though the person he saw was older, and far beyond reach, beyond Hope.

***

The elder twin scaled the steps slowly, one at a time, already feeling the air rush down the stairwell and whip his long hair about. The tight space made it easy to slip, actually, but his eyes were closed, determined, already knowing how it would end.

His brother stood atop the roof when he arrived; one foot on the crenelations, taking in the whole of their responsibility in its most tangible form. His brother had always looked outward and ahead; he’d stared at his own feet. It was his feet now that carried the sensation, the life of their home, pulsing, ready to change, ready to move. Basch felt that rumble in his bones, and wanted to hold fast, but only a fool fought the wind.

Noah had his face forward so that his brother would not see him cry. His voice was hoarse when he bit out “Empire of murderers...! They won't get away with this!”

Basch came up alongside and tried not to let the beauty of his homeland pull on him, pull on the ache he felt. Their father had just died, and they two were all each other now had. Someone had to be the responsible one.

“Basch,” Noah said quietly, at last, when the wind had dwindled to nothing. “Let us leave this place together. Forget it all and live as we’d dreamt. You said you’d never wanted it, yes?”

“A life of freedom?” And Basch allowed himself the dream. For a moment. “Let us decide with a flip of a coin. Whosoever calls its side, they will be free to choose their own path.”

And he flicked the coin into the air, where it seemed to hold forever.

[ellebeebee]

if you're doing the 7kpp ask meme, i'd love to hear about 7 and 8!

Okay.  So this is late, and it’s not even done.  But it was getting… y’know.  Long-ish, so I think it’s best if I do this in two parts.

I guess I  got a little carried away.

This is the story of a Court Lady’s parents, Dhorée the palace apothecary and Silla the military intelligence officer and nobleman.

4,630 words, pairing: Corval!mc’s parents, general rating except for some language

Note: Lady Renn isn’t the mother of any of the princes or Sina; she’s an AU wife of the emperor I guess.

Part Two Here

Part One

It began small.

A courtier grumbled casually at the Emperor’s table over imperial taxes, and the courtier’s favorite servant spent three days violently ill.  A visiting dignitary found themself mysteriously and increasingly weakened over weeks, until, finally bedridden, the Empress generously sent her own favored apothecary who miraculously cured their illness.  A snide grand princess made a remark towards the Emperor’s wife, and at a garden party found herself so overcome with admiration and need for a mere guard, that she quite made a fool of herself.  The aftermath of artworks of fine slippered feet sticking akimbo from shrubbery were quite amusing.

Dhorée had not protested to these requests the Empress made of her these past three years.  After all, it was merely the nature of her profession.  An “apothecary” serving in the Corvali court could hardly claim a weak stomach.  No more than a kite could be without wings.

And so, Dhorée stood silent at the Empress’s side as she and the newest wife of the Emperor traded pleasantries.

The Empress’s south garden had a pleasantly situated mezzanine, lined on either side with delicate arcades in which filmy moon-white silk stirred in the evening breeze.  The midday rest period had ended, and now was the time for courtiers to venture out into the weakened heat of the day’s late hours.  Most were accustomed to take tea in this time, and the Empress had provided a splendid spread of strong black tea in tiny gilded glass cups and lovely ripe grapes, plums, and pomegranates.

Only the finest for the newest member of the harem, the Empress smiled.  Around them arrayed servants and other favorites, all half-smiles and faint perfume.

“Your Majesty, you are too generous,” Lady Renn said. “You already arranged my wedding so splendidly.  Why, I could not repay you in several lifetimes!”

The Empress laughed lightly. “I don’t expect it, dear.  As head of the harem, it is my duty to maintain harmony and ensure the continuance of the imperial line.  Your happiness has become my happiness.”

Lady Renn bent her head. “I pray that I will be fortunate enough to repay the magnanimity of the Empress and the Emperor with many princes.”

“As do we all,” the Empress said.

Her expression and tone rang elegantly and tenderly, but they all knew better.  It was not a wish expressed, but a threat.  Sweetness from the fruits, clean herbal tangs from the garden, and dark richness of the steaming tea filled the air.  Lady Renn smiled with sweat on her lip.

“Concerning which,” the Empress continued. She gestured to Dhorée. “This is my personal apothecary and physician.  I cannot sing her praises in a pretty enough tune.  She can be rid of the smallest ailment from headaches to lethargy.”

The Empress leaned in toward Lady Renn, her expression vividly sincere. “But her greatest help to me was in conceiving the Crown Prince.  And she delivered him, as well.”

This was not entirely true.  Dhorée did help with the Empress’s fertility and conception, but she had merely assisted with the delivery.  A crone who lived in some of the best quarters of the palace had been midwife to more princesses and princes and emperors than could be sat a full banquet.  Still, they all knew the game the Empress played, and they all knew their place within it.

Lady Renn smiled at Dhorée. “I have heard.  How clever you are at such a young age!”

Dhorée smiled back with equal pleasantry. “Thank you, my lady.  I am honored by the Empress’s words.”

The Empress’s, and not Lady Renn’s.  It was what the Empress expected.  And Dhorée had four years on the new blushing bride of the Emperor.  And many more years of tireless study besides.  But she couldn’t take it personally; it was, after all, court.

“So, I thought it would be best to give her to your household, my dear.  Nothing is more important than your health, and my darling Dhorée is the best with these matters,” the Empress said.

To her credit, Lady Renn’s eyes did widen with pleased surprise. “Oh, I could never take such a skilled servant from you, Your Majesty.”

“Nonsense.  She is yours.  Your first child will be the hardest, so we must take all precaution.”

“Oh, I have just been married!  You do make me blush, Your Majesty.”

“How sweet!  But really, we should have started this before the wedding.  In any case, there is no time to lose.  And look, you’re both from the same hold.  You will have much in common, I’m sure.”

Lady Renn glanced at Dhorée and back at the Empress.  Her smile did not crack, but it was a near thing.  A daughter of duke, having “much in common” with a palace apothecary?  From anyone else, it would have been a gross insult.  But that was “anyone else.”  This was the Empress.

But it was true.  Lady Renn and Dhorée shared the thin faces and blue-black skin of the clan families who lived along the southern coast of Corval’s inland sea.  They traded in some of the rarest red timber in the world and in shipbuilding.  Arlish and Wellish timber were imported to the area (the local red timber was far too precious to be wasted on ships), and master engineers crafted deadly Corvali frigates and corvettes which were floated down rivers to the outer coast.  The inner location protected the workshops from Hisean raids.

Lady Renn’s father owned many of these timber mills and ship companies.  Dhorée’s father had been a mere cold remedy peddler.  Lady Renn was married to the Emperor of Corval.  Dhorée was being bodily traded from one master to another at this very moment.  So to say they had much in common?  Well, the Empress said so, so it must be true.

Lady Renn bent at the waist, a semi-bow of obeisance. “Then I accept with pleasure and gratitude, Your Majesty.”

-

Striding forward, Silla brushed his uniform straight with absent-minded fingers.  Darkness had just set, and the real business of the day was only just beginning.  The broad hall swept around an exterior wall of the palace, its open casements peering out into the blue dusk.  One could still make out the deep and stark line of the palace walls, a guard’s dark shadow cut into the speckled sky.

The palace steward walking before him was saying something innocuous about their surroundings that happened to also be complimentary towards Silla himself.  Silla smiled and returned the pleasantry.  The guards around them were silent, with silent palms on their silent pommells.  They were not his.

Silla had no disillusions about his own station once the doors to the harem pulled shut behind him.  Out there, he was an intelligence officer in the navy.  In here, he was a guest crawling toward scraps of His Majesty’s benevolence.  There could be no mistakes.

Passing through an intersection of marbled halls, Silla suddenly stopped and a broad grin stretched across his face.

“Farou?  My word, is that really you, Fancy-Foot Farou?” he called out.

Ignoring the guards at his shoulders, Silla strode toward another guard standing on duty just to the side of the intersection.  The tawny young man blinked at Silla.  He smiled despite himself, then glanced worriedly at the other guards and the steward.

Silla continued on anyway. “Farou, you so-and-so, I haven’t seen you since I left the stationing in Skalt.  I’m surprised you didn’t freeze your balls off.  You were always threatening to.”

He slapped Farou on the shoulder and reached for his hand, pumping it enthusiastically.

Farou laughed lightly. “Captain.  It’s good to see you.  Congratulations are in order.”

“Yes, yes,” Silla said. “My sister is quite blessed to have the fortune of serving the Emperor.  My family is honored.”

The steward cleared his throat.  Farou glanced at him.

“Well, it’s been good to see you, Captain.”

“You as well, Farou.  I’m in the city, let me buy you a drink sometime.”

“Absolutely.”

As Silla finally released Fancy-Foot Farou’s hand, the guard passed a small and tightly folded square of paper into his ex-captain’s hand.  With practiced ease, Silla tucked the square into his sleeve out of sight of his escort.

The steward gave Silla a hard-eyed stare with lips pressed thin, but gestured him on politely enough.  The rest of the journey into the inner sanctum of the imperial harem went quietly enough without any disruptions.

“I asked for you hours ago,” Renn exclaimed angrily.

Silla sighed, smiling. “How are you?  I’m fine, it’s wonderful to see you.  Have you settled into the palace?  Oh yes, everyone–”

“Don’t give me that,” Renn snapped.

Silla stared back at his sister, working his jaw.  It seemed not even marriage had changed her.  Her quarters were wide and spacious, washed in the beautiful gold of a thousand candles.  The Empress had even had most of the furniture carved from the hard redwood of their homeland, the rigidity of the wood lending to distinct, hard-lined fluidity in the crenelations and forms.  Servants, eyes cast down, stood quietly around the room waiting to be beckoned to service.

