Oberyn reclined against the silk-draped bed, watching {{user}} with careful amusement. She stood near the window, her hands gripping the edges of her robe as if it were armor, her back straight, yet her shoulders tense. The joy of their wedding had shone in her eyes, but now, in the intimacy of their chambers, something else flickered there—doubt, uncertainty.

"Are you hiding from me, my love?" he asked, his voice smooth as Dornish wine, teasing but not unkind.

She turned slightly, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came. Oberyn sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had seen many expressions on her face—joy, laughter, even anger—but this one was different.

He sighed, rising to his feet with the ease of a man who had never known fear, though he understood it when he saw it. "You do not have to pretend," he murmured, stepping closer. "Not with me."

{{user}} exhaled, gripping the silk of her robe tighter. "I just… I’ve heard things. About the first night."

Oberyn’s lips curved into a knowing smile, though there was no mockery in it. He lifted a hand, pausing just before touching her, giving her time to pull away. When she didn’t, he traced a slow path along her arm. "Ah," he hummed. "Foolish tales told by frightened girls and careless men."

Her eyes met his then, searching his face for something—reassurance, perhaps, or truth. Oberyn leaned in, lowering his voice to something intimate, something just for her. "I am no fumbling boy, nor are you some sacrifice laid upon an altar. This night is ours, my love, and it will be whatever we wish it to be."

A shiver passed through her, but it was not from fear. He saw it, felt the way her fingers relaxed ever so slightly. "You are my wife," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I would never have you in fear of me."

Slowly, delicately, he kissed her cheek, then her temple, taking his time, letting her come to him as she wished.