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 transition from the sleepless stillness of her chamber to the biting cold of the morning air brought little relief to Brienne of Tarth. Hours had passed since the discovery of the letter, and the weight of the parchment pressed against her ribs like a cold, iron blade, reminding her that every measured breath in Winterfell was now potentially a deception. As she stepped into the training courtyard, the heavy gray mist of the North clung to her cloak, muffling the world until it felt as though she were walking on the edge of the known earth.

She saw him near the rack of training weapons. Podrick Payne was hunched over, the rhythmic, metallic rasp of a whetstone against steel slicing through the thick silence of the courtyard. He worked with a meticulous, youthful intent, his brow furrowed in concentration. As Brienne approached, her heavy boots crunched against the frost-covered gravel, a sound that seemed disproportionately loud in the hollowed-out stillness of the dawn.

Podrick sensed her arrival before she reached him. He set the blade down with a gentle click and straightened, his eyes brightening with that habitual, earnest light that made Brienne feel at once protective and profoundly heavy-hearted. He wiped his hands on his tunic, his movements fluid and respectful, a living testament to a devotion that now struck Brienne as dangerously fragile.

"Ser," he said, his voice hesitant but welcoming, the morning chill catching in his throat. He offered a slight bow, his gaze dropping to the flagstones for a split second before returning to meet hers with hopeful curiosity.

Brienne halted, the damp cold settling into her armor. She looked over the courtyard, at the shadows where the walls converged in the mist. How long had these walls been watching them? How many of these small, ordinary moments were woven into the tapestry of the design she was forced to walk through? She felt an urge to reach out and touch the stone, to see if it felt like the cold, unyielding hand of a master, but she only adjusted the heavy leather of her belt, feeling the sharp corner of the hidden letter bite into her waist.

"The morning smells of change, Podrick," Brienne said, her voice low and grave, struggling to keep the tremor of her own unease from vibrating through her words. She gestured vaguely toward the surrounding towers, where the banners hung limply in the dead air. "Do you feel it? Even here, in the quiet places where we think ourselves unseen?"

Podrick blinked, his face twisting into a mask of mild confusion. He rubbed the back of his neck, the skin flush against his light tunic. "Change, Ser? It feels as it always does. The kitchens are busy, the guards rotate at the gates, and the tasks remain what they were yesterday. Perhaps it is just the fog."

He offered a small, tentative smile, trying to mirror the calmness he clearly expected to see on her face. To him, the world was a series of tasks clearly defined by a hierarchy that he never questioned. Brienne watched the way he tightened his stance, trying to look the part of the squire she had trained him to be. It was a role he played with such sincerity that it made her chest ache.

"There is a rhythm to Winterfell, it is true," Brienne replied, stepping closer until she could smell the faint scent of oil and horsehair clinging to his clothes. "But even the most practiced rhythm can be interrupted by a hand you cannot see. Do you ever wonder if your service is truly your own? Or if you are simply a weight added to a scale that balances things you cannot begin to comprehend?"

Podrick looked startled, his eyes wide and bright. He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching instinctively toward the sword he had been sharpening. "I serve, Ser. That is the nature of it. The King is wise, and the peace we hold is better than the fire that came before. If there are things I do not see, perhaps it is because I am not meant to bear such sights. I trust the path. I trust my duty."

His voice didn't waver, yet there was a soft, frantic quality to his words, a desperate need for the world to be as simple as he claimed it to be. He reached out to pick up the cloth, meticulously buffing a smudge of rust from the crossguard, as if the act of cleaning could scrub away the sudden shadow she had cast over their morning. Brienne watched his hands—the small nicks and callouses of a young man who had seen too much war but still clung to the notion that righteousness was a tangible armor.

"Trust is a heavy burden," Brienne said, her gaze drifting past him to the gatehouse. She thought of the letter, of the seal she had broken, and of the invisible, chilling eyes that surely looked down upon this very courtyard. The idea that someone else was orchestrating the movements of every soul in the North felt less like a thought and more like a fever, a sickness that had entered her blood.

"But a necessary one, surely?" Podrick persisted, his voice dropping into that quiet, respectful tone he used when he felt he was overstepping. He looked up at her, waiting for a nod of approval, for the familiar rhythm of command to return to their conversation. "If we are but pieces on a board, Ser, is it not our duty to be the best of those pieces? To ensure that the square we occupy is held with honor?"

Brienne felt the sharp, cold bite of the letter in her belt deepen. She looked down at him, at the brow furrowed by a naive optimism that she had once shared. It wasn't stupidity, she realized; it was an anchor. Podrick survived because he chose to keep his eyes on his blade rather than the horizon. He chose clarity over the suffocating, tangled truth of the masters.

