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We’re going 2 the beach, Robert had texted him two hours ago, with an embarrassing amount of emojis, like Renly should know exactly which beach. Then as an afterthought, bring a bucket and spade.
By the time he finds his brothers, it is sunset. There is not a bucket in sight. They have constructed a keep with barracks and a tourney field from sand and sheer will alone. Renly is impressed for a second, before he feels far too sober to endure a military history lecture from Stannis. Robert pretends to hate them but he always provides sound effects. In another universe, he is an only child with no younger brothers to stop him from spending his entire trust fund on reenacting historical battles.
The castle’s towers are decorated with yellow banners that, upon closer inspection, are actually Robert’s socks.
“You are making sandcastles way too seriously,” Renly announces dramatically. Hands on his hips, he stands above his brothers, enjoying being the tallest for once. There is no universe where he is getting sand on these jeans.
“Every sandcastle should be able to withstand a siege,” Stannis replies without looking up, and Renly realises he is hiding a self-conscious smile in the crook of his shoulder.
Robert is laughing at him with his eyes, using the flat of his hand to shape the battlements. His knees are curled against his chest to keep them out of the moat, sand gathering in the creases of his skin.
They’ve lived next to the sea their entire lives, but Renly thinks this is the first time his brothers have ever taken him to the beach. It’s like one of the home videos from before their parents died: sea, sand, sunburn on Robert’s nose.
“Are soldiers going to storm the sandcastle?” he asks dryly. The sea stretches endlessly under the horizon. It would be a fairly indefensible spot, with only the three of them here to hold it.
Stannis slips into his dad voice. “This used to be a family competition.”
Renly rolls his eyes. He has never met anyone as competitive as his brothers. The first time he suggested brunch, he failed to anticipate that bottomless pancakes would turn into Stannis throwing up on his shoes after losing an eating contest. “Who judged? The seagulls?”
“Mum judged, and she always ranked Dad last.”
“Except that time when you cheated and poured a bucket of water over my masterpiece, you bastard,” Robert accuses Stannis, the inflection for bastard the same as he uses for brother.
“You deserved that,” Stannis answers, sounding fond, “for boasting so much about your flood defences.”
As Robert guffaws, Renly is hit with a wave of nostalgia, not for his parents, but for being young and annoying with older brothers to treat like his own personal soap opera.
These days, he knows better than to pick sides, especially against Stannis. Robert does too.
“Do you have anything for men-at-arms?” he asks Renly, aggressively cheerful, abandoning the argument before it properly starts.
“Do I have anything for-“
“You could use shells,” suggests Stannis, looking at Renly like maybe there are sides after all.
“It’s your sandcastle!” he insists, but he’s been standing still too long anyway, so he makes himself scarce before Stannis’ smile becomes his usual scowl.
It is high tide, so he has to crouch in the shallow water, peering into the waves. The sound is calming, like static, like the comfort of memories he can’t quite remember. He can smell the salt on his fingers as he digs in the wet sand, finding more stones than shells. The cold bites, but the warmth in his chest protects him from worse than waterlogged trainers.
His thumb traces along the smooth underside of a shell, cleaning the sand from its surface before adding it to his selection. Perhaps they should have come to the beach together sooner.
Robert watches gleefully as he treks back from the shoreline. His smile splits his face in half as he is presented with a heaped handful of shells tipped into his lap. Tripping over the consonants, he teases, “He sells seashells by the sea shore.”
Resisting the instinct to stick his tongue out, Renly does the mature thing instead and flips Robert off. To his incredible luck, Stannis misses it, and Robert can’t retaliate without leaning over the sandcastle.
“You’ve ruined my jeans,” Renly complains, tipping his head back to catch the dying light of the sun. He doesn’t feel guilty enough to help Robert line up his shells on the ramparts.
“There’s sand under my fingernails,” returns Stannis, like he is pointing out some much greater hardship. He continues drawing an elaborate criss-cross pattern on the outer wall with his fingertip, presumably the portcullis.
Renly has ended up with a better view of his brother than the sky. He sighs, stretching his neck, then admits defeat. The sandcastle is the only thing worth looking at. His brothers should have been architects, not estate agents.
“Which one is the king?” he asks absently, examining Robert’s shells. None of them are particularly impressive.
Robert laughs with his teeth bared, and Renly is laughing too, before he even hears the punchline. Stannis stares at them with poorly concealed despair. “Whoever would want to be king?”