Warfare, as Caitie soon found out, involved a lot more planning than initially anticipated.
The week was full of covert communications with the two other manned castles on the Wall, as well as the Free Folk in Queenscrown. They never used ravens, too worried about the Boltons intercepting them, and that made the process slower than it would have been otherwise. Tormund, however, insisted it was necessary, because the last thing they wanted was the Boltons getting wind of their plans too soon—and before they even thought about marching south, they had to ensure those they left behind would have at least a modicum of protection.
Caitie never made the journeys herself, but she did spend much more time than she would have preferred planning the logistics of these missions well into the dead of night, along with Jon, Edd, Tormund, Sansa, and—surprisingly—Davos. He, as it turned out, was invaluable, for not only did he seem to understand tactics better than most of them combined, but he was also remarkable at getting the measure of people, knowing who was trustworthy and who wasn't—and winning them to his side, no matter how stubborn.
After all, he'd even won over Caitie, eventually—and if Edd was to be believed, she was the most stubborn of them all.
When she wasn't dealing with the war preparations, Caitie made a point to keep busy, rather than resting like she probably should have been. But resting meant getting caught up in her own head, and that was something she desperately needed to avoid, considering every time she thought about the ramifications of failing, she ended up too dizzy to stand and feeling like she was about to vomit up her breakfast. Jon and Sansa had similar problems, but they dealt with it differently—Jon with stoicism and Sansa with a single-minded drive to do something, whether it was planning or sewing or reading stories of battles in the library. Both, however, had the same seriousness to them—and even with their different appearances and mannerisms and personalities, Caitie wondered how anyone could look at them and not think them siblings.
When it all got too much, she could always count on Johnna and Willa to keep up her spirits. Castle Black wasn't exactly the most child-friendly of places, but they made do. Willa taught Caitie and Jon the games she played with the Free Folk children, and in return, they taught Willa a few of the games Westerosi children played: monster-and-maidens—in which Jon always ended up in the role of monster—hide-the-treasure, and any others that they could remember. Sansa had Johnna to teach and train and mold into a proper seamstress; and Johnna, for some unfathomable reason, seemed to respect Sansa's teachings more than she'd ever had Caitie's.
Maybe it was because Sansa commanded respect just by virtue of the way she carried herself. Or maybe she was just a better teacher than Caitie was.
They'd explained very little about the current situation to the girls, so it was easy to pretend the coming war didn't exist when they were around. Of course, they did have to explain more to Johnna than to Willa, because she was older and, frankly, much more stubborn than her sister, refusing to take no for an answer. But even she didn't know the true extent of the danger they faced, for Tormund refused to tell her the threats Ramsay had made towards the Free Folk, and Caitie didn't think there was anything to be gained in crossing him.
The days crept by until the morning before their first proper war meeting. Jon and Willa had gone up to the top of the Wall, while Tormund was off annoying Brienne, so it was just her and Wun-Wun in the courtyard. Caitie had been leaning against the stone wall of the castle, with Owen and Cerys strapped to her belt, listening to the giant as told her a story in his native tongue, when Johnna found them a good three hours earlier than she usually did, for she spent mornings with Sansa, learning the skills of a seamstress.
After Caitie shot her a bemused look, Johnna shrugged and said, "Sansa sent me off early—said she had things to do. And that if I'm coming with you when you leave, I should spend extra time in the sparring circle."
Caitie's brows knitted together. She ignored Johnna's abysmal attempt at subtlety; she was used to it at this point, for Johnna had been pestering Caitie to allow her and Willa with them when they marched south all week.
It was something to which Caitie never quite knew how to respond. Because, truthfully, she had as little desire to part with them as they did with her.
Instead, Caitie pondered what Sansa could possibly have to do before midday. But after a moment, she decided it was none of her business. Sansa probably just needed some time to herself—and if it was something particularly important, she would tell them at the war meeting.
Putting all thoughts of this evening out of her mind, Caitie took Johnna through her usual exercises with her wooden shortswords. By the time they'd finished and moved onto a proper spar, Willa and Jon had joined them, the former bouncing on the balls of her feet as she watched, and the latter throwing out suggestions and pointing out Caitie's weak spots.
He got called a miserable traitor for that, to which he merely smiled.