One of them, a woman about his own age, stepped toward Renn.

“My lady, we should begin,” she said calmly.

Renn glanced at her, and her serene face, a cool umber tone and spare in its design.  A crown of braids wove around her head.  Renn licked her lips, and turned back to Silla.  She smiled.

“This is Dhorée, dear brother.  Her Majesty was generous enough to install her personal apothecary and physician in my household.  She is to help me conceive.”

Renn stared at Silla.  Her eyes trembled with fear.  Silla internally sighed.  She had been told, many times, to expect such maneuvers.  And yet here she was, being all too obvious about her personal feelings.  No wonder she had summoned him so urgently.  Not for the first time, Silla wished he’d had another sister, any female relative at all, that he could have used instead of Renn.

Silla bent toward the apothecary, Dhorée. “Her Majesty’s benevolence is boundless.  I thank you on behalf of my sister and family.”

Dhorée dipped into a deep curtsy. “Not at all, your lordship.  I only hope my small skills will be of use to Lady Renn.”

“Please,” Silla gestured toward his sister. “Don’t let me interrupt.  Shall I step outside?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Renn interjected, glancing between them.

Dhorée bent toward the lady. “Not at all, my lady.  I only need a light preliminary exam.”

Renn nodded sharply.  Her head bent, Dhorée approached the lady, and carefully slipped a sleeve back to lay her finger on a pulse point.

“I said this before, but we are grateful– our family wants nothing more than many princes–”

“Please, my lord, I ask for quiet while I examine Her Ladyship,” Dhorée said.

Silla coughed and took a seat. “Sorry.  Of course.”

The long pause drew taut.  The room flickered rhythmically to the quiet breaths of the servants, standing staid at attention, and of the three in the center of the room.  Silla often thought that the dreadful nature of Corvali politics had much to do with their nation’s heat.  Business could never be done in broad daylight; no one wants to discuss contracts and treaties covered in sweatstains.  Everything had to be done in the evening after the worst of the heat finally breaks or in the morning, if you are particularly industrious or sadistic.  Spooky candlelight made one feel, after all, either quite fearful or cruel.  Or both.

Dhorée completed her exam, making her polite requests to the lady.  The apothecary stood.

“Well?” Renn demanded.

“You are quite healthy, my lady.  As expected of your youth and good blood,” Dhorée stated. “I will create a mixture for you to drink the week after your cycle.”

“Can’t you just give it to me now?”

“These things must be done with the correct timing, my lady.”

Renn sighed. “Alright.” She frowned.  She glanced back up at the apothecary. “You-”

Dhorée bent her head.  When Renn did not continue, she said, “My lady?”

Renn glanced at Silla, who looked back blankly.

“No, nothing, Dhorée.  Is your examination finished?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then–”

The bell for the outer door chimed just then.  One of the servant girls bobbed to Renn and left the room.  She returned, announcing:

“His Majesty’s messenger sends his master’s greetings.  His Majesty requests Lady Renn’s company tonight.”

Renn straightened.  She was suppressing her glee, Silla could see.  And likely everyone else in the room saw, too.

He stood. “That is my cue to part with you, dear sister.”

Renn was already calling for her favorite gowns and a bath.

“Yes, yes.  Until later,” she said impatiently.  She did not look at him

Really, she spent so much vitriol scolding him for not appearing on command, now she nearly shoves him out the door.

Silla stood and spotted the apothecary still bent to Renn.  His sister had quite forgotten her.  A plant by the Empress, and the girl forgets her.  Silla smiled and gestured to Dhorée.  Hesitating, she looked to Renn, and then nodded back at him.  They quietly slipped from the room, him holding the door for her.

In the antechamber, the Emperor’s messenger and his retinue waited several paces away near the door.  Silla’s own escort had vacated seats for them.  They bowed as Silla entered.  He nodded, and turned to Dhorée.  He stopped her retreat with a soft word.

She looked at him silently.  She wore her mask well.  Corvali court masks, the really good ones, were invisible so that you could not tell just what sort of mask it was.  Often you did not see it until too late.

“I was going to say before,” he smiled, “That I really am quite grateful for your skills.  I know my sister can be difficult–” She opened her mouth for the expected denials, but he shook his head. “I know how she can be, so I’d like to say that I see your efforts.”

Dhorée did not even hesitate.  Not even at what was as much threat as compliment.  She bobbed a curtsy. “You honor me, my lord.”

Silla nodded.  He bid her farewell and rejoined his escort.  As they left, Silla charmingly inquired after a particular set of gardens.  The steward assigned to babysit him agreed to take a route through them.  Silla smiled.  The note Farou had passed him gave him the particulars of a dead drop with the real information he needed.

Despite Renn being Renn, it wasn’t a bad investment at all to place her here, in the heart of the imperial harem.  Not bad at all.

-

It was another month before Silla reentered the palace.

It was enough time to learn what he needed.  He spent the late afternoon drinking tea with Renn and sympathizing with her whispered complaints to him.  She passed him a few crumbs of interesting leads.  He reassured her that her current position protected her from Her Majesty.  When he brought up the subject of the apothecary and her work on ensuring the “many princes,” he was hardly surprised when she put her cup down.

“I suppose,” Renn said carefully. “I suppose I may have been quick to judge.  These servants don’t always get to chose their master.  Some just need the luck of finding the right one.”

“Oh?” Silla smiled. “What a change of attitude.  Am I to be an uncle already?”

“No, Silla,” Renn stated as if he were very slow. “It’s only been a few weeks.  But.  She has helped me with my complexion.  And–” She leaned toward him as if this were some great secret.  She imparted to him an anecdote of how Dhorée managed to move the head of the seamstress department out of Renn’s way when the woman didn’t fit a dress to her liking.  A nasty ailment of the stomach that crippled her for two weeks.

“Well, well,” Silla said. “What busy little bees you two have been.  But all the same, I’d like to speak to her, if you would.  You are, after all, not here to meddle in the lives of seamstresses, but to bear a prince.”

Renn stared at him for a moment, and he could tell she was biting back an angry comment.

“Very well,” she finally said.  She gestured to a servant.

She was as he remembered her: dark like himself and Renn, and crowned with intricate braids.  And that expression which told him nothing.  It seemed to tell Renn that the apothecary was suitably servile and compliant.  He suspected this was not entirely true.

Silla spent some time questioning Dhorée over his sister’s baby-making progress.  Dhorée properly apologized for not producing results beyond what is naturally possible.  They spent some time discussing Renn, the lady herself quite pleased with the topic of conversation.  But the hour approached in which the Emperor would select which wife to summon.  It would likely be Renn.

Silla put down his cup. “I must go.  But first, I’d like to thank you, Dhorée.”

“My lord, I have done nothing–”

“And that is exactly why I thank you,” Silla smiled. “After all, you had a month’s worth of opportunities to tell the Empress my sister has no intention of having an imperial child.”

Renn dropped her teacup.  She gaped at Silla.  Dhorée maintained her bland expression.

“I’m sure that’s not true, my lord,” the apothecary stated calmly.

“No, it’s quite true,” Silla said, ignoring Renn’s sputtering. “For one, I know my sister.  So I know it.  But I know you, Dhorée, know it because I said the words ‘many princes’ when you first took her pulse.  The pulse tells all, and it would have told you exactly what you’d need to know to give Her Majesty leverage.  But–” He gestured at the pretty garden around them, directly adjacent to Renn’s quarters. “But it’s clear that the Empress’s wrath hasn’t descended on us.”

Renn swiveled to stare at Dhorée.  Dhorée remained focused on Silla.

“Perhaps, then, His Lordship could tell Lady Renn to stop inducing vomiting on herself after taking the fertility medicine I’ve made her.”

Silla’s brow jumped. “Renn,” he mock-scolded.

“I–” his sister started, horror etched in her face. “I– I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that so?” Silla asked.

“Silla,” Renn said, turning to him earnestly. “Please.  Can’t it just be enough that His Majesty is in love with me?  Everyone knows I’ve been with him the most this month–”

“And what about when he stops summoning you every night?  What about when he gets a newer wife?  What about when you are old and alone?” Silla stated.  He dropped his blithe tone and the playful rise in his brow.  He stared hard at his sister.

She dropped her eyes. “I…”

“You didn’t think about it, I know.  That’s why I’m here.  And that’s why you need to listen to me.”

Renn stared at him. “Why do I… I never wanted children.  I never…”

“You’ll spend nine months being doted on by the entire court, a few hours of labor, and it’s done.”

The lady was silent.  Dhorée gently cleared her throat.

“There’s plenty of time, my lady,” she said.

Renn was silent.  Then the imperial messenger came for her again, and she nodded to Silla’s pointed look.  The lady left with a swish of rick silks and the tinkling of her pearl strands.  Silla did not get up, and did not dismiss Dhorée.  Around them, the garden whispered its secret scents to them, fluttery with tea lights.  The stars were coming out.

Dhorée gazed at him. “Why are you trying to help me?”

“I said before, I know she can be difficult.  Anything to help ease tensions.”

“No.  That’s not it,” Dhorée said.  Her eyes hardened. “Let me ask again.  Why are you trying to help me?”

Silla smiled. “Why don’t you explain it to me.”

She frowned.  She looked as if she was about to stand and stride away.  But she shook her head and said, “If I were informing to Her Majesty, why help dispel Lady Renn’s suspicions?  Why not just have me quietly disappear?”

“Like I said,” Silla stated, leaning back into his seat and crossing a foot over his knee. “I already gave you an opportunity for the Empress to be rid of Renn.  Either you are not as loyal to Her Majesty as she may think, or she is playing a grander game.  I’m interested in seeing which it is.”

Dhorée stared at him, her shoulders back and her neck elegantly long.

