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
    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
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    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
      }
    }
  }
  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
  }
}


The stone chamber of Winterfell was a place of biting cold, even in the heart of summer. Brienne of Tarth sat on the edge of her narrow cot, the weight of her steel plate armor pressing against her thighs like the cold hand of a ghost. The single candle, perched precariously upon a rough-hewn wooden table, cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the uneven masonry of the walls. These shadows seemed to mock her, twisting into shapes of past failures and ghosts she had sworn to leave behind. She drew in a deep, ragged breath, the scent of damp stone and stale air filling her lungs. There was nothing here to offer comfort, only the oppressive silence that seemed to weigh heavier with each dragging second of the night. Her hands, calloused and scarred from years of gripping sword hilts and reins, rested heavily on her knees. She felt the dull ache in her shoulders, a legacy of long patrols and the constant vigilance required to protect those who barely acknowledged her existence.

She shifted, hearing the metal of her pauldrons scrape against the wall, a sharp, dissonant sound that set her nerves on edge. She had come here to rest, to find a moment of peace after the long, grueling days of training the new recruits in the courtyard, yet sleep remained a distant, elusive stranger. The solitude was supposed to be a reprieve, a chance to shed the persona of the sworn shield and simply be Brienne, but in the dark, the silence was only a mirror reflecting her own inner turbulence. She wondered if she would ever truly find a place to settle, a life that did not involve the perpetual threat of unseen enemies or the crushing weight of duty. A soft movement shifted the pillow behind her back, drawing her attention away from the dancing shadows. She frowned, her hand instinctively brushing the fabric. There was a slight irregularity in the softness of the wool, a hard edge that did not belong.

Brienne reached behind her, her fingers tracing the stiff, unmistakable texture of parchment. A flash of apprehension sparked in her chest, sharp and cold. She pulled the object out slowly. It was a letter, compact and folded with precision, its surface feeling curiously cold against her skin. Held up to the dim glow of the candle, the parchment revealed a black wax seal. Her breath hitched. The wax bore the imprint of a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, but beneath it, pressed with a strange, oily ink that seemed to repel the candlelight, was the unmistakable mark of the Three-Eyed Raven. A shiver traced the line of her spine. Why would such a message be left here, in the privacy of her quarters, shielded from the eyes of the guards? The silence of the room suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap closing in.

She turned the letter over in her hands, the weight of it feeling significant, almost prophetic. The candle flickered again, a sudden draft swirling through the room that she could not account for. She knew she should report this, that the proper course of a knight was to present this mystery directly to the Hand or at least to the guards stationed at the gate. Yet, some instinct, primal and warning, held her hand. She sensed, with a sinking feeling in her gut, that this was not a matter for official oversight. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she positioned the tip of her dagger against the wax. She had to know. The seal cracked with a sound like a bone snapping in the quiet room. She unfolded the parchment, the paper rustling like dead leaves in the frost.

Her eyes scanned the lines of ink, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words were not a request; they were an omen. You have served with honor, but duty has become a tether, the note began in a script that seemed to shift and blur as she looked at it. The text warned of a shadow encroaching on the peace they had fought so hard to build, and it spoke of the fundamental loss of choice that awaited them all. They come for the throne, not with banners, but with silence. To seek truth is to bargain your soul away. You are the architect of your own undoing, Brienne. Your path is set, and the choices you believe you make are merely the echoes of a design you cannot comprehend. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. The accusation, the sheer audacity of the words, hit her with the force of a mace to the chest.

She reread the lines, her vision tunneling as the implications took hold. It was a chilling realization that everything she did, every movement, every guard she posted or training drill she led, might be part of an orchestration she could not see. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps that echoed too loudly in the confined space. Was it true? Was she nothing more than a puppet dancing on strings held by an invisible master? The doubt gnawed at her, a parasite feeding on her sense of purpose. She pushed herself up from the bed, the steel of her armor clattering as she stood. She felt unsteady, as if the floor beneath her boots had tilted. She looked down at the letter again, the words burned into her mind. She could not leave it here. If someone came searching, this evidence would be the rope to hang her, or worse, expose her as a traitor to the very cause she held dear.

