Having observed a grand total of two courtly courtyards in your lifetime, you're hardly a connoisseur—but what strikes you immediately is the sense of spaciousness here at Westfenster Palace. The well-groomed grounds go for an eternity in both directions before the walls begin to visibly curve away, encircling the distant parts of the royal compound.
There are more topiaries than people visible, each vegetative obelisk taller than you and significantly better-coiffed. Apart from the dozen well-dressed laborers who have come to meet your party and the paunchy, bespectacled man directing their efforts, Westfenster Palace seems scarcely inhabited. A far cry from the termite hill of Hondelet, abuzz with human activity, just outside the gates. Even Ruffino's domain was substantially livelier, with the endless criss-crossing of workers, petitioners and staff.
The palace itself, dead ahead, is clearly older than the rose-stone keep where you earned your bread until recently. Though festooned with bunting and pennants that wave in welcome, no trappings can conceal the grizzled bulk of its stones.
Your repertoire includes enough historical tidbits to know that the lands surrounding Hondelet were endlessly contested during Brenton's warlord past. The city can be forgiven its chaotic look, having been partially razed and rebuilt so many times. And Westfenster too should be forgiven its warlike countenance, you decide, seeing as it was a functional by-God castle in its youth, built with sieges in mind, not aesthetics.
Onward