When the light in the courtyard began to dwindle, Caitie and Jon left the girls with Wun-Wun to watch over them—though not without a bucket load of complaints between the two—and left for the dining hall. Caitie took her place at the table; the same as where they had first received Ramsay's letter. She pulled her knees to her chest, watching silently as Jon laid out a map of the North and set the war pieces down. They were roughly shaped chunks of bark, with the house sigils hastily scribbled on—nothing like the ornate pieces she'd seen growing up.
When he finished, he sat down beside her, still clutching one of the pieces in his hand so tightly it turned his knuckles white. "Are you ready?"
She laughed. "Not even close."
Jon's eyes met hers, a strange mixture of mirth and dread in them. "Me neither."
They held each other's gaze, but not a moment later, the door to the outside swung open and the others invited to the meeting strode in. First, it was Sansa, with Brienne behind her; they took their places on Jon's other side. Edd and Tormund followed them, faces drawn and serious. Edd took the seat beside Caitie while Tormund, expectedly, took the seat across from Brienne. And finally, Davos and Melisandre entered, crossed to the opposite side of the table and sat to face the rest of them.
It had surprised even Caitie when Jon invited Melisandre, though she couldn't fault him for it; after all, she had to admit the red woman could be a useful ally—and while she still didn't trust Melisandre, she had come to… accept her presence. Surprisingly, Brienne didn't argue against allowing Stannis's old advisors, either. Whether because she understood that Jon was in command, or because she also saw their strategic value, Caitie couldn't say. Of course, it didn't stop Brienne from throwing them a few scathing glares upon their entry, but no one really expected otherwise.
When everyone had situated themselves, Jon stood. He wasted no time with introductions or speeches; everyone knew what was at stake. So he merely got straight to the matter at hand. "We can't defend the north from the Walkers and the south from the Boltons," he said, pointing down at the map with the war piece still clutched in his hand. "If we want to survive, we need Winterfell, and to take Winterfell, we need more men."
As Jon tossed the piece down onto the map, there was a stretch of silence, until Davos cleared his throat. "Aside from the Starks and the Boltons, the most powerful houses in the North are the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Norreys, and the Manderlys." He stood, leaning over the map to arrange the piece the way he wanted. "The Umbers, the Karstarks, and the Norreys have already declared for the Boltons, so we're not doing so well there."
Caitie's chest tightened, for even though she knew she was safe and with friends, she still feared someone—Davos or Brienne or even Tormund—might suggest returning her to her father in order to gain his support.
"The Norreys are out of the question," Jon said, as though he could read her mind. His tone was darker than she'd ever heard it, leaving no room for argument, and she looked up at him with a grateful smile. When he looked back at her, his eyes turned soft and reassuring, and it eased the tightness in her chest.
"The Umbers gave Rickon to our enemies; they can hang," added Sansa. "But the Karstarks declared for Ramsay without knowing they had another choice."
"I beg your pardon, my lady," replied Davos, "but they know that a Stark beheaded their father. I don't think we can count on them either."
Sansa looked up at the ceiling, her lips set in a thin line. "How well do you know the North, Ser Davos?"
"Precious little, my lady," he said, reclining back into his seat so he and Sansa were eye level.
"My father always said Northerners are different. More loyal. More suspicious of outsiders."
Caitie pursed her lips as she watched them. She wanted to take Sansa's side, wanted to believe the other Northern houses would join them without hesitation. And Sansa was right, to an extent: Northerners were an insular people. But loyalty to their own and suspicion of outsiders extended far beyond southerners—it extended to other Northern houses, too, simply because the size and landscape of the North made travel and communication more difficult.
So, yes, the Stark name might mean a lot—but that didn't mean it would be enough for the Northern lords to risk their families' lives.
After all, it hadn't before.
"They may well be loyal, but how many rose up against the Boltons when they betrayed your family?" Davos asked, echoing Caitie's thoughts near-exactly.
Sansa had no answer for him, so instead she merely scowled, refusing to look him in the eye.
"I may not know the North," he continued, "but I know men. They're more or less the same in any corner of the world, and even the bravest of them don't want to see their wives and children skinned for a lost cause. If Jon's going to convince them to fight alongside him, they need to believe it's a fight they can win."
Jon stepped forward, staring down at the map with newfound determination in his eyes. "There are more than three other houses in the North—Glover, Mormont, Cerwyn, Mazin, Hornwood. Two dozen more. Together they equal all the others. We can start small and build."
