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 {
      baseCost
      audioSurcharge
    }
  }
  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
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(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
  }
}


A long journey north from the wreckage of the capital had tempered the exhaustion of the road into a cold, hard resolve. The biting wind of the Wall was a familiar companion, stinging skin that had only recently known the humid, ash-laden air of the south.

Jon Snow stood in the center of the courtyard at Castle Black, his gloved hands adjusting the leather straps of a heavy pack lashed to the saddle of a thick-coated stallion. The snow swirled in lazy, dense flakes, coating his black cloak in a fine layer of white that he absent-mindedly brushed away. He drew a deep breath, the frigid air filling his lungs with the sharp scent of pine and impending ice, an austerity that felt almost comforting after the suffocating complexities of the Red Keep. His pulse was steady, measured, a stark contrast to the chaotic, shifting memories of the throne room that still clawed at the edges of his mind.

Ghost stood silent at his side, a massive, pale sentinel whose presence was less a weight and more a grounding force. The direwolf’s red eyes remained fixed on the activity in the yard, his ears twitching at the rhythmic thud of hooves against frozen mud and the sharp commands of stewards preparing provisions. Jon could feel the warmth of the animal’s flank pressing against his thigh, a silent tether to his own instincts when his thoughts drifted into the dangerous territory of prophecy and command. He checked the fastenings one final time, fingers working with practiced efficiency, tracing the worn leather and iron buckles. The weight of Longclaw at his hip felt like an extension of his own body, a finality of purpose that he had accepted in the shadow of Bran’s cold, all-knowing gaze.

He checked the saddlebag for the fourth time. The supplies were meager but sufficient for the initial leg: hard bread, dried meat wrapped in oilcloth, a whetstone, and the map he had been given. It was a chore, a mechanical process that helped keep his mind from circling back to the impossibility of the task ahead. Digging for a greenseer was like chasing a ghost in a blizzard; you could see the shadow of what you sought, but the moment you reached for it, the landscape shifted, and you were left clutching at empty, biting air.

He heard the familiar heavy crunch of boots on snow before he saw the source. The rhythm was uneven—a distinct, rolling gait born of years spent navigating the jagged terrain of the True North. Jon didn't need to turn to know who was approaching; the air around him always seemed to grow a little warmer, a little louder, whenever Tormund Giantsbane was nearby.

Well, you’ve got the look of a man who’s going to lose his toes before he reaches the first milestone, Tormund said, his voice booming with a rough, good-natured rasp that cut through the whistling wind. He stopped a few paces away, his massive form draped in furs that smelled of woodsmoke and old blood, the bone necklace rattling against his chest as he shifted his weight.

Jon offered a thin, tired smile, keeping his focus on the stallion’s harness. I prefer losing my toes to sitting still, Tormund, he replied, his voice low and raspy from disuse. He tightened a strap until the leather groaned under the tension.

There’s sitting still, then there’s throwing your life into a storm for a whisper of a dream, Tormund countered, his laughter erupting in a sudden, sharp bark that sent a flock of crows scattering from the battlement overhead. He stepped closer, planting a hand on the stallion’s rump, making the horse shiver. You’re quiet, even for a Crow. That look on your face—it’s the same one you had when you decided to march into a wall of ice to convince us the dead were coming.

It’s a different kind of march, Jon said, finally looking up. His grey eyes were weary but held an unwavering focus. Br—the King—he spoke of an ancient thing, a lingering knot in the history of the world. He said if I don't find it, the fire that took the South will eventually burn the North just as surely as the ice tried to claim it. I don't fully understand it, to be honest. It’s a feeling more than a directive, a need to reach beyond the known maps.

Tormund snorted, reaching up to stroke his thick, tangled beard. A feeling? That’s what’s sending you back into the land of giants and gods? You always were one for heavy burdens, Jon Snow. Most men would be drinking their weight in ale and forgetting the world existed, but you find a path to nowhere and call it a duty.

It isn't nowhere, Jon said, checking his own belt and ensuring his gloves were tight. It’s what must be done. Whether it’s a legend or a real threat, I can’t leave it buried. He felt the weight of the prophecy, so vague and yet so terrifyingly heavy, bearing down on him. I didn't ask for this, but I am the only one who can carry it.

Tormund laughed again, though this time the sound was softer, tinged with a strange, respectful amusement. He stepped around the horse, his missing fingers tracing the hilt of his own axe. You’re a stubborn fool, he said, his tone shifting toward a grim sort of camaraderie. You think you’re going to walk into the teeth of the North on your own, with nothing but that white beast and a handful of dried rations? The blizzard will eat you alive, and you won’t even have a beard to keep your face warm.

Ghost let out a low, vibrating growl, a sound that seemed to rumble from the very marrow of his bones. He turned his head toward the wildling, his red eyes narrowing in a flicker of recognition. Jon reached down, burying his hand in the thick, coarse fur of the direwolf’s neck, finding comfort in the solid, living warmth beneath his palm.