“And besides.  You just said if you were informing to Her Majesty.  Implying you aren’t, or at least might not be.”

The apothecary maintained her calm gaze.  She tilted her chin up, her black eyes meeting his.

“I know what I said,” Dhorée stated softly.

Silla smiled.  Around them, the garden sighed sweetly.

-

The affair began two months later.

Lady Renn accompanied the Emperor to the hunting lodge of a friend, and the lady brought nearly her entire retinue with her, including Dhorée.  It went much as these things do:  Silla showed up one day, delighting his sister and his brother-in-law, there was a grand party (the kind with alcohol and poor decisions and backstabbing), her eyes met his across a crowded room, and he followed her into a quiet little room.

She pulled away from that first hungry kiss to exhale, “You’re married.”

Silla breathed, licking his lips as he looked at her. “So are you.  All beings within the palace belong body and soul to His Majesty.”

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter that they could only meet in the few instances where Silla was permitted to visit his sister, or the handful of times he had Dhorée spirited out of the palace.

It didn’t matter when Renn had a miscarriage that upset her so much, the Emperor pitied her terribly, and seemed to favor her all the more.  Silla never asked if it had been Dhorée’s doing.

It didn’t matter that they were suspicious of one another, probing the other’s motives with barbed words and traps disguised as scraps of information.

It didn’t matter that Renn grew overconfident, and began an underhanded solicitation of politicians.  She accrued a secret wealth of favors-owed, which Silla drew from time to time.  Dhorée looked the other way.

It didn’t matter that one soiree Silla was accompanied by his wife.  And Dhorée had to smile by Renn’s side while the nobility laughed over delicate refreshments.

It didn’t matter that the Empress still sent flowers to Dhorée on her birthday, and other little gifts.

None of it mattered.  And before they could even take their bearings, Silla and Dhorée were caught up in a whirlwind of their entanglement.

Two years passed in this manner.

-

“I don’t see why you are being so difficult,” Renn said testily.

“Really?” Silla stated, his voice uncharacteristically high-pitched. “You really can’t imagine why I’d object.”

The lady leaned back into her settee, her every movement setting off a glittering music of jingling bracelets, necklaces, and earrings.  Her fondness for jewels and pretty metal had only grown over the years.  The redwood furniture now wore gilding along every edge.  Dhorée quietly poured tea for them.

“You haven’t been promoted in ages,” Renn complained, on the side of whining. “And it’s not just a general’s braids I could get you.  A ministership–”

“It’s nepotisim and bribery, Renn.  You may have forgotten, but the imperial harem has laws,” he hissed.

Renn’s nose snarled. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?  I’ve taken precau–”

“I don’t think you are, I know you are.  And you haven’t been cautious enough.  If I could find out enough to be alerted to the dire need to come here and scold you, then other people know, too.”

“Fine, fine,” Renn snapped. “You don’t have to get your knickers in a twist over it.  I was just trying to do something nice for you–”

“Stop doing nice things for me.  For anyone, for that matter.  Put your head down and worry about how much the Emperor wants you.”

Dhorée shifted on her feet.  He’d really wasn’t pulling the punches today.  Lady Renn had been summoned less and less lately.  The lady’s complexion furled in angry splotches.  She dismissed her brother with a haughty ring in her voice.  Silla left, his cloak snapping behind him.

Lady Renn was in a mood the rest of the day.  Dhorée brewed a calming tea for her, adjusted the fertility concoction she was still taking with no result (after two years the apothecary would blamed at this point, but of course she hadn’t been), and gave the lady a pressure point massage.

Lady Renn finally let her go at that point.

As Dhorée walked the back halls of the palace, servants made room for her and remade their expression to cool servility.  For one thing, an apothecary was somewhere between a servant and a favored lady-in-waiting.  Except the education was much more demanding, and the stakes were much, much higher.  No servant wanted to ever catch the attention of an apothecary, especially when her mistress held the sort of reputation Lady Renn did in the kitchens, the sewing rooms, and the servant quarters.

Dhorée walked on placidly.

Her little set of rooms had a pleasant view of the northern palace wall, over which a shimmering fractal of ocean could be seen.  She had her own sitting room, a workshop, and a bedroom.  As Dhoré walked across her fine silken carpet, shrugging off her outer robe to throw onto her bed, she found Silla sitting up in said bed.

“Yet another thing I have to hold against Renn,” he said, pushing himself up. “Her keeping you from me.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dhorée told him without much force.

He stood on his long legs and reached for her, his rough military man’s hand taking hers scented with acrid herbs.  She let him lead her to the edge of the bed.  He sat back on the emerald silks, holding her at the hip and looking up at her face.  Their knees rested together.

“What is it, Silla?” Dhorée asked quietly.  She curled her fingers in the dense bristles at the base of his neck, kneading lightly.

Silla heaved a sigh and closed his eyes.  He was silent for a long time.  He knew what she meant; they always knew exactly what the other meant now.  They spoke a shared language of insinuation and allusion.  They were the same breed of creature.

“We caught the Bloody Edge a month ago,” Silla finally stated. “Usually he’s so careful, but we kidnapped his husband.  Grabbed him during the ransom exchange.  He was brought in.  And…”

Silla shrugged, looking hard and blank at nothing.  Or maybe looking at something he wished was nothing.

“And this bullshit with Renn– Goddamit.”

Letting go of her, he bent forward and ground the heel of his palm into his closed eyes.

Dhorée removed her hand from the back of his neck.  

“I can’t fix those problems, Silla,” she said.

She lightly ghosted her fingertips along his jaw.

“What do you want?” she said.

Silla looked back up at her.  His dark eyes shone out of his blue-black and handsome face.  Sliding his hands back onto her hips, he pulled her toward him again.  Staring up at her, he placed a soft kiss over her dress near her navel.

“I want you on this bed.  I want you to let me have my way with you.”

Dhorée climbed over him, knees sinking into the feather mattress beside his thighs.  He fell back as she hovered over him.

She kissed him. “That, I can do.”

[biofunmy]

$1.8 Million Homes in Rhode Island, New York and Texas

Providence, R.I. | $1.75 Million

A four-unit 1840s brick rowhouse with a total of four bedrooms and four bathrooms, on 0.06 acres

This house is the last in a stretch of five rowhouses on College Hill that were designed in 1845 by Russell Warren, who worked in the Greek Revival style. The owner occupies, and will vacate, the second floor; the other three floors are individually rented, with leases from one to three years and monthly rents from $2,000 to $2,600. The owner renovated the second, third and fourth floors after buying the property in 2017. The previous owner lives on the ground floor.

The home is between the Rhode Island School of Design and Brown University campuses (mere minutes on foot in both directions). It is a block from Memorial Park and a 10-minute walk from the train station. Travel time to Boston by train is about 45 minutes. The Providence Athenaeum, a library that was founded in its current form in 1836, is on the same block.

Size: 5,100 finished square feet

Price per square foot: $343

Indoors: Each floor has a living room, dining room, kitchen, small bedroom and bathroom. On the first floor there is an extra room that was once an office with a private entrance.

On the second floor, the living and dining room ceilings are 13 feet high and have plaster medallions; both rooms also have crown moldings, wood-burning marble fireplaces, window shutters and parquet floors. The renovated kitchen in this unit has new linoleum checkerboard flooring, granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The dining room is used as a bedroom, and the bedroom has been turned into a den.

On the third floor, the dining room has original quarter-sawn oak floors and a marble fireplace, and the kitchen, which extends into the room, has walls topped in transom windows, and a parquet floor. The third-floor bathroom includes patterned linoleum floor tiles and a claw-foot tub.

The garret-like fourth floor has lower ceilings and smaller windows than the units below. The floors are mainly vintage boards. The bathroom, which includes white beadboard walls and a claw-foot tub, was recently expanded.

Outdoor space: All four units have access to the backyard, which has brick paved patio spaces and lush planted areas. Private rear decks are attached to the second and third floors. There are three deeded spaces in the parking lot behind the property.

Taxes: $16,669 (if the property is owner-occupied; for an investor, the taxes are $28,641)

Contact: Nelson Taylor, Taylor & Associates, Mott & Chace Sotheby’s International Realty, 401-486-1948; stwmls.mlsmatrix.com

Brooklyn, N.Y. | $1.795 Million

A loft with three bedrooms and two bathrooms in a circa-1900 condominium building

This apartment is a second-floor walk-up in a five-unit brick-and-limestone building. It is a block and a half west of the fine restaurants and F and G subway stops on Smith Street, and a block north of the highly regarded P.S. 29 elementary school on Henry Street. The sellers have owned the property since 2007 and have replastered, repainted and upgraded the kitchen and bathrooms. They also installed a new boiler.

Size: 1,450 square feet

Price per square foot: $1,238

Indoors: The unit has a combined living-and-dining area with high ceilings, hardwood floors, oversized windows and painted brick walls. There is also a wood-burning fireplace. The owners removed a half bathroom from this area and added a closet.

Two side bedrooms are off a hallway (one is quite narrow), and a large, quiet master bedroom faces the back. The galley kitchen has GE and Fisher & Paykel appliances. There is a full bathroom off the hall and another in the master. Each bathroom has white subway tile and a combined tub and shower.

Outdoor space: Cobble Hill Park, a half-block green space, is a short walk away. No off-street parking is available with this property.

Taxes: $5,832, plus a $272 monthly homeowner’s fee

Contact: Jamie Fedorko or Jessica Swersey, Warburg Realty, 917-969-5773; warburgrealty.com

Dallas | $1.799 Million

A 1929 house built in the style of a Normandy chateau, with four bedrooms and three bathrooms, on 0.99 acres

Robert L. Thornton Sr., a businessman who served as mayor of Dallas from 1953 to 1961, bought this property from its bankrupt first owner in the Great Depression, finished the house and lived there until his death in 1964. (His family remained for another decade.) The current owner bought it in 2005 and made some improvements, especially to the elaborate grounds. The house has two-year-old custom doors and windows and a four-year-old slate roof with six-inch copper gutters (oxidized for an antique look).

