webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


Hours had bled into the biting chill of the mountain air since leaving the iron gates of Castle Black behind. The transition from the structured, icy routine of the Wall to the desolate, shifting wildness of the northern landscape felt like a heavy weight pressing against Jon Snow’s chest. As the sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks, casting long, bruised violet shadows across the tundra, he spotted the solitary, maroon-hued tent staked against a rock formation, out of place in the monochromatic wasteland. Tethering his horse to a stunted, frost-bitten pine, he approached the structure, the fabric snapping rhythmically in the rising wind. He felt a dull ache in his shoulder where the weight of his cloak pulled at him, a physical manifestation of his apprehension.

He reached for the heavy flap of the tent. It was cold to the touch, stiff with frozen sleet. Pulling it back, he stepped inside. The transition from the howling exterior to the interior was jarring; the air here was thick, smelling powerfully of pine resin, dried sage, and something metallic, like blood settling under skin. In the center of the tent stood an iron brazier, its coals glowing with a heat so intense that the air above it shimmered, distorting his view of the figure beyond. Kinvara stood there, her robes of deep, liquid red flowing like spilled wine. She did not turn as he entered, her gaze fixed instead upon the dancing tongues of orange and white fire. The heat radiated from the brazier, warming the surface of his face while his back remained numb from the arctic draft that followed him in.

"The path you tread is not paved with northern snow, Jon Snow," Kinvara said, her voice smooth and resonant, cutting through the crackling of the logs. She stood tall, the ruby at her throat catching the firelight and pulsing with a dull, rhythmic crimson as if it were a secondary, smaller heart beneath her skin. She finally turned her head, her amber eyes locking onto his with an intensity that felt like a probe against his consciousness. He stood rooted to the spot, his gloved hand resting instinctively on the pommel of Longclaw. The familiar leather of the hilt provided a small anchor, a reality that didn't feel quite as fragile as the rest of the room.

"I was told you would be here," Jon replied, his voice gruff, the fatigue of the journey roughening his edges. "But I wasn't told why. My business is north, and I have no time for riddles, priestess."

Kinvara tilted her head slightly, a small, knowing upturn at the corner of her lips that made his skin crawl. She stepped closer to the brazier, and her shadow stretched long and distorted against the tent wall, looking far larger than her frame should allow. "Time is a luxury for those who believe they have a future," she countered, her movements graceful and fluid. "Fire does not care for the passing of hours. It only cares for what is capable of being consumed, and what is destined to be forged anew. You seek a vision in the ice, but you forget that nothing truly dies in the north—it merely freezes until the thaw arrives to reveal its rot."

Jon took a step forward, his boots crunching on the packed earth of the tent floor. He felt the tension coiling in his stomach, a sharp awareness of every movement she made. "The North has its own laws," he insisted, though he knew how hollow it sounded even to his own ears. "I am tracking a presence that threatens the peace we fought so dearly to win. If you have information, share it. If you have nothing, I have a long ride ahead of me."

"Peace?" She laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. She reached out with a long, elegant finger to stroke the air above the flames, and sparks seemed to jump toward her touch before extinguishing in the frigid air. "You speak of peace as if it were a shield you could carry. Your quest is not one of restoration, little crow. The greenseer you seek belongs to an era that the flames would have washed away long ago. By hunting for him, you are reaching into the grave of history and inviting the cold wind to blow once more. You are not a savior; you are a catalyst for a burning that will reduce your world to ash."

Her tone shifted then, losing its playful mockery and taking on an edge of chilling conviction. She looked into his eyes, and for a second, he felt a vertigo so profound he had to brace his feet wide to keep from stumbling. It was as if he were staring into a furnace that stretched for miles, a depth of intent that far exceeded his own understanding of the duty he felt toward Bran. He realized then that she wasn't just talking about a threat; she was describing a total erasure, a necessity of destruction that she clearly believed in with every fiber of her being.

