Could You make the begining of my story flow better

The grand hall of Hampton Court pulses with life, a beating heart of Tudor opulence. Chandeliers, masterworks of polished silver and glittering crystal, cast a golden glow that dances across the vaulted ceiling like firelight on water. Their slight sway sends soft chimes through the air, crystal bells ringing out wealth and power.
Massive tapestries cling to stone walls, each thread a riot of colour weaving tales of heroes, lovers, and mythical beasts caught in eternal mid-motion. The walls themselves seem to hum with centuries of energy, vying for attention alongside the vibrant gowns that swirl through the air. Velvet and silk move like rich, coloured clouds, shimmering as they brush against the cold stone floor. Each step, each twirl, ripples with unspoken status.
The guests form a sea of finery, their every whisper and murmur a symphony of privilege. It's not mere conversation, but a display—an unspoken competition of who gleams brightest, who holds the most sway. Jewels catch the light, casting their own constellation of twinkling glows.
Air hangs heavy and warm, thick with the press of bodies and heat from roaring fireplaces. A heady bouquet assails the senses: exotic spices and sweet rosewater dance with the earthier notes of roasting venison. From laden tables wafts another wave—spiced ale, dark and fragrant, mingling with the rich oils of roasted meats. Every breath feels like inhaling wealth itself.
Laughter bursts suddenly, sharp and bright, cutting through the constant murmur. Heads turn, seeking its source, as the sound bounces off high stone walls. The moment fades, but its energy lingers, a ripple on the surface of the evening.
Groaning tables showcase the feast's extravagance—roasted pheasants with crisp, golden skin; trays of honeyed fruits; cheeses so pungent their scent slices through the air. Each dish dares guests to indulge more, a lavish statement of endless plenty.
Servants move like shadows in dark livery, eyes down but ears ever open. They weave through the throng with practised grace, balancing trays laden with pewter tankards. Dark ale sloshes dangerously close to the brim as revellers reach out, snatching drinks with casual ease.
At the high table, a trencher overflows with slices of venison, steam rising in fragrant curls. A courtier raises a gilded goblet, wine dark as garnets catching the light. "To the King!" The cry echoes, taken up by a hundred voices. Goblets clash, wine spills, staining wood in crimson pools.
Music cuts through the din—lutes and viols strike up a lively pavane. Couples form on the dance floor, a whirlwind of colour and motion. Feet trace intricate patterns across worn stones, each step precise despite the freely flowing wine. Nearby, a game of dice grows heated, the rattle of bone against wood nearly drowned by shouts of triumph and despair.
In shadowed alcoves, heads bend close in furtive conversation. Every glance exchanged carries weight—alliances forged, flirtations kindled, deals struck without a word. This is no mere celebration; it's a battlefield of whispers and sidelong looks.
As the night deepens, laughter grows louder while conversations hush. The faint flicker of torchlight plays across ancient stone, a reminder that beneath the glamour and indulgence, something older and more dangerous lurks. The tension between revelry and intrigue tightens like a silken noose, binding all in this glittering, perilous dance.