Sansa nodded. "The North remembers. They remember the Stark name. People will still risk everything for it, from White Harbor to Ramsay's own door."
"I don't doubt it," said Davos. "But Jon doesn't have the Stark name."
"No, but I do."
The moment Sansa finished speaking, she seemed to realize her mistake, eyes widening as she froze. But it was too late; everyone had heard, and just like that, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop, despite the fire roaring in the pit behind them. From Brienne and Davos looking from Jon to Sansa as if they wanted to say something but didn't know what would be helpful, to Tormund who seemed merely confused by such tension, to Caitie and Edd who exchanged knowing, nervous glances.
And finally to Jon, who stared at his sister with a mixture of shock, fear, and, most of all, hurt.
Sansa, at least, corrected herself quickly. "Jon is every bit Ned Stark's son as Ramsay is Roose Bolton's. And there are also the Tullys. They're not Northern, but they will back us against the Boltons without question."
That news all but erased the memory of her slip-up. Jon eyed Caitie, a silent question in his eyes. Did you know about this?
She replied with a bemused shrug.
"I didn't know the Tullys had an army," Davos said.
Sansa smiled, clasping her hands together. "My uncle, the Blackfish, has reformed it and retaken Riverrun."
Again, Caitie and Jon shared a skeptical look before he asked, "How do you know that?"
"Ramsay received a raven before I escaped Winterfell."
And yet, Caitie felt uneasy, for there was a piece of the puzzle missing, even if she didn't quite know what it was. She didn't voice her feelings, knowing that Sansa would only be less likely to give answers if pushed, and either way, no one else seemed to suspect anything.
"That's good," said Davos as Jon leaned forward beside Caitie to look over the map again. "The Blackfish is a legend; his support would mean a great deal."
Caitie frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. Yes, the Blackfish was a legend; she had heard every story there was about him at least twice in her childhood. But he was also a Tully, the uncle of Catelyn Stark, and even with Sansa there, Caitie had to wonder how amenable he would be to fighting alongside Jon.
The rest of them might see Jon as a Stark, but like Sansa had said, he didn't have the name. And that mattered, especially to a Tully.
Caitie weighed the merits of mentioning this, but eventually decided against it. They were pressed for time and resources—they couldn't afford not to at least try to get Brynden Tully's support. And she really didn't want to remind Jon of his status yet again in the span of five minutes.
Davos smiled. "Stark, Tully, a few more houses, almost starts to look like a winning side."
Caitie couldn't help smiling back at him. Because even though she knew how the odds were against them, at that moment, it was hard not to believe that they had a chance. After all, she and Jon had done much more on much less.
"Brienne and Podrick will accompany us to the Wi—the Free Folk encampment tomorrow, then ride for Riverrun immediately after," Sansa said, pushing herself up from her seat, and Caitie saw Brienne's look of astonishment before she quickly smothered it. "If you'll excuse us."
Caitie watched Sansa leave, Brienne dutifully trailing behind her, and furrowed her brows.
When the door had shut behind them, she eyed Jon. "Did you get the feeling she wasn't telling us everything?"
He sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. "Should I have pressed her?"
"No," Caitie said. "I don't think it would have done any good. She'll tell us when she's ready." She stared down at the map of the North again, this time without the cloud of strategy obscuring it. Her eyes roved over the Wolfwood and the Northern Mountains, White Harbor and Grey Hills, Cape Kraken and Barrowlands and Bear Island.
And at the center of it all, Winterfell.
"She is right about one thing, though." When Jon furrowed his brows, Caitie smiled at him. "The North remembers."
As the grey morning light streamed through the singular window in Caitie's quarters, she strained to open her eyes—and then promptly closed them again, trying to ignore the knocking sound coming from just outside her door. She had half a mind to yell at whoever it was to go away and leave her to sleep, but then she remembered they were leaving this morning, and she was probably late.
"Oh for fuck's sake—fine, I'm getting up," she called, stifling a yawn as she stood up and the blanket fell off of her. She shivered at the bite of the cold, but she forced herself to cross the room instead of bundling back into the blankets. When she threw open her door, Caitie was expecting to see Jon behind it—but it wasn't Jon; it was Sansa.
Caitie blinked.
And then yawned.
Sansa raised a brow, taking in Caitie's mussed hair and drooping eyelids. "I see you're quite prepared for our journey."