Called Chateaux des Grotteaux, the property sits behind an iron gate in the Lakewood neighborhood, five miles northeast of downtown Dallas. It is less than a mile west of White Rock Lake and a mile and a half west of the Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden.

Size: 3,201 square feet

Price per square foot: $562

Indoors: The main entrance takes you past topiary and stone urns into a living room that resembles a great hall, with a double-height ceiling with trussed beams, polished wood flooring, a wall of enormous steel-framed windows and a curved plaster fireplace with gas logs. An archway at the end leads to a circular dining room (the base of a tower) with parquet floors, original diamond-paned windows and a molded plaster decorative ceiling. (The adjacent kitchen functions, but is badly in need of renovation.) Above the dining room is a circular study that was once a poker room. At the top of the tower is a crenelated roof deck.

A second archway takes you up a few steps to a large bedroom with a bay window and a decorative plaster ceiling. This room has the use of a vintage bathroom faced in lilac tiles, with a tub, a separate shower and a bidet. A much smaller bedroom is next to the study.

Another, unconnected bedroom wing is reached by a large spiral staircase at the opposite end of the living room. (The home also has an elevator, but it is currently not operable.) A room that was used by Mrs. Thornton includes a vaulted ceiling with dark beams, a carved rococo fireplace mantel and walls covered in bird-patterned paper. Steel-framed glass doors open to a private balcony overlooking the backyard.

Mr. Thornton occupied a room that has a tray ceiling, mirrored closet doors, a niche with built-in storage and its own balcony. A hallway bathroom between the two rooms used by the Thortons needs to be finished (it was gutted during the installation of an antique stained-glass window).

Outdoor space: The grounds have meandering paths, stone walls, specimen trees, a patio, a renovated saltwater swimming pool, a restored koi pond, a gazebo, a small amphitheater and a curving staircase descending to a subterranean “secret” garden. The original carriage house has been partly renovated, with a concrete foundation, electricity, plumbing and a patio. The antique cannon in front (as well as other cannons on the grounds) will remain (the statuary is negotiable). A garage was torn down, but materials are in place for new construction, including bricks and slate tiles that match the main building.

Taxes: $22,494

Contact: DeCarla Anderson, Compass, 214-695-9043; compass.com

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An Imperfect Mirror

Pamela and I were rocketing through the big empty dark of southern Utah … a darkness broken only the moonlit silhouettes of the Wasatch Range … happily blasting Led Zeppelin and scaring off all the jackrabbits, when her gas warning blinked on. Over the last several hours of driving, the needle had been dropping too close to E for my comfort, but we hadn't encountered a single gas station for hundreds of miles. We had no choice but to press on. This wasn't a matter of forgetfulness; I'd made sure to fill up Pamela's tank before we climbed the twisting passes leading away from Bryce Canyon. But when the dreaded yellow symbol finally appeared, inevitable as a utility bill, we were still 69 miles from salvation, and running on reserves. We had no cell phone reception, no other traffic to speak of besides the occasional horn-blaring big rig, and nothing to assuage the feeling that we were in real trouble.

I tried to remember what to do in situations like this. Should we just try to coast through? We were, after all, in very hilly terrain, with lots of steep grades and long slopes … maybe we could just roll through most of the remainder? I tried to position myself behind trucks, following in their wakes to lessen our drag, but that didn't seem to make much difference. I put my hazards on whenever we climbed a hill, as I didn't dare give her too much gas, and I braked sparingly. But the yawning desert darkness remained, thick and menacing, and now it was being interrupted less frequently by porch lamps or distant feed lots or ... well ... anything. We were in the high desert now, the real deal, nothing but rocks and sagebrush and, presumably, the skeletons of stranded motorists.

Desperate, my thinking veered towards the magical. I prayed, I cursed, I bargained. I even changed the music I was playing, as if any particular genre or sound might tax Pamela's resources too heavily. "Nirvana? Nah … too intense. Gotta stay calm. Calm, calm, calm. WE'VE GOT TO STAY CALM. Sondheim? Too wordy. Nat King Cole? Perfect."

The moon rose from the horizon, looking sanguine and engorged. There were only a handful of hamlets on this stretch of road, and not a one of them offered gas. Town after town had "NO SERVICES" emblazoned on their exit signs. Assholes.

But somehow, by dumb luck or the grace of benevolent angels, we limped back into civilization. Just barely. We coasted into the gas station, sputtering as we arrived at the one vacant pump. I'm convinced that Pamela wouldn't have made it another fifty yards. It is a staggering miracle that we landed where we did, when we did. All of the tiny decisions I made (or didn't make) on the road, all of the accidental delays … like the open-range cattle plopping themselves on the highway, the recklessly leaping deer, the long traffic light, the occasional photo opportunity … everything came together so perfectly, like the tiny wheels of a fine watch, just so that Pamela would cough out within feet of a pump.

I shouldn't be so surprised, though. Utah has been challenging me with such suggestions of perfection, over and over again.

I had started out my day in a completely different but equally spare environment. After a stunning sunrise over the Bonneville Salt Flats, one of the weirdest ecosystems on our planet, I chugged down a bunch of bad gas station coffee and drove a considerable distance to reach Bryce Canyon, one of my biggest "bucket-list" items. Between the Great Salt Lake and the upper edge of America's Grand Staircase lie hundreds of miles of cattle ranges, broad mountain valleys, and abandoned mine shafts. When you see a car commercial … you know, the kind of commercial where throaty rock music and vaguely pornographic narration lends some machismo to a gas-guzzler, the kind with plenty of helicopter shots and acceleration, all for an SUV with the name of a desert town or a Native tribe … this is the landscape they're driving through. Long stretches of the road were almost cartoonishly perfect, with fluffy white clouds in the blue and just the right number of horses prancing across the sagebrush. I enjoyed some of the longest stretches of empty road I've ever seen, right up until I arrived at the touristy zoo of the park.

The dramatic forms of Bryce Canyon were formed by not only the usual suspects of wind and water, but also by the expansion of ice. Water seeps into existing fissures, and then it freezes, which helps to pry the cracks further open. This unrelenting freeze/thaw cycle acts as a giant chisel, whittling away the softer rock layers and leaving weird stacks of the hard stuff behind. The same thing happens over and over again: a protruding plateau gets weathered down into a fin, which is then undercut by a number of small holes, holes that slowly grow into windows and arches, and the lashing rain and howling winds continue to do their work, until eventually you're left with only a freestanding tower … a hoodoo. In this particular area, where the process seems to have been magically sped up, the collective results of all this sculpting are simply mind-blowing. Thousands of these pinnacles are clumped together, standing in such close proximity and order that they have the organized look of soldiers, or sentinels. Some of their forms seem architectural. With a little imagination, your mind transforms these shapes into the components of a fantastic castle: spires, turrets, crenellations, a portcullis.

As I stood at the rim, gazing down with absolute astonishment at the natural amphitheater, an elderly woman standing next to me whispered, reverently, "It's just so perfect." And she was right. The canyon feels like a living sculpture. Studying its spatial complexities, color palette, and fine balance of space and density, one might struggle to grasp how it's all just one big geological accident. It just looks so … designed.

Beyond the seeming perfection of the landscape, though, I was struck by the perfection of my arrival time. I had somehow managed to get there when the horde of tourists … pink noses and plastic visors and big woven purses and sunglasses with the stickers left on … had thinned down considerably, leaving me alone for long stretches on the rim trail. The weather could not have been more pleasant, not too hot and not too cold, but occupying that wonderful Goldilocks zone of "just right". The ratio of clouds to sunlight meant that my view was full of roving shadows and dazzling beams. I had rolled in just as the giant buses were rolling out, at the hour when the ponderosas provided some shade but the canyon remained brilliantly lit.

On the surface of things, my time at Bryce Canyon might seem utterly distinct from what I experienced earlier at Bonneville. It's hard to believe these two different environments could occupy the same planet, much less the same state. But their spiritual impacts were quite identical: first there was awe at the visual grandeur, and then there was a deepening appreciation for the forces at work, and then there was a profound gratitude for the timing of our arrival.

Let me take you back a little, to the night before.

The Bonneville Salt Flats, as the name suggests, is a broad, flat expanse of hardened salt, the compressed remnants of a long-evaporated inland sea. The crust of crystals is so thickly packed that it makes a surface durable enough to drive upon, even at high speeds; as a result, Bonneville has become a world-class destination for racing and speed trials. Many world records have been broken on this stretch, and many movies have been filmed before its fantastic backdrops.

For much of the summer, the flats are bone dry, swept clean by the winds coming down off of the Silver Island Range. Occasionally, though, some water collects on the surface. It's never much, maybe only two inches deep or so, but the whiteness of the salt, and the water sitting atop it, are enough to create the effect of a huge mirror. Throughout the day, the atmosphere and mountains are reflected, creating a spectacular symmetry at the horizon. As visitors wade across the shallow pool, this sight gets disrupted in a jarring way … everybody seems to be tiptoeing across the sky.

The flats are supervised by the Bureau of Land Management, which allows the public to visit and explore the region at will. It's a pretty sweet spot for camping, though everything you own will get encrusted with salt, and the brackish solution will totally rust out your vehicle's undercarriage if you don't promptly wash it out. The single road that leads onto the crust only goes about three miles or so, and then it kind of peters out. Everyone leaves their shoes behind at this threshold, and for good reason … take just a few mucky transitional steps beyond where the asphalt ends, and your feet are standing on the hard salt.

