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
  }
}


The shadows in the Great Hall seemed to swallow the light of the torches, stretching and contracting with an unsettling, fluid motion. Brienne stepped onto the cold flagstones, the rhythmic clink of her steel greaves sounding deafeningly harsh against the stone walls. Her heart hammered against her breastplate, a frantic, rhythmic protest that felt entirely out of place in the crushing stillness of the room. She had spent the morning in the sun-drenched courtyard, feeling the weight of the sword at her hip and the familiar, mundane anxieties of her duty. But the air here was different. It tasted of old parchment, damp earth, and something colder—a faint, metallic chill that clung to the back of her throat like a warning.

Ahead, sitting upon the dais, was the throne. It was not the jagged, imposing chair of history, but a simpler seat, yet it radiated an authority that felt heavier than steel. Bran Stark sat perfectly still, his frame thin and pale, his hands resting motionless on his lap. Beside him, Maester Orton stood as rigid as a sentry, his shoulders hunched, his grey robes blending into the gloom. A small, dark raven perched on the maester’s shoulder, its eyes reflecting the flicker of the wall sconces. Brienne felt an urge to check the sealed letter in her belt, a tactile reminder of the conspiracy she had sensed in the whispers of the halls, but she forced her hand to remain at her side.

She approached the dais, her movements formal and practiced. Each step required an effort of will. As she came to a halt, the echoes of her movement faded into the vast, vaulted ceiling, leaving a silence that felt curated, as if the hall itself were holding its breath. She looked up at the King, noting the sharp angles of his face and the unnatural stillness that defined him. There was no fidgeting, no shift of weight, no sign of the restlessness that plagued ordinary men. He simply existed, an anchor in a storm of uncertainties that Brienne could not name.

My King, she began, her voice sounding raspy in the sudden quiet. She felt the scrutiny of his unblinking gaze, a pressure that squeezed behind her eyes. I have come to speak of the realm, and of the clouds gathering upon the horizon that many fear to name. She paused, searching for the right words, for the language of duty that had always guided her path. I hear murmurs in the streets, and I see shadows in the corners of Winterfell. What is to be the future of this peace we have so dearly bought? Is the prosperity we currently enjoy the final destination, or is it merely a pause before a cycle restarts?

Before Bran could respond, Maester Orton stepped forward, his chains jingling with a dry, metallic rattle that set Brienne’s teeth on edge. The King’s time is bound by the requirements of the realm, he said, his voice cold and precise as a scholar’s decree. He recited the day’s burdens with a rote, practiced rhythm, mentioning the trade routes in the south, the grain stores in the Reach, and the administrative taxations that held the kingdom together. He spoke as if these were not just decrees, but the immutable laws of nature. One does not question the motion of the tides, Lady Brienne, nor does one question the necessity of the King’s path. The peace is maintained by the absence of variables. The King decides, and the kingdom follows.

Brienne looked from the maester to the King. The maester’s words felt like a cage, woven of bureaucratic necessity. She felt a surge of frustration, a desire to shake the complacency from their hollow faces. I do not question, Maester, she replied, her voice low and earnest. I observe. And I see a land that is growing quiet, too quiet. Is there no room for the voices of those who dwell outside the King’s design? My duty is to protect, but how can one protect against an shadow that the King refuses to acknowledge as a threat?

Bran finally shifted his head, a slow, unnatural movement that looked like the articulation of a wooden puppet. His eyes were dark, devoid of the sparkle or depth she remembered from the boy he had once been. They were opaque, reflecting the dim hall without recording a single detail of the room. It is a mistake, he said, his voice a monotone that lacked any inflection of warmth or warning, to perceive the future as a destination reached by choice. It is a path already walked. All paths are already walked. The storm you imagine is a draft from an open door long ago closed. There is no conspiracy, Brienne of Tarth. Only the continuation of what was, what is, and what must be.