A pitiful grumble was all Caitie could muster in response. She was even more annoyed when she saw how immaculate Sansa looked in comparison. Her hair was intricately braided to the side, and her dress—well, Caitie had to admit it was a work of art. It was made from a navy velvet fabric, and displayed proudly on its chest was the embroidery of a large silver direwolf, embellished with opalescent beads—a proud display of Sansa's allegiances. Around her shoulders was a new cloak, too; black and grey with a raccoon skin mantle.
"What do you think of it?" she asked, seeing Caitie take the dress in.
"I think I've never been more jealous of another person in my life."
Sansa smiled. "That's good to hear," she said, "because I made something similar for you."
That was when Caitie realized there was a bundle of fabric in Sansa's arms. She hadn't noticed it before because it was the same navy velvet fabric as the dress, but, with a closer look, she could now see it was a second one.
For her.
When Caitie didn't say anything, too busy staring at the fabric—the dress—that she could scarcely believe was hers, Sansa added, "We're going to petition the lords of the North. We can't have you wearing—" she nodded to Caitie's shabby Night's Watch clothes "—when we do. So I made you something befitting your station."
Sansa held it up so Caitie could see and tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden, at the sight. Because the dress was beautiful. The sleeves were long and fitted; unlike Sansa's dress, which fell to the floor and trailed behind her, Caitie's was much shorter, flaring out at the waist only to land at her mid-thigh. Underneath, there were leggings, made from black leather and likely lined with fur, to go along with it, as well as an armored corset around the middle made from the same black leather, this time boiled in order to protect her midsection in a fight. And embroidered onto the chest with silver thread was the sigil of her house: six thistles, arranged in an inverted triangle, encased by the outline of a shield.
"I know the skirt isn't traditional," Sansa said hesitantly, mistaking Caitie's silence for mislike. "I thought you'd want more range of movement in it, considering I'm asking you to give up your normal attire. But if you don't like it—"
Caitie didn't let her finish before she bounded forward and threw her arms around Sansa's neck. "Are you mad? Of course I like it!"
Sansa stiffened, but she managed to give Caitie an awkward pat on the back.
Sensing the discomfort, Caitie quickly extricated herself from her friend and added, "I really don't know how to thank you."
"There's no need. It was meant as a gift."
"Are you sure? This isn't exactly a small one."
Sansa nodded. "Quite sure."
Caitie bit down on her lip as she looked at the dress again. She couldn't help that grin that spread across her face at the thought of getting to wear it. "Well, all right, if you insist. Now get out of my room already, so I can put this on."
"Do you need help with it?"
"It hasn't been that long."
Sansa arched a brow. "We'll see." But she swept out of the room, the ends of her skirt and cloak trailing behind her, and left Caitie alone to dress.
It took longer than Caitie would ever admit, and in hindsight, she probably had needed Sansa's help. Compared to the clothes she usually wore—even compared to the dress she'd worn two years ago in Mole's Town—this was complicated to a rather insane degree. It took her a full ten minutes before she'd managed to get everything where it needed to be. But when she finished, and caught her reflection in the mirror, it all felt worth it. She looked like a woman; not the slip of the girl who'd left Norwood so long ago, and not the man of the Night's Watch she'd seen in the mirror since. She was a new person, and yet she felt more like herself than she ever had.
Until her eyes fell to the sigil of House Norrey, standing out against the inky blue fabric. Because Caitie suddenly realized, with a sensation in her stomach that made her feel as though she'd eaten something very wriggly, what this meant: that she was proudly displaying herself as a Norrey to anyone she came across.
She didn't know why it hadn't occurred to her at first, but now, alone in her room, it truly hit her. Everyone would know who she was, the moment she stepped through her door. And suddenly, there was an overwhelming urge to tear the dress off. She wanted to burn it until the sigil of her house was nothing more than charred dust. She tried to remind herself that it didn't matter, that her father already knew where she was, but she'd spent so long hiding her ties to House Norrey, and now to do the opposite terrified her almost as much as the army of the dead.
It would take a long time before she got used to being a lady of House Norrey again, and perhaps she never would.
Not that she had any choice in the matter.