Her mind raced, trying to formulate a plan that would keep her secret safe. The letter needed to be hidden, somewhere no one would think to look, somewhere it would stay until she could understand what the Three-Eyed Raven truly wanted. She moved toward the center of the room, her boots heavy and slow on the stone. She looked toward her reflection in the dark, polished surface of her breastplate, seeing only a distorted, sliver-like image of her face staring back. Fear and confusion warred in her chest, a toxic cocktail that made it difficult to think clearly. She took a deep breath, forcing her hands to stop shaking. She had to be steady. She had to be strong. She was Brienne of Tarth, and she would not break under the weight of whispers.

She looked down at her belt, the leather thick and worn from years of use. It was the only part of her gear that she trusted completely, the only thing that felt like an extension of her own will. With a swift, decisive move, she tucked the letter behind the fastening of her belt, pressing it tight against the layers of padding under her mail. She felt the stiff parchment slide into place against her hip. It felt cold, a jagged intrusion against her skin. She tightened her belt, the leather digging into her waist, ensuring the paper stayed firmly trapped and concealed against her body. Her expression shifted as she did so, the initial shock replaced by a hardened, mask-like resolve. The confusion was still there, swirling just beneath the surface, but she tamped it down, locking it away behind the walls of her own discipline.

She stood there for a long moment, listening to the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, although the fire had long since burned down to glowing embers that provided more dust than warmth. She needed to be sure. She adjusted her tunic, smoothing the fabric over her armor to ensure that no telltale fold betrayed the presence of the document. She felt the structure of the paper through the leather. It was there, hidden, a dormant mystery against her skin. She looked toward the candle, its flame now low and guttering in the waning wax. One final movement remained. She reached out, her fingers closing around the wick, and pinched it firmly. The light vanished instantly, leaving the room plunged into a suffocating, absolute darkness. She stood there, unmoving in the blackness, her hand still resting over the spot where the letter was tucked into her belt, her expression hardening with both fierce resolve and the dark, gnawing confusion of a future she no longer recognized.

The stone chamber of Winterfell was a place of biting cold, even in the heart of summer. Brienne of Tarth sat on the edge of her narrow cot, the weight of her steel plate armor pressing against her thighs like the cold hand of a ghost. The single candle, perched precariously upon a rough-hewn wooden table, cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the uneven masonry of the walls. These shadows seemed to mock her, twisting into shapes of past failures and ghosts she had sworn to leave behind. She drew in a deep, ragged breath, the scent of damp stone and stale air filling her lungs. There was nothing here to offer comfort, only the oppressive silence that seemed to weigh heavier with each dragging second of the night. Her hands, calloused and scarred from years of gripping sword hilts and reins, rested heavily on her knees. She felt the dull ache in her shoulders, a legacy of long patrols and the constant vigilance required to protect those who barely acknowledged her existence.

She shifted, hearing the metal of her pauldrons scrape against the wall, a sharp, dissonant sound that set her nerves on edge. She had come here to rest, to find a moment of peace after the long, grueling days of training the new recruits in the courtyard, yet sleep remained a distant, elusive stranger. The solitude was supposed to be a reprieve, a chance to shed the persona of the sworn shield and simply be Brienne, but in the dark, the silence was only a mirror reflecting her own inner turbulence. She wondered if she would ever truly find a place to settle, a life that did not involve the perpetual threat of unseen enemies or the crushing weight of duty. A soft movement shifted the pillow behind her back, drawing her attention away from the dancing shadows. She frowned, her hand instinctively brushing the fabric. There was a slight irregularity in the softness of the wool, a hard edge that did not belong.

Brienne reached behind her, her fingers tracing the stiff, unmistakable texture of parchment. A flash of apprehension sparked in her chest, sharp and cold. She pulled the object out slowly. It was a letter, compact and folded with precision, its surface feeling curiously cold against her skin. Held up to the dim glow of the candle, the parchment revealed a black wax seal. Her breath hitched. The wax bore the imprint of a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, but beneath it, pressed with a strange, oily ink that seemed to repel the candlelight, was the unmistakable mark of the Three-Eyed Raven. A shiver traced the line of her spine. Why would such a message be left here, in the privacy of her quarters, shielded from the eyes of the guards? The silence of the room suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap closing in.