I’m going either way, Tormund, Jon said, his voice firming. He wasn't looking for company; he was prepared to face the silence of the journey alone. He had grown accustomed to the solitude, to the way the world seemed to shrink down to nothing but the task at his feet.

And I’m going with you, Tormund said, his grin widening, revealing a missing tooth. The wildling pulled his cloak tightly around his broad shoulders and stomped his feet to shake off the snow. You can be the martyr if you like, and play the hero searching for old ghosts, but you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you go alone. I’ve seen enough fire, and I’m damned if I’m going to stay behind while you go looking for more.

Jon paused, his hand resting on the pommel of Longclaw. He looked at Tormund, really looked at him—the scars, the weathered skin, the fierce, defiant light in his eyes that had survived battles and winters alike. The cynicism that had been shielding Jon’s heart for days flickered, a small, fragile spark of something like hope or, at the very least, recognition.

There’s no glory in this, Tormund, Jon said, his voice hardly above a whisper. It’s likely just a long, cold road to nothing.

Tormund stepped up to his horse, a rugged, battle-hardened mare that snorted at the scent of the direwolf. He climbed into the saddle with a fluidity that belied his age and bulk. Then let’s make it a memorable nothing, he declared, looking down at Jon with a smirk that felt like an anchor in a rising tide. I’ve got nothing but time, and you’ve got the most dangerous path. Seems like a perfect match for a fool like me.

Jon didn't answer immediately. He took a long, steadying breath, the cold biting into his cheeks, and swung himself onto his own mount. The saddle creaked under his weight, a familiar, grounding sound. He looked at the vast, white horizon beyond the gate, the gateway to a world that was as indifferent to his struggle as it was to the changing of kings.

He gave a sharp nod, a quiet admission that he didn't have to face the void alone. Ghost moved, trotting alongside the horse with a silent, measured power, his white coat a stark contrast against the dark, churned-up earth of the courtyard.

Jon gathered the reins in one hand, the leather straps biting into his palm through his gloves. He looked back at Castle Black one last time, an imposing structure that felt more like a tomb than a home, before turning his eyes firmly toward the North. He kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks, feeling the animal shift forward into a steady, rhythmic walk toward the gate.

Tormund pulled up beside him, his horse matching the stallion’s pace perfectly. The wildling’s presence was a physical weight beside him, a reminder that the world still held loyalties even when the purpose of the long road ahead remained shrouded in the biting mist of the North.

Jon Snow and Tormund Giantsbane mount their horses ready to depart.

A long journey north from the wreckage of the capital had tempered the exhaustion of the road into a cold, hard resolve. The biting wind of the Wall was a familiar companion, stinging skin that had only recently known the humid, ash-laden air of the south.

Jon Snow stood in the center of the courtyard at Castle Black, his gloved hands adjusting the leather straps of a heavy pack lashed to the saddle of a thick-coated stallion. The snow swirled in lazy, dense flakes, coating his black cloak in a fine layer of white that he absent-mindedly brushed away. He drew a deep breath, the frigid air filling his lungs with the sharp scent of pine and impending ice, an austerity that felt almost comforting after the suffocating complexities of the Red Keep. His pulse was steady, measured, a stark contrast to the chaotic, shifting memories of the throne room that still clawed at the edges of his mind.

Ghost stood silent at his side, a massive, pale sentinel whose presence was less a weight and more a grounding force. The direwolf’s red eyes remained fixed on the activity in the yard, his ears twitching at the rhythmic thud of hooves against frozen mud and the sharp commands of stewards preparing provisions. Jon could feel the warmth of the animal’s flank pressing against his thigh, a silent tether to his own instincts when his thoughts drifted into the dangerous territory of prophecy and command. He checked the fastenings one final time, fingers working with practiced efficiency, tracing the worn leather and iron buckles. The weight of Longclaw at his hip felt like an extension of his own body, a finality of purpose that he had accepted in the shadow of Bran’s cold, all-knowing gaze.

He checked the saddlebag for the fourth time. The supplies were meager but sufficient for the initial leg: hard bread, dried meat wrapped in oilcloth, a whetstone, and the map he had been given. It was a chore, a mechanical process that helped keep his mind from circling back to the impossibility of the task ahead. Digging for a greenseer was like chasing a ghost in a blizzard; you could see the shadow of what you sought, but the moment you reached for it, the landscape shifted, and you were left clutching at empty, biting air.

He heard the familiar heavy crunch of boots on snow before he saw the source. The rhythm was uneven—a distinct, rolling gait born of years spent navigating the jagged terrain of the True North. Jon didn't need to turn to know who was approaching; the air around him always seemed to grow a little warmer, a little louder, whenever Tormund Giantsbane was nearby.

Well, you’ve got the look of a man who’s going to lose his toes before he reaches the first milestone, Tormund said, his voice booming with a rough, good-natured rasp that cut through the whistling wind. He stopped a few paces away, his massive form draped in furs that smelled of woodsmoke and old blood, the bone necklace rattling against his chest as he shifted his weight.