Well then, I... suppose it's time to go. She looked around for something—anything—that would stall the inevitable, but she had done all her packing the night before. Her quarters were cleaner than they had been in years, and there was nothing left to keep her there. So she took a deep breath to keep the fear at bay, pulled on her riding boots, grabbed her satchel, and, after a pause in which she stared around her little room for the last time, hurried out the door before she got caught up in the realization that she might never see it again—and before she could truly think about the ramifications of where she was going.
Hurrying down the corridors, she was so preoccupied that she almost flew into Hobb, who took one look at her and exclaimed, "Seven Hells, you look like a girl!"
Dareon, who had come up next to him, carrying a large barrel of what looked like mushrooms, didn't bother to hide his guffaw of laughter.
"Kind of you to finally notice," she said coolly, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling completely exposed, but not wanting to show it to them. It wasn't that she thought they were leering, of course. On the contrary—they thought it was funny.
But that was somehow worse.
"Do we have to bow to you now?" asked Dareon.
"Piss off."
"Sorry, sorry," said Hobb. "But in our defense, it's weird seeing you like this. 'Course, you weren't gonna show yourself off with the lot that used to live here."
"I'm not showing off."
"Aye, you are. Much too fancy for the rest of us now." Before she could even begin to answer, he asked, "What's the stuff on your chest?"
"Hobb!"
For a moment, he merely stared at her with a blank expression, before comprehension dawned on his features. "Gods, Caitie, I didn't mean those! I meant the…" he gestured to the stitching on her chest, "thistle things."
She could feel her face heating up, even as she mustered whatever dignity she had left. She had already felt exposed without everyone at Castle Black seeing her House sigil. And now her fears—stupid, irrational, but real—were bubbling to the surface again, and somehow worse than before.
Not that she was going to tell them that. So she straightened her shoulders and said, with all the confidence she could muster, "It's the sigil of my house."
Dareon and Hobb eyed each other, wide grins spreading across their faces. "Knew you were too smart to be lowborn," said the former. "So that's a yes on the bowing, then?"
Caitie glared at him.
"All right, all right, leave 'er alone," Hobb said. He pulled himself up to his full height and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Well, let me just say that you'll be missed. And if there are any ravens from Sam and Gilly, I'll be sure to send them on to you and Jon." He groaned as something seemed to occur to him. "They might turn around and come back to Castle Black just to kill me for letting you go off into danger. Again."
Caitie softened at this, and not just because of the mention of Sam and Gilly. It was because, however embarrassed she might have been in the moment, she would miss this—miss the camaraderie, the teasing, the simplicity of being a brother of the Night's Watch and no more than that. "They knew it would only be a matter of time," she said. "Jon and I attract danger wherever we go."
"That won't matter to Gilly. And I don't fancy the thought of being beaten to death with my own cooking pots."
"She wouldn't do that."
"You've never seen her angry," Hobb grumbled. But then he smiled, held out a hand. "Well, I guess you'll just have to come back then."
Caitie accepted, gripping his hand back tightly, trying to will his words to be true.
"Until we meet again." He gave a little grin. "M'lady."
By the time she made it to the courtyard five minutes later, the snow was coming down in large flakes, and would soon blanket the courtyard in white. Caitie wished she could have stayed to see it; when the snow accumulated enough, some of the black brothers would start throwing snowballs at each other until it escalated into an all-out war, which was always a fun experience. But Edd's men had already saddled the horses; Melisandre, Davos, Brienne, Podrick, and Tormund had mounted theirs. It was almost time to leave.
The three horses at the front of the procession, however, were still devoid of their riders. Caitie looked around for Jon. Fortunately, it didn't take her long to find him. He stood off to the side, near one of the castle's walls as he swept a cloak over his shoulders. Even from far away she could tell it was new, without any scuff marks or spots of dirt on it, and made with the highest quality of material and skill.
"Sansa got to you, too, I see."
Jon turned and opened his mouth to say something, but when he got a good look at Caitie, no words came out. The smile that had played on his lips died, and he went very still. It took her a moment to realize what had elicited this reaction from him, and when she did, she couldn't help but feel even more self-conscious than she already had. Jon's eyes were wide as they moved from her face to the sigil, to the leather corset, to the skirt, and then back up.
"Not one word," she said, as he opened his mouth to make a comment. "I've already had my share of ribbing from Hobb and Dareon; I don't need it from you, too."
Jon's eyes cleared as they found hers again, and he seemed to remember where he was. "I wasn't. I was gonna say that you look…" He cleared his throat. It took him a moment to think of the word he wanted to use. "Nice."
