webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      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
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments {
    id
    media {
      id
      type
      origin
      status
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      generationError
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      activeGenerationJob {
        status
        currentStage
        id
      }
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  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
  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
  }
}


Arya Stark stepped into the inner sanctum, her boots silent against the damp stone floor. The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of frozen earth, ancient rot, and something sharper, like ozone before a lightning strike. Roots of the great weirwood tree protruded from the walls, pulsating with a faint, rhythmic glow that cast elongated shadows across the chamber. Her hand hovered near the hilt of the dagger at her belt, fingers twitching with a muscle memory that demanded lethal efficiency, yet she forced herself to keep her posture loose, the mask of the Faceless Men firmly in place.

Bran Stark sat upon a throne woven from tangled, white weirwood roots that seemed to meld seamlessly into the rock of the cave. He looked small, frail, and utterly detached from the coil of the world. His skin was pale as death, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones that echoed the Stark features, yet his eyes were lost in a blue, glassy vacancy that chilled her blood. She watched him, noting the way his hands rested motionless upon his lap, the skin translucent enough to reveal the blue veins beneath. He did not move as she entered. He did not seem to breathe at all.

She swallowed hard, the dryness of her throat a reminder of the miles she had traveled to reach this forsaken hole. She had come to perform a task, to sever a thread that had grown far too tangled, but the sight of the boy — her brother, even if the label felt like a splintering relic of a life burned to ash — made the cold iron of her training falter. I am nobody, she reminded herself, feeling the bite of the small coin hidden against her skin beneath her tunic. I am an echo of absence, a ghost sent to silence a prophet.

Yet, as she stepped closer, the weight of the silence became suffocating. The roots around Bran pulsed, and with every flicker of that ghostly light, he looked more like a statue and less like a living human being. He was no longer the boy who climbed walls; he was a conduit for a memory that stretched back to the first dawn. She wondered if anything of the Bran she once knew remained behind the mask of those wide, sightless blue eyes.

Arya, he said. The voice was soft, barely heard above the rustle of the roots in the ceiling, yet it cut through the cavernous silence with the precision of a scalpel. It did not sound like Bran. It sounded like an amalgamation of thousand-year-old echoes, resonant and layered. He did not look at her as he spoke, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere behind her left shoulder, perhaps even behind the solid stone wall of the cave.

Arya stood perfectly still, her heart hammering a fierce, irregular rhythm against her ribs. She tightened her grip on her cloak, pulling the fabric closer as if to shield her identity from whatever unnatural scrutiny he possessed. My name is no one, she replied, her voice steady, the Braavosi accent clipped and precise. You are mistaken, old man. I am merely a traveler seeking the source of the winter that refuses to end.

Bran finally shifted his head. It was a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, the tendons in his neck pulling tight beneath his pale skin. He turned his eyes toward her, and for a fleeting second, the terrifying blue hum dimmed, replaced by a momentary flash of something hauntingly human. It was the look he used to give her after she had scraped her knees climbing the walls of Winterfell, a mixture of amused resignation and silent observation. Recognition was a sharp blade, and it cut through her defenses as if they were made of parchment.

He did not speak immediately. He merely watched her, his gaze scanning her face not as a man looks at a stranger, but as an archivist cataloging a long-lost manuscript. You travel with the burden of many faces, he murmured, his hands finally lifting from his lap. They were pale, almost translucent in the dim, pulsing light. But your bones are still the bones of a Stark. You cannot shed the weight of your own blood, Arya. Never that.

She felt the sudden, desperate urge to turn and run, to bury herself in the darkest part of the forest and forget that she had ever come here. Stop that, she commanded, her voice cracking for the barest fraction of a second before hardening again. I am not the girl you remember. The girl you remember died in the fires of a world you seem to have forgotten how to save.

Bran tilted his head, his expression remaining as impassive as the stone beneath her feet. He ignored her rejection of her past, his eyes wandering to the dagger at her belt before returning to hers with a look of profound, chilling tranquility. You look at me and see an assassin, he observed, his tone neither judging nor forgiving. You look at me and see a threat to the world we once called home. But you do not look at me and see a brother who has already seen the end of this conversation a hundred times over.

She took an involuntary step forward, the gravel crunching loudly under her boots. If you have seen the end, she hissed, her hand dropping to the hilt of her knife, then you know why I am standing here. You know what I was sent to do. If you are so wise, if you see the lines of time like a weaver seeing the frayed ends of a loom, then you know that there is no room for sentiment in the work I do.