"Then what am I?" Jon demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He stepped closer, the heat of the brazier pushing against his leather doublet now, making him feel suffocated. "If I am a catalyst for destruction, why let me walk away? Why not strike me down here, where the fire is yours to command?"

Kinvara smiled, and this time there was no warmth in it at all. It was the smile of a predator watching a rabbit run into a trap. She moved her staff, the crystal at its tip catching the light and blinding him for a fraction of a second. "Because the wildfire needs a wick," she whispered, and the sound seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of his bones. "The prophecy does not belong to you, but you are the instrument it requires to prove its veracity. Go, find your ghost in the trees. You will discover that the truth has been waiting for you, sharpening itself on the silence of the woods. You will find nothing but the pyre of everything you ever dared to love, Jon Snow, and you will light the match yourself."

Jon felt the air in the room grow stagnant, the cold from outside beginning to bleed in again, dampening the fire’s intensity. He felt a sudden, frantic need to be away from her, to be away from the way her words seemed to weave around him, binding him. He had faced White Walkers and the dead, yet standing here, listening to her, he felt a deeper, more primal form of dread. It was the feeling of being a pawn in a game whose board spanned centuries, a board he could neither see nor comprehend.

He pulled his gaze away from her amber eyes, focusing on the dark silhouette of the tent entrance. He didn't want to hear more; the weight of her prophecy felt like a physical burden, pressing on his lungs. "I don't trust you," he said, his voice clipped, his jaw set hard as he turned his back on her to face the exit. He felt her gaze still on him, a heavy, radiating pressure between his shoulder blades that didn't let up even as he reached for the fabric flap. He stepped out into the night, the biting wind instantly numbing his cheeks, leaving him unsettled, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs in the darkness.

Hours had bled into the biting chill of the mountain air since leaving the iron gates of Castle Black behind. The transition from the structured, icy routine of the Wall to the desolate, shifting wildness of the northern landscape felt like a heavy weight pressing against Jon Snow’s chest. As the sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks, casting long, bruised violet shadows across the tundra, he spotted the solitary, maroon-hued tent staked against a rock formation, out of place in the monochromatic wasteland. Tethering his horse to a stunted, frost-bitten pine, he approached the structure, the fabric snapping rhythmically in the rising wind. He felt a dull ache in his shoulder where the weight of his cloak pulled at him, a physical manifestation of his apprehension.

He reached for the heavy flap of the tent. It was cold to the touch, stiff with frozen sleet. Pulling it back, he stepped inside. The transition from the howling exterior to the interior was jarring; the air here was thick, smelling powerfully of pine resin, dried sage, and something metallic, like blood settling under skin. In the center of the tent stood an iron brazier, its coals glowing with a heat so intense that the air above it shimmered, distorting his view of the figure beyond. Kinvara stood there, her robes of deep, liquid red flowing like spilled wine. She did not turn as he entered, her gaze fixed instead upon the dancing tongues of orange and white fire. The heat radiated from the brazier, warming the surface of his face while his back remained numb from the arctic draft that followed him in.

"The path you tread is not paved with northern snow, Jon Snow," Kinvara said, her voice smooth and resonant, cutting through the crackling of the logs. She stood tall, the ruby at her throat catching the firelight and pulsing with a dull, rhythmic crimson as if it were a secondary, smaller heart beneath her skin. She finally turned her head, her amber eyes locking onto his with an intensity that felt like a probe against his consciousness. He stood rooted to the spot, his gloved hand resting instinctively on the pommel of Longclaw. The familiar leather of the hilt provided a small anchor, a reality that didn't feel quite as fragile as the rest of the room.

"I was told you would be here," Jon replied, his voice gruff, the fatigue of the journey roughening his edges. "But I wasn't told why. My business is north, and I have no time for riddles, priestess."

