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Exploring Winterfell was something like walking through a dream. It was still the same castle. No matter how damaged parts of it were, Arya could still recognize it as her former home. But everything also appeared a bit different. Even areas that had been relatively untouched by the damage had been altered. After being inhabited by Bolton’s bastard and then Stannis, many rooms had been repurposed, furniture rearranged or replaced entirely. And just as Arya would become used to the fact that most of what she remembered of her home was gone, she would be surprised by a tapestry in the western corridor that used to hang in Bran’s room or a coat of arms that had lined the great hall being found in a corner of the courtyard under some melting snow.
It was during one of her explorations that she found a room which had been converted into a storage area. Who had shoved all of these things in there and when, Arya couldn’t say. But Arya didn’t much care as she maneuvered through the obstacle course of furniture. There she found the rocking chair from Rickon’s room and the full mirror that had been given to Sansa on her tenth birthday. Maester Luwin’s writing desk and some dusty books from her father’s library. And there, under a stack of rickety chairs, was her mother’s trunk.
Arya wasn’t sure what drew her to her mother’s trunk above everything else. But she found herself taking the chairs off the top and opening the lid. The trunk smelled musty, yet Arya could still imagine the scent of her mother’s perfume whether or not any remnants of it actually remained.
On top was a grey dress that Arya remembered well. Her mother had worn it often. The wool was soft from wear, but still plenty thick to bear the chill of the summer snows. Arya pulled the dress out, and then the one below it, delving into the trunk to try to touch and study every dress, to picture her mother in it and recall any memory she had from when her mother had worn it.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” came Sansa’s voice from behind her.
Arya turned, startled by her sister’s approach. Had she been that wrapped up in her memories to not notice Sansa’s footsteps?
“What?”
“You admiring dresses,” Sansa teased lightly.
Arya made a face. “It’s mother’s dresses. It’s different.”
Sansa sunk down beside her. Her fingers traced over a sage green dress. “This one was my favorite.”
“I don’t think I remember that dress.” Arya pulled the dress out a bit further to look at the pink and white embroidered flowers on the bodice. Or perhaps she did remember it, vaguely.
“She stopped wearing it after Bran was born,” Sansa said. “One day I found it again and asked her about it. She said she’d brought it from Riverrun. That’s why it looks so southron. But I thought it was the most beautiful dress in the world and when I told her that she said I could wear it one day.” Sansa smiled sadly, her thumb tracing one of the dark green vines stitched along the edges of the sleeve.
“You could still wear it,” Arya said quietly.
Sansa pinked at the suggestion. “I –” But when she wasn’t able to form an excuse she looked up with a careful smile on her face. “Alright.”
Arya got up to shut the door while Sansa shook out the dress. Once she had slipped off her own simple frock and pulled on her mother’s dress, she turned her back to Arya, clearly in need of help lacing it up.
“Could you?”
Arya hesitated for a moment. She didn’t think she remembered how to lace up a dress – she hadn’t worn a dress in years. But her fingers seemed to remember quite easily what she thought she had forgotten. Deny it all you want; you’re still a lady, she heard Gendry teasing in her head.
“There,” Arya said quietly once she was done. Arya couldn’t help biting her lip when Sansa turned to face her. She looked beautiful. “You look just like Mother.”
Arya then stepped to Sansa’s old mirror propped against the nearest corner and brushed the cobwebs away. Sansa smiled at her reflection, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Then she looked over at Arya.
“Now it’s your turn.”
Arya shook her head vehemently. “I hate dresses.” As if Sansa needed reminding.
“You hate being forced to wear dresses. It doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate them on occasion. I saw how you were looking at them earlier.”
Arya was taken aback. What had possibly made Sansa think she had wanted to wear a dress?
“Mother used to tell me that one day, you’d grow up and start to like handsome boys and pretty dresses. I thought she had to be lying. But you’ve come to appreciate handsome boys, haven’t you?”
Arya gave a small laugh, unable to stop her smile at the thought of Gendry. She’d never thought she’d be so stupid to fall in love, yet then she’d gone and done it. But she still didn’t care for dresses, even if she didn’t despise them on principle the way she used to.
“Besides,” Sansa said. “It’s like you said. They’re mother’s dresses and that makes it different.”
Arya’s eyes flitted to the trunk. It was just for a moment, but Sansa didn’t miss it. Arya bit her lip. It was stupid. She hadn’t let anyone make her wear a dress since she was a child. Yet somehow she found herself considering it. Just this once. To wear one of Mother’s dresses, if only for a few moments.
“I won’t tell anyone you tried on a dress if you don’t,” Sansa said. “Now which one have you always liked?”
Arya sighed, trying to show as much reluctance as she could. She was, after all, only thinking of doing it to appease her sister – right? She walked to the trunk and sifted through few a few dresses until she found the right one. The dress was a rich blue like a winter rose, with grey silk trim. Even as one of the more formal ones it was decidedly simple – as northern dresses usually were – but still pretty. “I remembered Mother loved this dress. She said it was because Father gave it to her.”
Sansa smiled. “I always liked that one, too.”
Soon Arya was standing in front of the mirror, pulling on the dress’ bodice. “You laced it too tight.”
Her sister sighed at the complaint, reminding Arya of when they’d bickered as children. “It’s not that tight.” She smacked Arya’s hands away. “Now stop fidgeting and let me get a good look at you.”
Sansa stood next to the mirror to see her better as Arya continued to fuss with the sleeves. “It’s not all that bad is it?” Sansa asked.
Arya frowned at her reflection. It was strange seeing herself in a dress again after all these years and wearing it made her feel ridiculous. But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything bad. It was still her mother’s and Arya could admit to herself that it was a lovely dress even if she’d never say it aloud.
“The color suits you,” Sansa said. She came up behind Arya, circling her arms around her waist and resting her head on her sister’s shoulder. “Like it or not, you look quite beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
Sansa shook her head. “You’re just repeating what people said when we were children. But you grew into yourself and now you’re turning men’s heads wherever you go,” she said, tucking a loose strand of Arya’s hair behind her ear.
Arya rolled her eyes. “They’re just not used to seeing a woman wearing trousers.”
“You’re impossible,” her sister sighed.
“And you’re being stupid.”
Sansa poked her in the side but stopped trying to compliment her.
“Well now that you’ve gotten me to try on dresses with you,” Arya began carefully, “when do you want to spar with me in the yard?”
Sansa laughed and considered it for a moment. “So long as you let me brush your hair every night.”
“Then you have to go riding with me once a week.”
“Alright.” Sansa said with a nod. “I accept your terms.”
Arya then realized how wide she was smiling. It made her wonder if this was what being sisters was supposed to be like, the way their mother had always hoped they would be.