After a few hours of wandering about, I struck up a conversation with an angelically beautiful engineer from Illinois. He was traveling through the West, wandering at will, camping in his pimped-out van and filling his phone with neat pictures of national parks and monuments. Together, we decided to venture out a mile or so across the waste, watching the light change as the sun sank behind the mountain peaks. The salt crust was hell on our bare feet … really, just murder on our poor soles … but the water felt soothingly warm, the breeze remained refreshing, and the total scene was electrifying. A faint haze on the horizon, the fuzzy edges of which blended into the deepening blue of the water, got tinted the most delicate salmon pink by the sunset; it was so particular a hue, so subtle, that no photograph could ever do it justice. It was the kind of evening light that manages somehow to be both gentle and vivid, the kind of light that makes your eyes feel really alive. It cast a special mood over things. Our voices remained quiet, though our shared amazement rose. I was happy to share this walk with someone else.

This liquid mirror never remained entirely smooth. The wind would skim across the surface, creating lots of little chevrons and moirés. And as my new friend and I walked, and chatted, our ankles sent more ripples outward, ripples which encountered various small obstacles … pebbles, forgotten bits of tire tread, a rusty nail, irregularities in the salt surface … and then these got split into other, lesser waveforms, which in turn further fragmented the clouds and mountains. The crust would sometimes slough off a few flakes or clumps, which whirled and bumped each other like tiny rafts caught in opposing currents. But, somehow, all of these imperfections served only to heighten the sense of unreality, the surreal and dreamlike quality of it all. It felt like we were two bold explorers, traversing an alien landscape for the first time. We watched in awe as the twilight deepened, and the stars emerged, and then the moon, nearly full and orange as a pumpkin, rose above its shimmering counterpart. At one point, as the last of the sunlight dimmed behind the peaks, the color of the sky/water precisely matched the engineer's eyes, so much so that it seemed like he was of a piece with the environment, or that he was perhaps an embodiment of the experience itself. And it is this collection of odd details that I will remember most fondly from my hours at Bonneville … the smile of the stranger with sky-colored eyes, the unexpected flowering of friendship in a flowerless place, a shallow lake that twinned the moon and doubled the stars, a reflection with plenty of compelling flaws, an imperfect mirror, the essence of perfection.

[newstfionline]

The lovable microstate of San Marino

The Week, October 19, 2017

There’s “no need to apologize if you haven’t heard of San Marino,” said Colin Covert at the Minneapolis Star Tribune. Centered on a mountain ridge in northeastern Italy, this tiny nation of 31,000 “could barely fill a thimble.” Officially known as the Most Serene Republic of San Marino, it is, by some accounts, the world’s oldest sovereign nation, having been founded in 301 by Saint Marinus, a stonemason who was fleeing religious persecution. Though the country isn’t unusually rich in history, culture, or dining, it is “irresistibly appealing,” combining “fairy-tale-pretty” vistas, pristine medieval architecture, and “the ambience of a daffy, slightly sinister Disneyland.” Tax-free shopping is a big draw, and the main cluster of boutiques “range from swank to seedy.” A few steps away stands a palace--and guards wearing ostrich plumes on their heads.

Arriving by bus from Rimini, “I could feel the republic’s wonderland mood coming a long way off.” The capital city itself is perched on a sheer mountain ridge, and it “looked far-fetched the minute it came into view.” Three tall watchtowers, two of which are accessible, rise above crenellated walls. In the shops that line the cobblestone streets below, I perused jewelry, fine fashion, and other luxury goods, and also came across vendors selling pistols, crossbows, and AK-47s to just about anybody. San Marino, I learned, has the most relaxed gun laws in Europe, and its anything-goes approach explains why bottles in the wine shops bear images of Hitler, Stalin, and naked women. Banking rules are notoriously loose, too, which tells you why some restaurants are filled with men in fine suits and women in diamonds.

To reach the gate of the old citadel by car requires driving up a “nosebleed-steep” switchback road. You can also get there by gondola, and either way is worth the trouble. From anywhere on the city’s walls, you soak in 360-degree views of the Italian countryside, with the Adriatic often visible to the east. In late fall, fluffy low-hanging clouds might shorten the vistas, but they also add to the mystique. “San Marino doesn’t feel real, but it’s make-believe beautiful.”

[indiatourplann-blog]

Famous Tourist Places In Rajasthan

Jaipur

Rajasthan's beautiful Pink City Jaipur, was the stronghold of a clan of rulers whose three hill fortresses and series of palaces in the city areimportant attractions. Known as the Pink City, Jaipur's bazaars sell embroidered leather shoes, blue pottery, tie and dye shawls and other exotic wares. Western Rajasthan itself forms a convenient circuit in the heart of the Thar Desert, which has shaped its history, lifestyles and architecture.

Founded in AD 1727 by Sawai Jaisingh II, Jaipur the capital of Rajasthan is popularly known as the Pink City with wide avenues and spacious gardens. The capital of Rajasthan, Jaipur, is steeped in history and culture. Here the past comes alive in magnificent forts and palaces, blushed pink, where once lived the maharajas. The bustling bazaars of Jaipur, famous for Rajasthani jewelery, fabric and shoes, possess a timeless quality and are certainly a treasure-trove for the shoppers. This fascinating city with its romantic charm takes you to an epoch of royalty and tradition.

Jaipur has been laid according to the traditional nine-grid pattern that astrologers believe to be lucky, and which has been recommended in the ancient Indian treatise on architecture. Each grid is made up of a square, and these have been planned so that at the heart of the city is the City Palace. Spread around it, in rows, are public buildings, the residences of noblemen, the living and trading quarters of merchants and artisans. Straight, wide roads run through the city, while a high, crenellated wall that forms its defense is pierced with seven gateways that serve as entry points. Today, these walls may be more difficult to spot since the city has grown far beyond its original plan, but they are still there, proof that although Jaipur saw no great siege, it was more than adequately prepared for it.

Jaipur architectural planning may have been ancient, but its execution was definitely modern. Best represented by the CityPalace complex, it brought together all that was excellent in Rajput and Mughal architecture, creating a new tradition that found wide currency over much of northern India. As in the Mughal tradition, the durbar or court areas became much more open, characterized by a series of arched pavilions held on delicately crafted pillars. Ornamentation had always been a part of the state architectural heritage, now it became much more opulent. The private wings of the family also extended their entertainment areas. Since the defense was no longer a primary concern, larger, more ornamental windows were built to look over the streets or courtyards outside these wings. The gardens were no longer planned within the inner courtyards, but were added to the external views, and water, a basic feature of Mughal palaces and gardens, was utilized in a similar fashion, in canals and fountains.

Jaipur has a lot to offer visitors everything from festivals to festivals to extraordinarily clad people, a wealth of handicrafts, royal legacy of palaces, and sightseeing that will occupy their time. However, should the visitors simply choose to walk around the streets instead of the old city, they will not regret it. All of Jaipur is an architectural gem, and no scheduled sight seeing can even hope to do justice to this rare city.

Top places to visit in Jaipur.

Jaisalmer

The History of Jaisalmer has a charm of its own. Like all other cities of Rajasthan, Jaisalmer too has its own glorious past to boast about. History of Jaisalmer draws heavily from the history of the Rajputana. The city is said to be founded by a Raja Rawal Jaisal, a BhattiRajput ruler, in about 1156 D. Legends go by that he did it on the orders of a local emaal named Eesaal. The raja choose Trikut hill as the new site for his fort. This was because he thought that his previous residence at Luderwa (16km from present Jaisalmer) was vulnerable to possible enemy assaults.

In medieval times, Jaisalmer continued to be the focus of the masses because of its location. It falls in the way of one of the two routes, which connected India from Persia, Egypt, Africa and the West. The Bhatti Rajput rulers were still in line. They were the sole guardian of the city and thus gathered enough wealth through tax levied on the passing caravans, of which there was no scarcity.

For many years Jaisalmer was left out of bounds by foreign rulers partly because of its location and partly because of its relief. In the mid thirteenth century, Ala-ud-din Khilji, the Turk-Afghan ruler of Delhi laid the siege over the city. He was apparently upset with the Bhatti Rajput rulers because they stopped and looted one of his caravans containing royal coffer which was on its way to Sind. The siege lasted for about 9 long years and when the fall seemed eminent the Rajput womenfolk of the city committed Jauhar (self Immolation to avoid disgrace).

It is said that Duda, the son of Raja Jaisimha, fought vehemently in the battle but was overpowered after the fierce hand to hand combat. He died fighting. His descendants continued to rule the city. Though they had a cordial relationship with the Mughal rulers in Delhi, they fought unsuccessfully with Emperor Humayun. Emperor Shah Jahan gave the right of governance to Sabala Simha, who had the royal patronage and had shown remarkable valor to win the Battle of Peshawar.

In the modern era, Jaisalmer was still a tough nut to crack and was the last among the Rajputana royals to sign the 'Instrument of Agreement' with the British establishment. Even that was achieved after long hours on the negotiation table and after much cajoling from the British establishment in India. In the year 1947, royals signed the agreement to remain in just independent India. Since then it has developed into a major touristdestination as well as a cultural hub of the western India.

Top places to visit in Jaisalmer

Jodhpur

Jodhpur " The Sun City "was founded by Rao Jodha, a chief of the Rathore clan, in 1459. It is named after him only, Jodhpur in Rajasthan, India was previously known as Marwar, Jodhpur is the second largest city in Rajasthan. The old town is separated by a 10-km-long wall surrounding it, as well as eight Gates leading out of it, and the new city is outside the walled city.