Jon offered a thin, tired smile, keeping his focus on the stallion’s harness. I prefer losing my toes to sitting still, Tormund, he replied, his voice low and raspy from disuse. He tightened a strap until the leather groaned under the tension.

There’s sitting still, then there’s throwing your life into a storm for a whisper of a dream, Tormund countered, his laughter erupting in a sudden, sharp bark that sent a flock of crows scattering from the battlement overhead. He stepped closer, planting a hand on the stallion’s rump, making the horse shiver. You’re quiet, even for a Crow. That look on your face—it’s the same one you had when you decided to march into a wall of ice to convince us the dead were coming.

It’s a different kind of march, Jon said, finally looking up. His grey eyes were weary but held an unwavering focus. Br—the King—he spoke of an ancient thing, a lingering knot in the history of the world. He said if I don't find it, the fire that took the South will eventually burn the North just as surely as the ice tried to claim it. I don't fully understand it, to be honest. It’s a feeling more than a directive, a need to reach beyond the known maps.

Tormund snorted, reaching up to stroke his thick, tangled beard. A feeling? That’s what’s sending you back into the land of giants and gods? You always were one for heavy burdens, Jon Snow. Most men would be drinking their weight in ale and forgetting the world existed, but you find a path to nowhere and call it a duty.

It isn't nowhere, Jon said, checking his own belt and ensuring his gloves were tight. It’s what must be done. Whether it’s a legend or a real threat, I can’t leave it buried. He felt the weight of the prophecy, so vague and yet so terrifyingly heavy, bearing down on him. I didn't ask for this, but I am the only one who can carry it.

Tormund laughed again, though this time the sound was softer, tinged with a strange, respectful amusement. He stepped around the horse, his missing fingers tracing the hilt of his own axe. You’re a stubborn fool, he said, his tone shifting toward a grim sort of camaraderie. You think you’re going to walk into the teeth of the North on your own, with nothing but that white beast and a handful of dried rations? The blizzard will eat you alive, and you won’t even have a beard to keep your face warm.

Ghost let out a low, vibrating growl, a sound that seemed to rumble from the very marrow of his bones. He turned his head toward the wildling, his red eyes narrowing in a flicker of recognition. Jon reached down, burying his hand in the thick, coarse fur of the direwolf’s neck, finding comfort in the solid, living warmth beneath his palm.

I’m going either way, Tormund, Jon said, his voice firming. He wasn't looking for company; he was prepared to face the silence of the journey alone. He had grown accustomed to the solitude, to the way the world seemed to shrink down to nothing but the task at his feet.

And I’m going with you, Tormund said, his grin widening, revealing a missing tooth. The wildling pulled his cloak tightly around his broad shoulders and stomped his feet to shake off the snow. You can be the martyr if you like, and play the hero searching for old ghosts, but you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you go alone. I’ve seen enough fire, and I’m damned if I’m going to stay behind while you go looking for more.

Jon paused, his hand resting on the pommel of Longclaw. He looked at Tormund, really looked at him—the scars, the weathered skin, the fierce, defiant light in his eyes that had survived battles and winters alike. The cynicism that had been shielding Jon’s heart for days flickered, a small, fragile spark of something like hope or, at the very least, recognition.

There’s no glory in this, Tormund, Jon said, his voice hardly above a whisper. It’s likely just a long, cold road to nothing.

Tormund stepped up to his horse, a rugged, battle-hardened mare that snorted at the scent of the direwolf. He climbed into the saddle with a fluidity that belied his age and bulk. Then let’s make it a memorable nothing, he declared, looking down at Jon with a smirk that felt like an anchor in a rising tide. I’ve got nothing but time, and you’ve got the most dangerous path. Seems like a perfect match for a fool like me.

Jon didn't answer immediately. He took a long, steadying breath, the cold biting into his cheeks, and swung himself onto his own mount. The saddle creaked under his weight, a familiar, grounding sound. He looked at the vast, white horizon beyond the gate, the gateway to a world that was as indifferent to his struggle as it was to the changing of kings.

He gave a sharp nod, a quiet admission that he didn't have to face the void alone. Ghost moved, trotting alongside the horse with a silent, measured power, his white coat a stark contrast against the dark, churned-up earth of the courtyard.

Jon gathered the reins in one hand, the leather straps biting into his palm through his gloves. He looked back at Castle Black one last time, an imposing structure that felt more like a tomb than a home, before turning his eyes firmly toward the North. He kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks, feeling the animal shift forward into a steady, rhythmic walk toward the gate.

Tormund pulled up beside him, his horse matching the stallion’s pace perfectly. The wildling’s presence was a physical weight beside him, a reminder that the world still held loyalties even when the purpose of the long road ahead remained shrouded in the biting mist of the North.

Jon Snow and Tormund Giantsbane mount their horses ready to depart. «The Fire Long Night», part 2. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

Departure from the Wall. The Fire Long Night — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

Departure from the Wall

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 — Departure from the Wall

Part 2: Departure from the Wall