Kinvara tilted her head slightly, a small, knowing upturn at the corner of her lips that made his skin crawl. She stepped closer to the brazier, and her shadow stretched long and distorted against the tent wall, looking far larger than her frame should allow. "Time is a luxury for those who believe they have a future," she countered, her movements graceful and fluid. "Fire does not care for the passing of hours. It only cares for what is capable of being consumed, and what is destined to be forged anew. You seek a vision in the ice, but you forget that nothing truly dies in the north—it merely freezes until the thaw arrives to reveal its rot."

Jon took a step forward, his boots crunching on the packed earth of the tent floor. He felt the tension coiling in his stomach, a sharp awareness of every movement she made. "The North has its own laws," he insisted, though he knew how hollow it sounded even to his own ears. "I am tracking a presence that threatens the peace we fought so dearly to win. If you have information, share it. If you have nothing, I have a long ride ahead of me."

"Peace?" She laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. She reached out with a long, elegant finger to stroke the air above the flames, and sparks seemed to jump toward her touch before extinguishing in the frigid air. "You speak of peace as if it were a shield you could carry. Your quest is not one of restoration, little crow. The greenseer you seek belongs to an era that the flames would have washed away long ago. By hunting for him, you are reaching into the grave of history and inviting the cold wind to blow once more. You are not a savior; you are a catalyst for a burning that will reduce your world to ash."

Her tone shifted then, losing its playful mockery and taking on an edge of chilling conviction. She looked into his eyes, and for a second, he felt a vertigo so profound he had to brace his feet wide to keep from stumbling. It was as if he were staring into a furnace that stretched for miles, a depth of intent that far exceeded his own understanding of the duty he felt toward Bran. He realized then that she wasn't just talking about a threat; she was describing a total erasure, a necessity of destruction that she clearly believed in with every fiber of her being.

"Then what am I?" Jon demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He stepped closer, the heat of the brazier pushing against his leather doublet now, making him feel suffocated. "If I am a catalyst for destruction, why let me walk away? Why not strike me down here, where the fire is yours to command?"

Kinvara smiled, and this time there was no warmth in it at all. It was the smile of a predator watching a rabbit run into a trap. She moved her staff, the crystal at its tip catching the light and blinding him for a fraction of a second. "Because the wildfire needs a wick," she whispered, and the sound seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of his bones. "The prophecy does not belong to you, but you are the instrument it requires to prove its veracity. Go, find your ghost in the trees. You will discover that the truth has been waiting for you, sharpening itself on the silence of the woods. You will find nothing but the pyre of everything you ever dared to love, Jon Snow, and you will light the match yourself."

Jon felt the air in the room grow stagnant, the cold from outside beginning to bleed in again, dampening the fire’s intensity. He felt a sudden, frantic need to be away from her, to be away from the way her words seemed to weave around him, binding him. He had faced White Walkers and the dead, yet standing here, listening to her, he felt a deeper, more primal form of dread. It was the feeling of being a pawn in a game whose board spanned centuries, a board he could neither see nor comprehend.

He pulled his gaze away from her amber eyes, focusing on the dark silhouette of the tent entrance. He didn't want to hear more; the weight of her prophecy felt like a physical burden, pressing on his lungs. "I don't trust you," he said, his voice clipped, his jaw set hard as he turned his back on her to face the exit. He felt her gaze still on him, a heavy, radiating pressure between his shoulder blades that didn't let up even as he reached for the fabric flap. He stepped out into the night, the biting wind instantly numbing his cheeks, leaving him unsettled, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs in the darkness. «The Fire Long Night», part 3. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

The Red Priestess's Warning. The Fire Long Night — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

The Red Priestess's Warning

Valar Morghulis

King's Landing has fallen. Bran Stark rules a fractured realm, but a new threat looms—one born of dragonfire. He sends Jon Snow beyond the Wall to seek an ancient greenseer, a being who holds the key to preventing a second Long Night. But when Jon finally finds the greenseer, he stares into a face he knows better than any other: his own. The future warns of a world consumed by fire, not ice. Can Jon alter destiny, or is he doomed to become the very nightmare he seeks to stop?

The Fire Long Night — The Red Priestess's Warning

Parte 3: The Red Priestess's Warning