Kallian was his sister, in every way except bloodline. Garrett felt about her nakedness the same way he did a tree with the bark stripped off - objectively lovely, perhaps, but beyond his ability to truly appreciate. His packsister was more than the sum of her angles and the contours of her skin; whether she wore fur or cloth or nothing at all, it mattered not to Garrett. Sometimes being raised in a matriarchal village-pack worked wonders for how a young man viewed a young woman, especially given that the primary lesson of his cubhood was bitches have teeth.
He watched with curious eyes as she wriggled into the scarlet confection; it made a great deal more sense what all the ruffles and stitching and such were for. He nodded with calm appreciation, like a man admiring a particularly well-executed painting. There wasn't a speck of lust there in those yellow eyes, nor anything else, really, that wasn't the deepest of brotherly affections.
"You look very pretty," he said, nodding and beaming. "It's still and dead, on the hanger. It comes alive on you." In his mind, he was likening it to the elder members of his father's pack occasionally swaddling themselves in the pelts of those hunted and killed by the Dalish, a way to temporarily wear their seeming and bring their honored memory once again to the fore; Garrett rather thought Kallian would be disturbed by such stories, though. People acted rather funny when it came to the subject of wolf pelts, around the wolfmage.
A thought occurred; Kallian could see it like lightning, bolting across his features as he frowned and reached to pick up a ruffle of skirt, making it flow back and forth, features scrunched in heavy thought.
"... this is art," he said, a pinscratch of a frown forming between his brows. "This is a courting gift." A look up at Kallian, momentary shock transforming into iron resolve. "Is he courting you unwanted? I'll take care of it, if he is." Taking care of it, in this instance, probably meant ripping Genikon to pieces.