Jodhpur is a very popular tourist destination. The landscape is scenic and mesmerizing. Jodhpur city has many beautiful palaces and forts such as Mehrangarh Fort, Jaswant Thada, Umaid Bhavan Palace and Rai ka Bag Palace. Other charms of Jodhpur include the Government Museum and its beautiful Umed garden. The city is known as the "Sun City" because of its bright and sunny weather throughout the year. Read on for more Jodhpur information.

Top places to visit in Jodhpur

Udaipur

Udaipur is a beautiful city, set amidst the Aravalli Ranges of Rajasthan, India. Known for its picturesque lakes, Udaipur also called 'the city of lakes'. The elevated hills and the beautiful lakes make a picture-perfect backdrop to the Udaipur city. Udaipur is considered one of the most romantic cities of the World and later also known as the 'Venice of East'. In the context of Rajasthan, Udaipur is the second most sought after tourist destination of the state, the first being Jaipur. Udaipur had been the capital of Mewar for centuries.

Udaipur has many attractions to catch the attention of the tourists with their charm. The city boasts of various museums, palaces, gardens, monuments and colorful festivals that allure tourists to visit the city for once. The mighty palaces with their exquisite locations transport you directly into the Rajputana era; Lake Palace, for one, has been accredited for being one of the most romantic places around the globe. The massive forts of

capture the interest of people with their sheer structure and architecture. The beautiful temples create a sense of aestheticism with their spiritual extasy.

The lakes acting as oasis under the scorching sun propels a sense of calm along with reminding you at once of the city of Venice. The festivals, altogether colorful and lively, with their frenzy and huge scope cast a spell worthy enough to keep you too in spirit for days to come while the serene gardens, which lend the city its second adoptive name- The Garden City of Rajasthan, are an epitome of how the natural order manages to make its way to flourish even in the desert, uninhibited. Last but not least, anyone even a little interested in digging in the past too is fed through by artefacts and what does not still survives in the heart of the city through museums.

Undoubtedly, Udaipur is undoubtedly a dream destination for a romantic holiday. Every year, thousands of tourists come from all over the globe to visit this romantic city. Udaipur is easily accessible from all major cities of India including Delhi, Mumbai and Jaipur. So, if you are tired of your hectic schedule and daily routine, then plan a trip to the city of lakes to lighten up your worries and tensions. Tour to the romantic city of Udaipur would certainly become an unforgettable part of your memories and you will cherish these memories throughout your life.

Top places to visit in Udaipur

Pushkar

15 km north-west from Ajmer, in the state of Rajasthan, on the desert fringe lies a tiny tranquil town called Pushkar, along the banks of the picturesque Pushkar Lake. One of the holiest and oldest cities of India, Pushkar is a favorite destination for thousands of tourists and devotees. As for legends, Pushkar boasts of over 400 temples, ghats and palaces revealing an entirely different picture of the city. An important pilgrimage site for the Hindus, Pushkar is home to the only temple of Lord Brahma in the country as well as the world. Lord Brahma is known as the creator of the world, as for the Hindu mythology.

Pushkar is located at a height of 510 meters, surrounded by hillocks on three sides. The 'Nag Pahar', or the Snake Mountain, forms a natural boundary between Ajmer and Pushkar. The sleepy, lakeside settlement of Pushkar is of great mythological significance. According to Hindu mythology, lotus petals incidentally fell from the hands of Lord Brahma on the ground at three places, from where water sprouted, leading to the creation of three lakes, Pushkar Lake, Madya Pushkar Lake and Kanishta Pushkar. Pushkar is one such place where Lord Brahma performed "Yagna".

Pushkar Camel Festival is the best time to witness the kaleidoscopic picture of this part of Rajasthan. The riot of colors and liveliness is evident from swirling dancers, tented camps, intricate artwork and towering camels. Thousands of Hindus from across the globe come to Pushkar to take a dip in the holy waters of Pushkar Lake. All in all, Pushkar radiates an ambience of peace and spirituality that casts a lure to visit again and again. Visit Pushkar and catch a glimpse of the unrevealed part of this otherwise drowsy and quiet town, creating a legacy of timeless architectural heritage.

Top places to visit in Pushkar

Bikaner

Lying in the north of the desert state, the city is dotted with scores of sand dunes. Bikaner retains the medieval grandeur that permeates the city's lifestyle. More readily called the camel country, the city is distinguished for the best riding camels in the world and hence boasts of having one of the largest Camel research and breeding farm in the world. The ship of the desert is an inseparable part of life here. A camel besides doing transportation duties, also works on wells.

These are built on high plinths with slender minarets on each of the four corners and can be noticed even from a distance. The history of Bikaner dates back to 1488 when a Rathore prince, Rao Bikaji founded his kingdom. Bikaji was one of the five sons of Rao Jodhaji the illustrious founder of Jodhpur. But Rao Bikaji was the most adventurous of them. It is said that an insensitive remark from his father about his whispering in the Durbar provoked Bikaji to set up his own kingdom towards the north of Jodhpur.

Gajner Palace, Bikaner Travel & Tourism The barren wilderness called Jangladesh became his focus point and he transformed it into an impressive city. He completed his task with 100 cavalry horses and 500 soldiers, and established his kingdom on 84 villages abandoned by the 'Shankhlas'. When Bikaji died in 1504 his rule had extended to over 3000 villages.

Modern Bikaner is the result of the foresight of its most eminent ruler Maharaja Ganga Singh (1887-1943) whose reformative zeal set the pace for Bikaner transformation from a prince to a premier princely state. The strategic location of Bikaner on the ancient caravan routes that came from West / Central Asia made it a prime trade center in those times.

Bikaner stands on a slightly raised ground and is circumscribed by a seven-kilometer long embattled wall with five gates. The magnificent forts and palaces, created with delicacy in reddish-pink sandstone, bear testimony to its rich historical and architectural legacy. Surging lanes, colorful bazaars with bright and cheerful folks make Bikaner an interesting experience to explore.

Top places to visit in Bikaner

Bundi

 Bundi  just 36 km from Kota is a tiny picturesque town. One of the unexplored cities with a rich historical wealth. Once a part of Kota, it was ruled by the Had Chauhans - a offshoots of the famous Chauhan clan who ruled Delhi and Ajmer. In 1193 AD when Prithvi Raj Chauhan was defeated by Sultan Mohammed Gauri, some Chauhan nobles seeked shelter in Mewar and became allied to the Rana while other young warriors moved towards the Chambal Velly  and overpowered the Meena and Bhil tribals - thus establishing their own kingdom of Hadoti. Later, two branches of Hadas formed tow separate states of Kota and Bundi , on either side of the River Chambal. Bundi is surrounded by the Aravalli hills on the three sides and is circumscribed by a massive wall with four gateways. Interesting monuments including impressive medieval forts, palaces, havelis, temples with beautiful stone idols and chattris with carved pillars, along with a picturesque lake in the heart of the town, add to its charm. Bundi is very famous for its intricate carvings and murals.

Top places to visit in Bundi

[racefortheironthrone]

Just want to start off by saying I love the blog and everything you’ve written about ASOIAF it’s really made me more invested in the setting than I ever was before. Anyway I’ve been wondering about the Lannister’s of Lannisport. It’s said that they control the city but how much power do they actually have with Casterly Rock looming over it? It certainly doesn’t seem like they have any military control what with the Lord of the Rock being the ‘Shield of Lannisport’ and controlling the City Watch.

Thanks very much!

First, Lannisport being in the Westerlands means that the Lannisters of Casterly Rock are still their feudal overlords, regardless of what level of rights they might have on their own.

Second, it’s not at all clear that the Lannisters of Lannisport “control” the city any more. At the end of the Age of Heroes, we know they did to the extent that they were the municipal authority constructing walls and taxing the population, although that could well have been done through a royal license to crenellate.

Given that the Westerlands fleet, which is very much controlled by Casterly Rock, is based out of Lannisport, clearly that independence faded at some point, probably when the Kings of the Rock started calling themselves the Shields of Lannisport. (Incidentally, we don’t know that the Rock does control the City Watch of Lannisport. GRRM said “Tywin Lannister’s infantry was notoriously well disciplined, and the City Watch of Lannisport is well trained as well,” but that’s not a particularly clear statement of fact.)

It’s notable in ASOIAF that neither Stafford Lannister, who was training an army based out of Lannisport, nor Daven Lannister, who reforms that army at Lannisport after it’s defeated at Oxcross, are Lannisters of Lannisport despite having leadership positions in the area. 

[autodaemonium]

nnwiʌlnknəgrmsbslmdi

Pronounced: nnwiulnknuhgrmsbslmdi.

Pantheon of: space, constancy, unemotionality, stinginess.

Entities

Geprəəkvsðkəoytnkvuə

Pronounced: gepruhuhkvsthkuhoytnkvuuh Unemotionality: coldness. Space: hole. Stinginess: illiberality. Legends: hassle. Prophecies: rumble, inscription. Relations: əgəðɪtʃtəgʒbɪðltdtʃiɪæ (fleece).

Kŋemmenaɪtmðʌrəætlkmi

Pronounced: kngemmenaitmthuruhatlkmi Unemotionality: blandness. Space: subarachnoid space. Stinginess: selfishness. Legends: self-defense, selflessness, adoption. Prophecies: sonography, gunfire. Relations: ərmrətkðzðstəərdsvlt (offering), ɪrtʊrrruniotɑɪssɪrsɪ (horseradish peroxidase).

Mɛoəidistokeəŋaɪævʊnð

Pronounced: mayouhidistokeuhngaiavoonth Unemotionality: dispassion. Space: cavity. Stinginess: illiberality. Prophecies: monopolization, dramatics.

