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The nature of Sith training was such that it often left nightmares in its wake. Dooku preferred to think of it differently, though – “nightmare” was a childish word, implying a sort of weakness, a need for comfort.
Nothing could be further from the truth. These reminders of his training, of his pain, served to make him strong. They ensured he woke up in the embrace of the dark side, filled with rage and hatred for what he had endured. It kept him focused.
The true weakness was in the other dreams. The ones that took away his focus, that rather than anger, left behind an emptier feeling that he did not let himself think about long enough to name.
Better to dream of suffering, of Sidious’s lightning and cruel laughter, than to dream of home the Jedi Temple. Of Qui-Gon, attempting to smuggle animals into his room, or stumbling over his first negotiation. Of Mace, coming around for advice, debate, or just tea and company. Of Jocasta and Sifo-Dyas in their youth. Of Yoda, telling him “a fine teacher, you will be,” after finding Dooku helping some younglings, with a warm smile and a pleased glint in the old Master’s eyes…
Those dreams didn’t limit themselves to mere echoes of the past, either. Sometimes memories blurred together and created something that had never been, would never be. Sometimes Asajj stood where Qui-Gon had; sometimes it was Obi-Wan who joined him for tea. Sometimes it was the joyous laughter of younglings he didn’t know. Sometimes it was Dooku alone in his old room, but with the knowledge that others were never far away.
It was these dreams that frustrated Dooku more than any nightmare ever could, as he sought a way to banish them completely.
But his efforts remained in vain.