He smiled then, a small, sad movement of his thin lips that barely touched his eyes. It was a gesture of such familiarity that it hurt her more than any weapon could. Sentiment is a luxury of the blind, Arya, he said. You are not blind. You have learned to see, just as I have. You have learned to exist in the spaces between heartbeats. But you are still afraid of the truth. You are afraid that our family has become nothing more than a bridge to a catastrophe that you feel responsible for preventing.

She felt the heat rising to her cheeks, a fierce, indignant anger that was the only feeling she had truly mastered in years. She did not want to be a sister. She did not want to be a daughter of Winterfell. She wanted to be a tool, an instrument of justice that required no conscience. But he kept pulling at the strings, undoing the knots she had tied around her heart day by grueling day.

Do not talk to me of family, she snapped, stepping closer until she could see the minuscule cracks in his throne. You gave up that right when you sat on that chair of roots and let your soul drift into the currents of the past. You are a ghost, Bran. I am just the one who has come to see you to your grave.

Her hand curled around the cold, leather-wrapped hilt of her dagger. She could see his chest rise and fall, a shallow, rhythmic motion that felt utterly disconnected from the cold, calculating intelligence residing in his mind. He was so vulnerable, so impossibly still, and yet, the air around him hummed with a defensive ward that made the hair on her arms stand upright. He watched her hand as it moved, not with fear, but with a strange, clinical interest.

You cannot kill what has already seen how it falls, he whispered, his eyes widening. Look at me, Arya. Do not look at the assassin you have built out of fear. Look at your brother and tell me that your duty is worth the price of your blood.

She froze, her hand halfway to drawing the blade. The command hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. She stared into those eyes, trying to find the stranger he had become, but all she saw was the reflection of her own confusion, her own exhaustion, the flickering hope she had tried to starve into oblivion. She was caught in the gravity of his presence, a center of gravity that pulled her past and her present into a singular, agonizing point of collision.

She held his gaze, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She wanted to strike, to shut down the voice that was unraveling her resolve, but the sight of the weirwood pendant against his grey chest tethered her. It had been his once. It had been their father's before that. The weight of it seemed to anchor her to the stone floor, making the act of murder feel like a desecration of herself.

Look at me, he repeated, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, an echo of the boy who used to beg her to show him how to swing a blade. He leaned forward slightly, the throne creaking under the weight of the roots that cradled him. Look at me and decide if the loyalty you owe your order is stronger than the blood that pumps through your own desperate heart.

She felt a tremor run through her fingers. Her grip loosened, then tightened, then loosened again. The room seemed to expand, the walls of the cave receding into an infinite, shadowy abyss. There was no sound now, not even the distant drip of moisture or the rustle of the roots. Only the intensity of his blue, knowing gaze, a mirror reflecting the ruin of her own carefully crafted identity.

She looked at him completely, not as a target, but as a mirror. She saw the boy who had lost his legs and gained an empire of nightmares. She saw herself, the girl who had traveled to the edge of the world to lose her memory, only to find that memory was the only thing she had left. She felt the conflict roiling within her, a battle between the cold, sterile duty of the House of Black and White and the visceral, primal ache of Stark blood.

Bran’s eyes began to glow with a soft, ethereal light, the blue deepening into the terrifying, absolute crystalline color of the weirwood hearts. His expression went slack, losing the trace of recognition that had cut her so deeply. He was drifting away, moving into a space where she could not follow, a space where time was a storm of static.

I see it, he said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, haunting cadence that made her skin crawl. I see the choices you have made, and I see the choice you are making right now. You are not waiting for an order. You are waiting for permission to be whole again.

She shook her head, unable to speak, the words caught in the iron cage of her throat. She looked at him, searching for the brother she had come to kill, her expression a mask of raw, unfiltered grief and defiance. Bran didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't look anywhere but into the very center of her struggle.

Slowly, his eyelashes began to flutter, his consciousness retreating into the vast, interconnected web of the world's deep secrets. He let out a long, shuddering breath that stirred the air between them like a ghost, his head falling slightly back against the jagged bark of the weirwood throne. His eyes rolled upward until only the whites showed for a fleeting moment, before he finally closed them, signaling the start of a vision.

