Outsiders' understanding of Westminster Castle usually began when they made a request. That was when they realized it wasn't a fortress the size of a town, but a town fortified into a fortress.
The complex occupied the entire hilltop. It housed not only living quarters where the garrison could stay for extended periods, storerooms, stables, and training grounds, but also a small, elegant chapel, a brewing area and its cellars, livestock sheds, and patches of land for growing fruits and vegetables—mostly lettuce. It was clear they meant to stay here until the end of time.
As the clueless besiegers trudged up the long slope, where a boulder could roll for minutes, and got pelted with things from above, the castle's master would be on an upper terrace of the Inner Castle, enjoying fresh, succulent vegetables and meat while surveying the spectacle with a mug of cold beer or wine brought up from the deep cellar.
Naturally, there were all sorts of workshops, too, handling carpentry and stonework, forging and repairing ironwork, and producing luxury goods for the upper classes. The artisans had helped build the castle since their fathers' and even grandfathers' days, and inherited the duty of serving it. Most things here, large or small, had been made by their hands.
Today, though, the artisans had been given a peculiar request they had never heard of before.
"No, no, I don't think a feather quill will work. It would be difficult to pierce even skin, and it would break easily." With a little pressure, the quill in his hand bent at an angle. The demanding outsider tossed it into the furnace beside him. "I need a hollow tube at least about as thin as this, but much harder and more resilient. Metal would be best, and it needs to