He did not blink. The lack of movement was physically painful to witness. Brienne felt entirely naked before him, as if he could peel away her armor and look directly at the hidden letter, at her secret anxieties, at the very core of her doubt. Every fiber of her being urged her to retreat, to put distance between herself and the King’s unnerving, static presence. The intensity of his gaze was not predatory in the way of a wolf, but in the way of a stone that watches a river flow by, indifferent to what it drowns. He spoke as if he were explaining a mathematical equation, one that stripped his own humanity of all color and significance.

The logic was flawless, yet it felt colder than a winter thaw. Brienne realized then that she was not speaking to a man who shared a world with her, but to something that lived in the intervals between seconds. She felt the weight of her duty, usually her comfort, now transform into a leaden burden that threatened to pull her to her knees. Her knightly vows, once so clear, now shimmered with the fragility of a lie. The hall felt infinite, the distance to the doors suddenly impossible to traverse. Her breath hitched, her lungs struggling to pull in the, thin, stale air of the throne room.

She looked down at her gauntleted hands, trying to ground herself in the texture of the steel, the familiar scars on her knuckles, the reality of her physical form. She was flesh, blood, and doubt. He was marble, stillness, and certainty. The gap between them was not a bridge that could be crossed. She understood, in a way that chilled her marrow, that the peace in Westeros was not being built on consensus, but on the systematic dismantling of individual will. She had come seeking reassurance, a sign that the King knew of the unseen watchers and was guarding against them, but she found instead an indifference that was far more terrifying. He did not care about the threat because it was part of his own design.

She took an involuntary half-step backward, the sound of her metal heel scraping the stone echoing like a thunderclap. Every movement she made seemed amplified, an intrusion in the king’s static reality. She felt the weight of the air pressing against her shoulders, urging her to bow, to depart, to stop seeking answers that were not meant for her. The maester’s gaze remained fixed, his expression a mask of stern, judgmental expectancy, as if he were waiting for her to acknowledge the truth of what the King had said. The raven on his shoulder let out a low, croaking sound, a single note that vibrated in the hallowed hall.

I see, she said, her voice barely a whisper. She realized, with a sudden, sinking dread, that he was watching her not as a knight, not as a commander, but as a minor piece on a board he had laid out ages ago. The realization left her feeling small, exposed, and entirely unequipped for the world she found herself in. She had always believed in the power of service, in the nobility of the sword, but here, in the presence of the throne, it felt like she was protecting a dream that was already dead. The future he spoke of was a fixed, immovable thing, and she was but a witness to its inevitable, hollow progression.

She found she could no longer meet those vacant, dark eyes. She looked down at the hem of his grey robe, noting the frayed threads, the only honest, decaying thing in his orbit. She had no more to ask, for she realized that the truth she sought was not hidden; it was simply unimportant in the face of his detachment. The weight of the letter in her belt suddenly seemed to throb, an anchor of reality in a sea of static. She did not know what to do next, but she knew she could not stay. The hall was closing in, the geometry of it wrong, the shadows of the throne reaching toward her like grasping fingers. She felt the urge to turn and run, to break the silence with the sound of her flight, but the discipline of her armor held her limbs in place.

She felt that, should she blink, everything might shift, that the room would rearrange itself into something even more alien. She forced herself to maintain a facade of composure, though her heart felt as if it were shattering beneath her plate. There was no more to be said, for nothing could be changed by the breath of mortals moving against the tide of his will. The very stillness of the King felt final, a crushing weight that silenced her own voice. She felt as if she were dissolving into the vast, dark recesses of the hall, until the only thing left of her was the terrifying, sudden realization that she was entirely alone in this duty, and that the man on the throne was the one who had condemned her to that isolation.

She bowed stiffly and retreated from the hall, feeling watched by the King, his gaze like a cold, invisible hand tracing the space between her shoulder blades.