Caitie snorted and rolled her eyes, the self-consciousness thankfully giving way to amusement. "Never did I think I'd be so lucky to receive a compliment as sincere as 'you look nice.'"
Jon frowned. "You know what I meant."
She didn't—not really. For all Caitie knew, he could be horrified by the way she looked—too similar to the rude little highborn lady he'd seen at Winterfell so many years ago. But when she looked up at his face, she didn't think that was true. In all honesty, she didn't know what he was thinking. She'd never seen him look at her like that before.
"My sister made it for you?"
She nodded, happy to move on. "Apparently, my normal clothes aren't acceptable attire for a lady. Who knew?"
It was Jon's turn to snort, as she stepped closer to get a better look at his new cloak. There were imprints of the direwolf sigil on the leather straps; the cloak itself was made out of the same thick black material as Sansa's and Caitie's, but the mantle looked like a fox pelt rather than a raccoon one. With his hair pulled back and this new attire, Jon resembled his father more than ever. In fact, he looked more like a Stark than even Robb had.
"I like your cloak," was all she could think to say.
"Aye," Jon agreed, with a small, disbelieving smile. "I hadn't expected it from Sansa."
"Nor me. Not that I'm complaining."
She saw the corners of Jon's lips twitch. "Well, it's not Dorne, but you've got your dress."
Caitie grinned at him, but she couldn't help looking back down a moment later to admire the dress again. The stitching really was beautiful, sigil notwithstanding. The silvery thread against the dark velvet made the sigil look as though it was illuminated by moonlight.
Jon chuckled as he went back to fastening his cloak. Glancing up once more, she found herself watching as his fingers worked at the clasp, unable to look away for some reason, until out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. Jon noticed it, too. They turned their heads to see Edd coming over to them. As he drew closer, her stomach dropped out from under her and her chest constricted—a sensation she quickly recognized not as fear, but as loss. For she remembered now, with full clarity, that after today she might never see Edd again.
For his part, Edd watched them pensively as Jon finished putting on his new cloak. When he finished, the three of them stared up at the familiar sight of Castle Black.
"Don't knock it down while we're gone," said Jon.
"I'll do my best," Edd replied with the ghost of a smile. Caitie watched silently, keeping a distance as the two men embraced and clapped each other on the back. "Good luck."
And then he turned to her. She wondered if he was having the same thought as her: that the last time they'd parted like this, it had ended in Jon's death.
Who knew what horror might befall them this time?
A moment of silence passed before Edd sighed. "Stay safe, okay?"
She swallowed a lump in her throat. "You too." And before she knew what she was doing, she had flung herself at him, nearly knocking him over in the process. Edd made a disgruntled noise before he found his footing again and returned her hug.
But when she pulled away, he gave her one of his rare, genuine smiles, before he nodded towards the gate. "Now, go out there and do some good."
She nodded. It was easier to turn away than it had been the last time. Last time, it had felt so final, even though she'd known it wasn't. Now, she knew it might well be her and Edd's last goodbye, at least for a very long time—but her fear and feelings of loss suddenly felt... less potent. Muffled. Like a knife wrapped in wool.
She followed Jon over to the horses and mounted the chestnut stallion between Jon's black one and Sansa's white mare. Jon set his horse forward as the gates opened, and as Caitie followed him, she caught sight of Johnna and Willa near Tormund, on the smallest of the horses, both girls looking a little unsteady, reins held awkwardly in Johnna's hands. Behind the girls, Davos and Melisandre followed on their own mounts.
When the last of the horses had left the gates of Castle Black behind them, Caitie heard the creak of the gates closing. She wanted to look back at it, wanted to gaze upon the place she'd called home for so many years one last time, because she might never see it again.
Then, feeling the whisper of fur against her leg, she looked down to see Ghost padding along beside her horse. It steadied her, reminded her that she couldn't look back, couldn't go back, no matter how much she might want to. So, instead of giving in to her desire, she looked forward, southward, where she could see an ocean of tents amidst the snow in the distance, waiting for them to arrive.
Originally, Caitie wasn't going to get to wear a dress until they were all already at Winterfell, but then I realized there was no way in a million years Sansa would allow her to petition the lords of the North in her ratty Night's Watch IKEA rug (look it up). Hence, she gets one now.