Arya Stark stepped into the inner sanctum, her boots silent against the damp stone floor. The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of frozen earth, ancient rot, and something sharper, like ozone before a lightning strike. Roots of the great weirwood tree protruded from the walls, pulsating with a faint, rhythmic glow that cast elongated shadows across the chamber. Her hand hovered near the hilt of the dagger at her belt, fingers twitching with a muscle memory that demanded lethal efficiency, yet she forced herself to keep her posture loose, the mask of the Faceless Men firmly in place.

Bran Stark sat upon a throne woven from tangled, white weirwood roots that seemed to meld seamlessly into the rock of the cave. He looked small, frail, and utterly detached from the coil of the world. His skin was pale as death, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones that echoed the Stark features, yet his eyes were lost in a blue, glassy vacancy that chilled her blood. She watched him, noting the way his hands rested motionless upon his lap, the skin translucent enough to reveal the blue veins beneath. He did not move as she entered. He did not seem to breathe at all.

She swallowed hard, the dryness of her throat a reminder of the miles she had traveled to reach this forsaken hole. She had come to perform a task, to sever a thread that had grown far too tangled, but the sight of the boy — her brother, even if the label felt like a splintering relic of a life burned to ash — made the cold iron of her training falter. I am nobody, she reminded herself, feeling the bite of the small coin hidden against her skin beneath her tunic. I am an echo of absence, a ghost sent to silence a prophet.

Yet, as she stepped closer, the weight of the silence became suffocating. The roots around Bran pulsed, and with every flicker of that ghostly light, he looked more like a statue and less like a living human being. He was no longer the boy who climbed walls; he was a conduit for a memory that stretched back to the first dawn. She wondered if anything of the Bran she once knew remained behind the mask of those wide, sightless blue eyes.

Arya, he said. The voice was soft, barely heard above the rustle of the roots in the ceiling, yet it cut through the cavernous silence with the precision of a scalpel. It did not sound like Bran. It sounded like an amalgamation of thousand-year-old echoes, resonant and layered. He did not look at her as he spoke, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere behind her left shoulder, perhaps even behind the solid stone wall of the cave.

Arya stood perfectly still, her heart hammering a fierce, irregular rhythm against her ribs. She tightened her grip on her cloak, pulling the fabric closer as if to shield her identity from whatever unnatural scrutiny he possessed. My name is no one, she replied, her voice steady, the Braavosi accent clipped and precise. You are mistaken, old man. I am merely a traveler seeking the source of the winter that refuses to end.

Bran finally shifted his head. It was a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, the tendons in his neck pulling tight beneath his pale skin. He turned his eyes toward her, and for a fleeting second, the terrifying blue hum dimmed, replaced by a momentary flash of something hauntingly human. It was the look he used to give her after she had scraped her knees climbing the walls of Winterfell, a mixture of amused resignation and silent observation. Recognition was a sharp blade, and it cut through her defenses as if they were made of parchment.

He did not speak immediately. He merely watched her, his gaze scanning her face not as a man looks at a stranger, but as an archivist cataloging a long-lost manuscript. You travel with the burden of many faces, he murmured, his hands finally lifting from his lap. They were pale, almost translucent in the dim, pulsing light. But your bones are still the bones of a Stark. You cannot shed the weight of your own blood, Arya. Never that.

She felt the sudden, desperate urge to turn and run, to bury herself in the darkest part of the forest and forget that she had ever come here. Stop that, she commanded, her voice cracking for the barest fraction of a second before hardening again. I am not the girl you remember. The girl you remember died in the fires of a world you seem to have forgotten how to save.

Bran tilted his head, his expression remaining as impassive as the stone beneath her feet. He ignored her rejection of her past, his eyes wandering to the dagger at her belt before returning to hers with a look of profound, chilling tranquility. You look at me and see an assassin, he observed, his tone neither judging nor forgiving. You look at me and see a threat to the world we once called home. But you do not look at me and see a brother who has already seen the end of this conversation a hundred times over.

She took an involuntary step forward, the gravel crunching loudly under her boots. If you have seen the end, she hissed, her hand dropping to the hilt of her knife, then you know why I am standing here. You know what I was sent to do. If you are so wise, if you see the lines of time like a weaver seeing the frayed ends of a loom, then you know that there is no room for sentiment in the work I do.

He smiled then, a small, sad movement of his thin lips that barely touched his eyes. It was a gesture of such familiarity that it hurt her more than any weapon could. Sentiment is a luxury of the blind, Arya, he said. You are not blind. You have learned to see, just as I have. You have learned to exist in the spaces between heartbeats. But you are still afraid of the truth. You are afraid that our family has become nothing more than a bridge to a catastrophe that you feel responsible for preventing.