Nbtyllðɛssæilvɑərəzm

Pronounced: nbtyllthayssailvahuhruhzm Unemotionality: stoicism. Space: crenel. Stinginess: meanness. Legends: relation, healthcare, vigil, infection. Relations: taɪələʒəaɪæuŋtnəgəzɛwi (corticosterone), ərmrətkðzðstəərdsvlt (orangery), mɛoəidistokeəŋaɪævʊnð (18-karat gold), nwɪʊənyɪouiiədɛʒɛəəɒ (alizarin yellow).

Nwɪʊənyɪouiiədɛʒɛəəɒ

Pronounced: nwioouhnyiouiiuhdayzayuhuhou Unemotionality: stoicism. Space: enclosure. Stinginess: penuriousness. Legends: stumping. Prophecies: charity, backfire. Relations: ərmrətkðzðstəərdsvlt (heart), ɪrtʊrrruniotɑɪssɪrsɪ (spray).

Taɪələʒəaɪæuŋtnəgəzɛwi

Pronounced: taiuhluhzuhaiaungtnuhguhzaywi Unemotionality: stoicism. Space: void. Stinginess: selfishness. Legends: inauguration, operation, urinalysis, funrun. Prophecies: stretch, telephotography, effusion. Relations: geprəəkvsðkəoytnkvuə (copal), tuðəvgtlŋnodʒɪzərɪtew (sebacic acid).

Tuðəvgtlŋnodʒɪzərɪtew

Pronounced: tuthuhvgtlngnojizuhritew Unemotionality: coldness. Space: subarachnoid space. Stinginess: selfishness. Legends: microwave spectroscopy. Prophecies: rebuff, caption, tax collection, chemical engineering, contribution. Relations: taɪələʒəaɪæuŋtnəgəzɛwi (bowstring hemp), ərmrətkðzðstəərdsvlt (ribonuclease).

Ævənhpfðəəltdɪəəθɪdʒə

Pronounced: avuhnhpfthuhuhltdiuhuhthijuh Unemotionality: dispassion. Space: compartment. Stinginess: penuriousness. Legends: wait, disservice, matrimony. Prophecies: cut, peal, quarterfinal, squeeze, medicine. Relations: nwɪʊənyɪouiiədɛʒɛəəɒ (aftershaft).

Əgəðɪtʃtəgʒbɪðltdtʃiɪæ

Pronounced: uhguhthitshtuhgzbithltdtshiia Unemotionality: coldness. Space: enclosure. Stinginess: penuriousness. Legends: consolidation, corrections, drill, lubrication. Prophecies: course, cockfight. Relations: ævənhpfðəəltdɪəəθɪdʒə (beryl), nwɪʊənyɪouiiədɛʒɛəəɒ (perchloric acid), nbtyllðɛssæilvɑərəzm (proof spirit), taɪələʒəaɪæuŋtnəgəzɛwi (unsaturated fatty acid).

Ərmrətkðzðstəərdsvlt

Pronounced: uhrmruhtkthzthstuhuhrdsvlt Unemotionality: dispassion. Space: angle. Stinginess: illiberality. Legends: packaging. Relations: tuðəvgtlŋnodʒɪzərɪtew (cyclooxygenase), geprəəkvsðkəoytnkvuə (mucic acid), kŋemmenaɪtmðʌrəætlkmi (redemption).

Ɪrtʊrrruniotɑɪssɪrsɪ

Pronounced: irtoorrruniotahissirsi Unemotionality: dispassion. Space: swath. Stinginess: illiberality. Legends: arrogance. Prophecies: clock golf, flower gardening, heat. Relations: tuðəvgtlŋnodʒɪzərɪtew (cut).

Ɪðʌtəmuinrloɪnvnlɪfə

Pronounced: ithutuhmuinrloinvnlifuh Unemotionality: stoicism. Space: compartment. Stinginess: penuriousness. Legends: break, shallow fording, race. Prophecies: sitting.

[auskultu]

ANGRY MARINE’S HOPE: A SMALL REFORM IN VIETNAM

Jonathan Randal, The New York Times, 1 June 1967

APDAILA, South Vietnam— On the January day when Sgt. Carroll Soape found out, he came back to the 101 other marines who man this hamlet outpost and said, "I'm not going to wrap myself in the American flag tonight.”

For seven months. Sergeant Soape had felt that his Marine squad, working alongside hamlet militiamen, had helped to give peasants a better life and Improve security for the Danang airfield, seven miles to the east.

The rice crop had been harvested without Vietcong interference, and the peasants had been able to buy cinder blocks for their homes for the first time. The peasants were providing an increasing volume of information on Vietcong movements.

'Pagans' Paying Again Then, Sergeant Soape discovered a Roman Catholic village two miles down the muddy road, a village that had survived for 20 years surrounded first by the Communist-led Vietminh, and now by the Vietcong.

Speaking in French within the high, crenellated walls surrounding the church, the priest explained how his "Christians" were delighted that the Ameri-can had come. For the first time in years. he said, the "pagans"—Buddhist peasants—were again paying the church its due. The nearby dam watering Apdaila's fields, he added, and the pumps flooding the paddies, belonged to the church.

A crestfallen Sergeant Soape. then began to realize that the marines' presence had served only to restore the age-old grip of exploitation that had given the Vietminh and the Vietcong their hold on Apdaila in the first place.

Sergeant Soape was angry. He had become a kind of folk hero for visiting dignitaries, journalists and foreign visitors, whom the Marine command brought out to impress them with what the United States could do in pacification.

Back in Apdaila, Sergeant Soape called in his young interpreter, a village boy named Sang. In pidgin English, sign language and diagrams drawn on the ground, Sang gave the sergeant to understand that the land his father and other peasants worked belonged to one rich man, and that they paid the church for the water and the pumping.

Those charges, plus the Government taxes, were considerably more than the Vietcong had extracted from the peasants—the difference, Sergeant Soape figured, between 70 per cent of the crop and no more than 50 per cent.

Disturbed but undaunted. Sergeant Soape went back to the church and asked the priest how much he would charge to sell the dam and the pumps. The answer was $5,000, a sum I so high that the sergeant felt that the priest hoped to discourage him.

But Sergeant Soape, who had extended his tour of duty to stay in Apdaila, recently flew back to his native Texas on a 30-day leave, promising that he would raise the money there. When he comes back to Apdaila, Sergeant Soape may find the problem already solved. Lieut. Col. William Corson, commander of the "combined action" platoons, the 73 Marine pacification units, has decided to deal with the question in another way.

The colonel believes that South Vietnamese peasants, like many people elsewhere, appreciate most what they have worked to acquire. So he has persuaded the peasants to form a cooperative. Personal loans, he told them, even small loans, are hard to find in South Vietnam and carry high interest rates. But a cooperative, he explained, can take out a $5,000 loan from the Rural Development Bank to buy the dam and the pumps.

The colonel sent men to Saigon, where they foraged a simple air-cooled pump and aluminum piping in a United States warehouse. When the details are worked out, the equipment will be installed. To pay for the equipment and the bank loan the peasants will pledge as collateral four bushels of rice for every five acres of their land, the same amount they now pay for the use of the dam and the pumps.

"Barring the unforeseen," Colonel Corson has said, "they will have paid off the loan and equipment after two crops, or one year. What the peasants want is not propaganda blasting the Communists but a good living, which is the best way to fight the Vietcong anyway."

[juliandmouton30]

"Belarus is a place that badly needs shaking up"

With widespread protest taking place across Belarus, the design of public spaces and social legacies has become a critical project for the nation's architects, says Owen Hatherley in his latest Opinion column.

For one of the least-visited capital cities in Europe, the Belarusian capital Minsk is a city very concerned with its surfaces. In a country often described as Europe's last dictatorship – a definition I suspect will have to be updated in the next few years – it is a city of resplendent facades.

Minsk was destroyed in the second world war and re-planned as an axial, neoclassical showpiece. Its government has retained state ownership of much of its industry and a Soviet approach to much urban development. In the centre, at any rate, buildings are freshly painted, pavements are freshly paved and there is an almost German level of cleanliness. And, by post-Soviet standards, the infrastructure – roads, metros, buses – is fast and straightforward.

This neo-Soviet governance extends to the city's new architecture, although it's the late USSR with all the enthusiasm and futurism gone. In the centre, a reconstruction that began in the 80s proceeds apace. New public buildings are domineering, symmetrical and vaguely classical.

The Belarusian capital Minsk is a city very concerned with its surfaces

In the suburbs, you can see large concrete panels being raised into place to form housing complexes as if it's still the 1970s, but then in the real 70s there was a rich culture of architectural debate within mass housing – and much criticism. Western-style hotels and malls have been built, bland and empty.

Belarus may have missed some of the chaos, war and extreme poverty of its neighbours, but it is a place that badly needs shaking up.

I don't want to put words into their mouths, but this seemed to be part of the project of the sixth Minsk Architectural Forum, an annual workshop for young architects organised by the Belarusian Association of Student Architects. Organisers Stefania Soich and Arzu Mirzalizade had – as is usual for the forum – little financial assistance from the official Union of Architects or Minsk's architecture schools. What money there was came from the sponsorship of a paper manufacturer.

The format is that four groups of architects each work on a project on a chosen theme. This year's theme was defining Minskness, and its expression in the city's many, often large and formal, public squares. I was one of the tutors for one of these four groups, but I wasn't expecting the scene when I arrived at the Forum's venue: the Zair Azgur Museum, dedicated to a Stalinist-era sculptor.

On steel shelves reaching all up to the ceiling of a triple-height space, in a tiny red-brick building in a housing estate, were dozens of busts and statues of notables, writers, revolutionaries and dictators. Mao, Churchill, Thomas Mann, Immanuel Kant, Khrushchev, Kim il Sung, Stalin, and around 20 different Lenins. This was an ingenious place to choose for the young students – most of whom have lived all their lives under Belarus' president Aleksandr Lukashenko – to confront the question of Minskness.

