It's not like he doesn't notice at first, the mood-swings, the empty stares, the flat yet rather murderous tone of his voice, full of edges he can't quite put a finger on. While some people have marked him as 'dumb' simply because he prefers not to use his head processing unnecessary details his companions can do in a shorter amount of time, Archibald is not so stupid as to think that Gerris remains unscathed, perfectly fine after Quentyn's death. He and Cletus are probably, possibly the closest people the Prince of Dorne had, has, will ever have. But sometimes, things are not like the way they look on the surface.
They put a stop at a nearby brothel just outside Sunspear, nearly collapsing into the realm of unconsciousness after hours of travelling from the harbour – by foot. Gerris is obviously hurting both physically and mentally. His smooth lightly-tanned skin is blazing red, sunburn marring the exposed skin of his neck, the worst one so far is the condition of his nose. He keeps moaning and bitching and typical Gerris-ish all the way here, and for a fleeting moment, Archibald thinks that perhaps he is alright. Perhaps it's just Archibald going soft, overreacting things due to his mind finally put to work after such a long time.
His second theory of Drinkwater being alright is proven wrong however, approximately three minutes later.
Archie puts the big fat purse of dragons on the counter, dangling it in front of two fair-skin whores with their breasts slipping from their clothes. Their eyes are greedy for nothing but the price in an instant. Now, while Archibald is not big on sharing or anything, Gerris has naught on his pocket. He has insisted on spending his share of wealth to take passage from the Free Cities back here, paying for Archie even though it's clearly unnecessary, leaving them a large amount of gold to spend on whores and food and wine.
Well, only food and wine for Gerris at least. It's a miracle he hasn't thought once, not once did he speak of the soft caresses of a whore's hands or the way their mouths feel wrapped around his cock. Archibald doesn't care, usually, doesn't mean he is not grateful for the deafening silence. His suspicion years ago involving Gerris and Quentyn is confirmed when a rather beautiful boy, around Quentyn's age, complete with the dark black colour of Quentyn's hair and the blue eyes. These ones are not as intense as Quentyn's, he notes.
Gerris wraps his fingers around the delicate skin of the boy's wrist when he passes. The boy halts, flusters visibly at the searching look on Gerris' face, squirming uncomfortably when the knight leans closer until their faces are inch apart. He seems quite unsure, the boy. Until Gerris closes his eyes and whispers something into his ear.
He doesn't want to know what kind of dirty words his friends are giving to whores when they're planning to fuck, really he doesn't. But now he is sort of, like really curious as of what Gerris says, because the boy scowls at him now, all sharp teeth and glare-daggers, and the knight's grin is feral and slightly crazed.
To his surprise, the boy crushes their lips together in a scorching kiss, hips bucking violently against Gerris' breeches-clad thigh, one hand slipping inside Gerris' pants. Eurgh. Too much information. Archibald raises his drink up in salute as the girls start working on his lap.
Much later, when he finally decides to take Gerris back on the road, Archibald pauses in front of the boy's room and listens.
Gerris seems to be having the time of his life, fucking the boy like that. He fucks his cock into the seemingly tight nicely-shaped-round of the boy's ass, marking the sweat-sex-stained of the boy's pale neck, fisting the boy's red-angry leaking cock with his free hand. The boy kneels down on all-fours; face that of pure unadulterated pleasure as Gerris pounds into him so deep Archibald thinks he might finally come, until he realizes that the knight's fist around the boy's ball is on purpose, solely not to get him come first. It must be a torture for the boy. Archibald pities him more than anything else.
When he finally comes though, Gerris whines and chokes a needy longing whimper of 'Quentyn' from his kisses-swollen lips, and it all clicks. The shared-cabin. Sword-practices in the middle of the night. Visiting brothels together when they're probably off, fucking, somewhere.
Things are clearer now, and Archibald isn't sure who to pity more – the boy or Gerris himself.