She turned the letter over in her hands, the weight of it feeling significant, almost prophetic. The candle flickered again, a sudden draft swirling through the room that she could not account for. She knew she should report this, that the proper course of a knight was to present this mystery directly to the Hand or at least to the guards stationed at the gate. Yet, some instinct, primal and warning, held her hand. She sensed, with a sinking feeling in her gut, that this was not a matter for official oversight. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she positioned the tip of her dagger against the wax. She had to know. The seal cracked with a sound like a bone snapping in the quiet room. She unfolded the parchment, the paper rustling like dead leaves in the frost.

Her eyes scanned the lines of ink, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words were not a request; they were an omen. You have served with honor, but duty has become a tether, the note began in a script that seemed to shift and blur as she looked at it. The text warned of a shadow encroaching on the peace they had fought so hard to build, and it spoke of the fundamental loss of choice that awaited them all. They come for the throne, not with banners, but with silence. To seek truth is to bargain your soul away. You are the architect of your own undoing, Brienne. Your path is set, and the choices you believe you make are merely the echoes of a design you cannot comprehend. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. The accusation, the sheer audacity of the words, hit her with the force of a mace to the chest.

She reread the lines, her vision tunneling as the implications took hold. It was a chilling realization that everything she did, every movement, every guard she posted or training drill she led, might be part of an orchestration she could not see. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps that echoed too loudly in the confined space. Was it true? Was she nothing more than a puppet dancing on strings held by an invisible master? The doubt gnawed at her, a parasite feeding on her sense of purpose. She pushed herself up from the bed, the steel of her armor clattering as she stood. She felt unsteady, as if the floor beneath her boots had tilted. She looked down at the letter again, the words burned into her mind. She could not leave it here. If someone came searching, this evidence would be the rope to hang her, or worse, expose her as a traitor to the very cause she held dear.

Her mind raced, trying to formulate a plan that would keep her secret safe. The letter needed to be hidden, somewhere no one would think to look, somewhere it would stay until she could understand what the Three-Eyed Raven truly wanted. She moved toward the center of the room, her boots heavy and slow on the stone. She looked toward her reflection in the dark, polished surface of her breastplate, seeing only a distorted, sliver-like image of her face staring back. Fear and confusion warred in her chest, a toxic cocktail that made it difficult to think clearly. She took a deep breath, forcing her hands to stop shaking. She had to be steady. She had to be strong. She was Brienne of Tarth, and she would not break under the weight of whispers.

She looked down at her belt, the leather thick and worn from years of use. It was the only part of her gear that she trusted completely, the only thing that felt like an extension of her own will. With a swift, decisive move, she tucked the letter behind the fastening of her belt, pressing it tight against the layers of padding under her mail. She felt the stiff parchment slide into place against her hip. It felt cold, a jagged intrusion against her skin. She tightened her belt, the leather digging into her waist, ensuring the paper stayed firmly trapped and concealed against her body. Her expression shifted as she did so, the initial shock replaced by a hardened, mask-like resolve. The confusion was still there, swirling just beneath the surface, but she tamped it down, locking it away behind the walls of her own discipline.

She stood there for a long moment, listening to the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, although the fire had long since burned down to glowing embers that provided more dust than warmth. She needed to be sure. She adjusted her tunic, smoothing the fabric over her armor to ensure that no telltale fold betrayed the presence of the document. She felt the structure of the paper through the leather. It was there, hidden, a dormant mystery against her skin. She looked toward the candle, its flame now low and guttering in the waning wax. One final movement remained. She reached out, her fingers closing around the wick, and pinched it firmly. The light vanished instantly, leaving the room plunged into a suffocating, absolute darkness. She stood there, unmoving in the blackness, her hand still resting over the spot where the letter was tucked into her belt, her expression hardening with both fierce resolve and the dark, gnawing confusion of a future she no longer recognized. «The Direwolf's Mark», part 1. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

The Discovery of the Sealed Letter. The Direwolf's Mark — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

The Discovery of the Sealed Letter

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 Discovery of the Sealed Letter

Part 1: The Discovery of the Sealed Letter