Soviet culture's apparent persistence in Belarus represents more an efficient inertia than a still-extant tradition

Sad as it may be, Soviet culture's apparent persistence in Belarus represents more an efficient inertia than a still-extant tradition. Conservation has served the Stalinist classical centre well.

By contrast, a modernist riverside promenade built between the 1960s and 80s has been disfigured by speculative development. The worst example is a crass, ziggurat-like apartment block that destroys many of the city's meticulously planned vistas, but which rather oddly plays home to Nobel Prize winner and post-Soviet conscience Svetlana Alexievich.

There is propaganda on the streets, showcasing sylvan scenes with "I love Belarus" signs, airbrushed families going to the opera (amazingly cheap, in a city where the cost of living is high) and anti-abortion posters (Lukashenko wants the birth rate up).

The fortnight I was there coincided with the anniversary of the start of the Russian Revolution, when women's day protests spiralled into a strike wave that brought down the Tsar. Minsk's response? A poster campaign celebrating 100 years of the Belarusian police.

Public plazas, such as the preposterously huge October Square, are often empty and chilling, yet a protest wave – against a tax on the unemployed, in a country whose much-publicised employment policies have collapsed under the weight of the financial crisis – was spreading, quietly, around the country.

It is these squares, so obviously a showcase of power and planning, that the students were supposed to focus on. Ukrainian sociologist Natalia Ostrichenko's students developed a series of metrics and graphs to find out how well these spaces were used (don't be disabled in Minsk was one obvious lesson). Belarusian architect and author Dimitrij Zadorin's group proposed turning the shabby, ignored courtyards behind the grand Stalinist facades into community spaces.

Soviet public spaces and social legacies are going to be crucial

My students researched two squares of different eras: Station Square, whose grandiose, crenellated twin towers are a cousin of Berlin's famous Karl-Marx-Allee, and Freedom Square, the centre of the reconstruction project that has tried to graft an 18th-century small town into this totally 20th-century metropolis. One is very post-Soviet, with cramped underpasses full of people selling flowers, pies and lottery tickets. The other has become the city's main hipster district, with craft beer and homemade blinis under the ersatz heritage facades. But both of them, they found, were state projects. In fact, Freedom Square's start-ups and small cafes are carefully managed by a city-run, profit-making Minsk Heritage Company. The students produced a critical brochure for the two squares, where the enticing gateways open out to show a much more complex reality of state capitalism and constantly manipulated heritage.

Satire has to be subtle here. Cynical comments about the authorities are normal, but nobody ever mentions the president. Anthroplogist Michal Murawski's group chose to put all the things they don't like about the city – anti-social interactions, ubiquitous kitsch, surveillance and policing – and throw them into a gigantic bowl of borscht, with the grandiose Dynamo stadium as the bowl. When they unveiled the project to the public at the end of the forum, the students – all dressed in matching borscht-coloured outfits – were keen to distinguish between the Sovok, the remnants of Soviet attitudes, especially to authority, and the Soviet, which they thought could still mean something different to the deeply conservative policies of Minsk's contemporary rulers.

As this most apparently stable of societies faces the most widespread protests in decades, those Soviet public spaces and social legacies are going to be crucial. To see them being approached with such humour and nuance suggests that Belarusian architects are going to have an interesting role to play.

Owen Hatherley is a critic and author, focusing on architecture, politics and culture. His books include Militant Modernism (2009), A Guide to the New Ruins of Great Britain (2010), A New Kind of Bleak: Journeys Through Urban Britain (2012) and The Ministry of Nostalgia (2016).

The post "Belarus is a place that badly needs shaking up" appeared first on Dezeen.

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[jeniferdlanceau]

"Belarus is a place that badly needs shaking up"

With widespread protest taking place across Belarus, the design of public spaces and social legacies has become a critical project for the nation's architects, says Owen Hatherley in his latest Opinion column.

For one of the least-visited capital cities in Europe, the Belarusian capital Minsk is a city very concerned with its surfaces. In a country often described as Europe's last dictatorship – a definition I suspect will have to be updated in the next few years – it is a city of resplendent facades.

Minsk was destroyed in the second world war and re-planned as an axial, neoclassical showpiece. Its government has retained state ownership of much of its industry and a Soviet approach to much urban development. In the centre, at any rate, buildings are freshly painted, pavements are freshly paved and there is an almost German level of cleanliness. And, by post-Soviet standards, the infrastructure – roads, metros, buses – is fast and straightforward.

This neo-Soviet governance extends to the city's new architecture, although it's the late USSR with all the enthusiasm and futurism gone. In the centre, a reconstruction that began in the 80s proceeds apace. New public buildings are domineering, symmetrical and vaguely classical.

The Belarusian capital Minsk is a city very concerned with its surfaces

In the suburbs, you can see large concrete panels being raised into place to form housing complexes as if it's still the 1970s, but then in the real 70s there was a rich culture of architectural debate within mass housing – and much criticism. Western-style hotels and malls have been built, bland and empty.

Belarus may have missed some of the chaos, war and extreme poverty of its neighbours, but it is a place that badly needs shaking up.

I don't want to put words into their mouths, but this seemed to be part of the project of the sixth Minsk Architectural Forum, an annual workshop for young architects organised by the Belarusian Association of Student Architects. Organisers Stefania Soich and Arzu Mirzalizade had – as is usual for the forum – little financial assistance from the official Union of Architects or Minsk's architecture schools. What money there was came from the sponsorship of a paper manufacturer.

The format is that four groups of architects each work on a project on a chosen theme. This year's theme was defining Minskness, and its expression in the city's many, often large and formal, public squares. I was one of the tutors for one of these four groups, but I wasn't expecting the scene when I arrived at the Forum's venue: the Zair Azgur Museum, dedicated to a Stalinist-era sculptor.

On steel shelves reaching all up to the ceiling of a triple-height space, in a tiny red-brick building in a housing estate, were dozens of busts and statues of notables, writers, revolutionaries and dictators. Mao, Churchill, Thomas Mann, Immanuel Kant, Khrushchev, Kim il Sung, Stalin, and around 20 different Lenins. This was an ingenious place to choose for the young students – most of whom have lived all their lives under Belarus' president Aleksandr Lukashenko – to confront the question of Minskness.

Soviet culture's apparent persistence in Belarus represents more an efficient inertia than a still-extant tradition

Sad as it may be, Soviet culture's apparent persistence in Belarus represents more an efficient inertia than a still-extant tradition. Conservation has served the Stalinist classical centre well.

By contrast, a modernist riverside promenade built between the 1960s and 80s has been disfigured by speculative development. The worst example is a crass, ziggurat-like apartment block that destroys many of the city's meticulously planned vistas, but which rather oddly plays home to Nobel Prize winner and post-Soviet conscience Svetlana Alexievich.

There is propaganda on the streets, showcasing sylvan scenes with "I love Belarus" signs, airbrushed families going to the opera (amazingly cheap, in a city where the cost of living is high) and anti-abortion posters (Lukashenko wants the birth rate up).

The fortnight I was there coincided with the anniversary of the start of the Russian Revolution, when women's day protests spiralled into a strike wave that brought down the Tsar. Minsk's response? A poster campaign celebrating 100 years of the Belarusian police.

Public plazas, such as the preposterously huge October Square, are often empty and chilling, yet a protest wave – against a tax on the unemployed, in a country whose much-publicised employment policies have collapsed under the weight of the financial crisis – was spreading, quietly, around the country.

It is these squares, so obviously a showcase of power and planning, that the students were supposed to focus on. Ukrainian sociologist Natalia Ostrichenko's students developed a series of metrics and graphs to find out how well these spaces were used (don't be disabled in Minsk was one obvious lesson). Belarusian architect and author Dimitrij Zadorin's group proposed turning the shabby, ignored courtyards behind the grand Stalinist facades into community spaces.

Soviet public spaces and social legacies are going to be crucial

My students researched two squares of different eras: Station Square, whose grandiose, crenellated twin towers are a cousin of Berlin's famous Karl-Marx-Allee, and Freedom Square, the centre of the reconstruction project that has tried to graft an 18th-century small town into this totally 20th-century metropolis. One is very post-Soviet, with cramped underpasses full of people selling flowers, pies and lottery tickets. The other has become the city's main hipster district, with craft beer and homemade blinis under the ersatz heritage facades. But both of them, they found, were state projects. In fact, Freedom Square's start-ups and small cafes are carefully managed by a city-run, profit-making Minsk Heritage Company. The students produced a critical brochure for the two squares, where the enticing gateways open out to show a much more complex reality of state capitalism and constantly manipulated heritage.

Satire has to be subtle here. Cynical comments about the authorities are normal, but nobody ever mentions the president. Anthroplogist Michal Murawski's group chose to put all the things they don't like about the city – anti-social interactions, ubiquitous kitsch, surveillance and policing – and throw them into a gigantic bowl of borscht, with the grandiose Dynamo stadium as the bowl. When they unveiled the project to the public at the end of the forum, the students – all dressed in matching borscht-coloured outfits – were keen to distinguish between the Sovok, the remnants of Soviet attitudes, especially to authority, and the Soviet, which they thought could still mean something different to the deeply conservative policies of Minsk's contemporary rulers.

As this most apparently stable of societies faces the most widespread protests in decades, those Soviet public spaces and social legacies are going to be crucial. To see them being approached with such humour and nuance suggests that Belarusian architects are going to have an interesting role to play.

Owen Hatherley is a critic and author, focusing on architecture, politics and culture. His books include Militant Modernism (2009), A Guide to the New Ruins of Great Britain (2010), A New Kind of Bleak: Journeys Through Urban Britain (2012) and The Ministry of Nostalgia (2016).

The post "Belarus is a place that badly needs shaking up" appeared first on Dezeen.

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