The shadows in the Great Hall seemed to swallow the light of the torches, stretching and contracting with an unsettling, fluid motion. Brienne stepped onto the cold flagstones, the rhythmic clink of her steel greaves sounding deafeningly harsh against the stone walls. Her heart hammered against her breastplate, a frantic, rhythmic protest that felt entirely out of place in the crushing stillness of the room. She had spent the morning in the sun-drenched courtyard, feeling the weight of the sword at her hip and the familiar, mundane anxieties of her duty. But the air here was different. It tasted of old parchment, damp earth, and something colder—a faint, metallic chill that clung to the back of her throat like a warning.

Ahead, sitting upon the dais, was the throne. It was not the jagged, imposing chair of history, but a simpler seat, yet it radiated an authority that felt heavier than steel. Bran Stark sat perfectly still, his frame thin and pale, his hands resting motionless on his lap. Beside him, Maester Orton stood as rigid as a sentry, his shoulders hunched, his grey robes blending into the gloom. A small, dark raven perched on the maester’s shoulder, its eyes reflecting the flicker of the wall sconces. Brienne felt an urge to check the sealed letter in her belt, a tactile reminder of the conspiracy she had sensed in the whispers of the halls, but she forced her hand to remain at her side.

She approached the dais, her movements formal and practiced. Each step required an effort of will. As she came to a halt, the echoes of her movement faded into the vast, vaulted ceiling, leaving a silence that felt curated, as if the hall itself were holding its breath. She looked up at the King, noting the sharp angles of his face and the unnatural stillness that defined him. There was no fidgeting, no shift of weight, no sign of the restlessness that plagued ordinary men. He simply existed, an anchor in a storm of uncertainties that Brienne could not name.

My King, she began, her voice sounding raspy in the sudden quiet. She felt the scrutiny of his unblinking gaze, a pressure that squeezed behind her eyes. I have come to speak of the realm, and of the clouds gathering upon the horizon that many fear to name. She paused, searching for the right words, for the language of duty that had always guided her path. I hear murmurs in the streets, and I see shadows in the corners of Winterfell. What is to be the future of this peace we have so dearly bought? Is the prosperity we currently enjoy the final destination, or is it merely a pause before a cycle restarts?

Before Bran could respond, Maester Orton stepped forward, his chains jingling with a dry, metallic rattle that set Brienne’s teeth on edge. The King’s time is bound by the requirements of the realm, he said, his voice cold and precise as a scholar’s decree. He recited the day’s burdens with a rote, practiced rhythm, mentioning the trade routes in the south, the grain stores in the Reach, and the administrative taxations that held the kingdom together. He spoke as if these were not just decrees, but the immutable laws of nature. One does not question the motion of the tides, Lady Brienne, nor does one question the necessity of the King’s path. The peace is maintained by the absence of variables. The King decides, and the kingdom follows.

Brienne looked from the maester to the King. The maester’s words felt like a cage, woven of bureaucratic necessity. She felt a surge of frustration, a desire to shake the complacency from their hollow faces. I do not question, Maester, she replied, her voice low and earnest. I observe. And I see a land that is growing quiet, too quiet. Is there no room for the voices of those who dwell outside the King’s design? My duty is to protect, but how can one protect against an shadow that the King refuses to acknowledge as a threat?

Bran finally shifted his head, a slow, unnatural movement that looked like the articulation of a wooden puppet. His eyes were dark, devoid of the sparkle or depth she remembered from the boy he had once been. They were opaque, reflecting the dim hall without recording a single detail of the room. It is a mistake, he said, his voice a monotone that lacked any inflection of warmth or warning, to perceive the future as a destination reached by choice. It is a path already walked. All paths are already walked. The storm you imagine is a draft from an open door long ago closed. There is no conspiracy, Brienne of Tarth. Only the continuation of what was, what is, and what must be.

He did not blink. The lack of movement was physically painful to witness. Brienne felt entirely naked before him, as if he could peel away her armor and look directly at the hidden letter, at her secret anxieties, at the very core of her doubt. Every fiber of her being urged her to retreat, to put distance between herself and the King’s unnerving, static presence. The intensity of his gaze was not predatory in the way of a wolf, but in the way of a stone that watches a river flow by, indifferent to what it drowns. He spoke as if he were explaining a mathematical equation, one that stripped his own humanity of all color and significance.

