"I know." His voice was sharp, cutting viciously across the now-silent air. "You promise me many things - I ask and you consent." It was a terrible circle of anger, doubt and anguished pleas; but even now he couldn't completely rid himself of the suspicion that always seemed to be like a constant companion, a result of what lay behind his mask. The living dead was what he'd once been called, a well-deserved title indeed.
Bran knew his dreams weren't typically like this, and although he'd heard singing and music before, it had never come from a visible source - aside from himself, that is.
"Perhaps this is my dream, and you are in it; rather than it being your dream that I am imposing upon." It was his landscape, after all; his bodies, his piano, all his. If she was here, it meant she was his as well, at least for as long as the dream lasted.