Ayvansaray guards the seam where Constantinople's land walls once ran down to the Golden Horn, and where, for the empire's final centuries, its emperors actually lived. The old Great Palace by the sea had been abandoned; the court moved north to Blachernae, a district already famous for the Virgin's robe, a relic believed to have turned back besieging fleets and armies. Terraces of vanished palace halls still climb the slope, honeycombed by the grim vaults of the Prison of Anemas, where more than one emperor was blinded and left to fade.
Today Ayvansaray is a hushed working neighbourhood of wooden houses, small mosques raised inside older churches, and washing strung between the towers. You can walk the base of the walls where they run lowest, the stretch defenders feared most, and duck into a courtyard where a sacred spring still trickles beneath a modern chapel, drawing quiet pilgrims. Cats doze on Byzantine stone; the Golden Horn glints below. Little is signposted, and that is the pleasure: the grandest chapter of the city's history left almost entirely to the people who live above it.