The logic was flawless, yet it felt colder than a winter thaw. Brienne realized then that she was not speaking to a man who shared a world with her, but to something that lived in the intervals between seconds. She felt the weight of her duty, usually her comfort, now transform into a leaden burden that threatened to pull her to her knees. Her knightly vows, once so clear, now shimmered with the fragility of a lie. The hall felt infinite, the distance to the doors suddenly impossible to traverse. Her breath hitched, her lungs struggling to pull in the, thin, stale air of the throne room.

She looked down at her gauntleted hands, trying to ground herself in the texture of the steel, the familiar scars on her knuckles, the reality of her physical form. She was flesh, blood, and doubt. He was marble, stillness, and certainty. The gap between them was not a bridge that could be crossed. She understood, in a way that chilled her marrow, that the peace in Westeros was not being built on consensus, but on the systematic dismantling of individual will. She had come seeking reassurance, a sign that the King knew of the unseen watchers and was guarding against them, but she found instead an indifference that was far more terrifying. He did not care about the threat because it was part of his own design.

She took an involuntary half-step backward, the sound of her metal heel scraping the stone echoing like a thunderclap. Every movement she made seemed amplified, an intrusion in the king’s static reality. She felt the weight of the air pressing against her shoulders, urging her to bow, to depart, to stop seeking answers that were not meant for her. The maester’s gaze remained fixed, his expression a mask of stern, judgmental expectancy, as if he were waiting for her to acknowledge the truth of what the King had said. The raven on his shoulder let out a low, croaking sound, a single note that vibrated in the hallowed hall.

I see, she said, her voice barely a whisper. She realized, with a sudden, sinking dread, that he was watching her not as a knight, not as a commander, but as a minor piece on a board he had laid out ages ago. The realization left her feeling small, exposed, and entirely unequipped for the world she found herself in. She had always believed in the power of service, in the nobility of the sword, but here, in the presence of the throne, it felt like she was protecting a dream that was already dead. The future he spoke of was a fixed, immovable thing, and she was but a witness to its inevitable, hollow progression.

She found she could no longer meet those vacant, dark eyes. She looked down at the hem of his grey robe, noting the frayed threads, the only honest, decaying thing in his orbit. She had no more to ask, for she realized that the truth she sought was not hidden; it was simply unimportant in the face of his detachment. The weight of the letter in her belt suddenly seemed to throb, an anchor of reality in a sea of static. She did not know what to do next, but she knew she could not stay. The hall was closing in, the geometry of it wrong, the shadows of the throne reaching toward her like grasping fingers. She felt the urge to turn and run, to break the silence with the sound of her flight, but the discipline of her armor held her limbs in place.

She felt that, should she blink, everything might shift, that the room would rearrange itself into something even more alien. She forced herself to maintain a facade of composure, though her heart felt as if it were shattering beneath her plate. There was no more to be said, for nothing could be changed by the breath of mortals moving against the tide of his will. The very stillness of the King felt final, a crushing weight that silenced her own voice. She felt as if she were dissolving into the vast, dark recesses of the hall, until the only thing left of her was the terrifying, sudden realization that she was entirely alone in this duty, and that the man on the throne was the one who had condemned her to that isolation.

She bowed stiffly and retreated from the hall, feeling watched by the King, his gaze like a cold, invisible hand tracing the space between her shoulder blades. «The Direwolf's Mark», part 3. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

The King's Audience. The Direwolf's Mark — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

The King's Audience

Valar Morghulis

After the Long Night, a scarred knight finds a letter sealed with a direwolf and marked by the Three-Eyed Raven. It warns that Bran's growing power will erase free will from every living soul. As whispers of a greater enemy emerge, Brienne must choose: trust the plea from a future Sansa or remain loyal to the boy who saved them all. What if the real war has only just begun?

The Direwolf's Mark — The King's Audience

Parte 3: The King's Audience