She felt the heat rising to her cheeks, a fierce, indignant anger that was the only feeling she had truly mastered in years. She did not want to be a sister. She did not want to be a daughter of Winterfell. She wanted to be a tool, an instrument of justice that required no conscience. But he kept pulling at the strings, undoing the knots she had tied around her heart day by grueling day.

Do not talk to me of family, she snapped, stepping closer until she could see the minuscule cracks in his throne. You gave up that right when you sat on that chair of roots and let your soul drift into the currents of the past. You are a ghost, Bran. I am just the one who has come to see you to your grave.

Her hand curled around the cold, leather-wrapped hilt of her dagger. She could see his chest rise and fall, a shallow, rhythmic motion that felt utterly disconnected from the cold, calculating intelligence residing in his mind. He was so vulnerable, so impossibly still, and yet, the air around him hummed with a defensive ward that made the hair on her arms stand upright. He watched her hand as it moved, not with fear, but with a strange, clinical interest.

You cannot kill what has already seen how it falls, he whispered, his eyes widening. Look at me, Arya. Do not look at the assassin you have built out of fear. Look at your brother and tell me that your duty is worth the price of your blood.

She froze, her hand halfway to drawing the blade. The command hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. She stared into those eyes, trying to find the stranger he had become, but all she saw was the reflection of her own confusion, her own exhaustion, the flickering hope she had tried to starve into oblivion. She was caught in the gravity of his presence, a center of gravity that pulled her past and her present into a singular, agonizing point of collision.

She held his gaze, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She wanted to strike, to shut down the voice that was unraveling her resolve, but the sight of the weirwood pendant against his grey chest tethered her. It had been his once. It had been their father's before that. The weight of it seemed to anchor her to the stone floor, making the act of murder feel like a desecration of herself.

Look at me, he repeated, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, an echo of the boy who used to beg her to show him how to swing a blade. He leaned forward slightly, the throne creaking under the weight of the roots that cradled him. Look at me and decide if the loyalty you owe your order is stronger than the blood that pumps through your own desperate heart.

She felt a tremor run through her fingers. Her grip loosened, then tightened, then loosened again. The room seemed to expand, the walls of the cave receding into an infinite, shadowy abyss. There was no sound now, not even the distant drip of moisture or the rustle of the roots. Only the intensity of his blue, knowing gaze, a mirror reflecting the ruin of her own carefully crafted identity.

She looked at him completely, not as a target, but as a mirror. She saw the boy who had lost his legs and gained an empire of nightmares. She saw herself, the girl who had traveled to the edge of the world to lose her memory, only to find that memory was the only thing she had left. She felt the conflict roiling within her, a battle between the cold, sterile duty of the House of Black and White and the visceral, primal ache of Stark blood.

Bran’s eyes began to glow with a soft, ethereal light, the blue deepening into the terrifying, absolute crystalline color of the weirwood hearts. His expression went slack, losing the trace of recognition that had cut her so deeply. He was drifting away, moving into a space where she could not follow, a space where time was a storm of static.

I see it, he said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, haunting cadence that made her skin crawl. I see the choices you have made, and I see the choice you are making right now. You are not waiting for an order. You are waiting for permission to be whole again.

She shook her head, unable to speak, the words caught in the iron cage of her throat. She looked at him, searching for the brother she had come to kill, her expression a mask of raw, unfiltered grief and defiance. Bran didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't look anywhere but into the very center of her struggle.

Slowly, his eyelashes began to flutter, his consciousness retreating into the vast, interconnected web of the world's deep secrets. He let out a long, shuddering breath that stirred the air between them like a ghost, his head falling slightly back against the jagged bark of the weirwood throne. His eyes rolled upward until only the whites showed for a fleeting moment, before he finally closed them, signaling the start of a vision. «The Faceless Choice», part 4. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

The Meeting with Bran. The Faceless Choice — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

The Meeting with Bran

Valar Morghulis

Arya Stark has become a Faceless Man, sworn to kill without question. Her next target: the Three-Eyed Raven. But when she learns the Raven is her brother Bran—and that his death may prevent a catastrophe that would erase the Starks from history—her loyalty fractures. Will Arya fulfill her contract and save the world, or protect her family and risk everything?

The Faceless Choice — The Meeting with Bran

Parte 4: The Meeting with Bran