"Honor is in the choice, not the position," Brienne whispered, though she knew the words were a hollow comfort. She felt a profound, aching distance between them—the gap between his desperate need for innocence and her forced, agonizing awareness of a larger, darker game. She felt the weight of her own history, the failures that had built her into the knight she was, and she wondered if the letter was the final price of that flawed service.

She realized then that her questions were only adding to his fear, and that fear would be the undoing of his dedication. He was not meant to see the seams in the world; he was only meant to survive within them. The dissonance in her soul, the knowledge of the watchful eye that turned men into puppets, was hers alone to carry. She had been searching for a shared burden, a confirmation that they were both being led astray, but finding his blind, earnest belief only confirmed her own terrifying isolation.

Brienne looked at him one last time, measuring the youth in his eyes against the cold reality of the task that waited in her mind. He was so far from the truth of their existence, and in that, he was truly free, however illusionary that freedom might be. She was the one who was shackled.

She let out a slow, measured breath that curled into the freezing air. The silence between them felt brittle, prone to shattering if she spoke a single word of what was in her heart. She couldn't tell him, wouldn't expose him to the same darkness that had consumed her peace of mind since the moment she opened that scroll.

"You are younger than you look, Podrick," she said finally, her voice steady and closed. She straightened her shoulders, pushing down the urge to confide in him, to ask him if he had felt the strange shifts in the air these past weeks. It wasn't fair to pull him into a war he lacked the steel to fight. She would bear it, as she had borne every other weight placed upon her duty.

"Go back to the smithy," she commanded, her tone dropping into the professional, clipped cadence of a superior. She needed him away from her, needed to preserve this simple, uncomplicated version of him, even if it meant lying to his face about the security of their world. "Finish the maintenance on the blades. We do not know when they will be needed again, but they must be ready."

Podrick immediately stood straighter, his confusion momentarily washed away by the familiar relief of an order. He saluted, a quick, sharp movement of his hand, and turned back to his work with renewed vigor, the rasp of steel once again filling the space between them. Brienne watched him for only a second longer, the dissonance in her chest quieted but not silenced. She turned away from him, her eyes fixed on the distant, fog-shrouded wall of the keep, her pace measured, her back straight against the unseen gaze she could feel crawling across her skin.

The transition from the sleepless stillness of her chamber to the biting cold of the morning air brought little relief to Brienne of Tarth. Hours had passed since the discovery of the letter, and the weight of the parchment pressed against her ribs like a cold, iron blade, reminding her that every measured breath in Winterfell was now potentially a deception. As she stepped into the training courtyard, the heavy gray mist of the North clung to her cloak, muffling the world until it felt as though she were walking on the edge of the known earth.

She saw him near the rack of training weapons. Podrick Payne was hunched over, the rhythmic, metallic rasp of a whetstone against steel slicing through the thick silence of the courtyard. He worked with a meticulous, youthful intent, his brow furrowed in concentration. As Brienne approached, her heavy boots crunched against the frost-covered gravel, a sound that seemed disproportionately loud in the hollowed-out stillness of the dawn.

Podrick sensed her arrival before she reached him. He set the blade down with a gentle click and straightened, his eyes brightening with that habitual, earnest light that made Brienne feel at once protective and profoundly heavy-hearted. He wiped his hands on his tunic, his movements fluid and respectful, a living testament to a devotion that now struck Brienne as dangerously fragile.

"Ser," he said, his voice hesitant but welcoming, the morning chill catching in his throat. He offered a slight bow, his gaze dropping to the flagstones for a split second before returning to meet hers with hopeful curiosity.

Brienne halted, the damp cold settling into her armor. She looked over the courtyard, at the shadows where the walls converged in the mist. How long had these walls been watching them? How many of these small, ordinary moments were woven into the tapestry of the design she was forced to walk through? She felt an urge to reach out and touch the stone, to see if it felt like the cold, unyielding hand of a master, but she only adjusted the heavy leather of her belt, feeling the sharp corner of the hidden letter bite into her waist.

"The morning smells of change, Podrick," Brienne said, her voice low and grave, struggling to keep the tremor of her own unease from vibrating through her words. She gestured vaguely toward the surrounding towers, where the banners hung limply in the dead air. "Do you feel it? Even here, in the quiet places where we think ourselves unseen?"

Podrick blinked, his face twisting into a mask of mild confusion. He rubbed the back of his neck, the skin flush against his light tunic. "Change, Ser? It feels as it always does. The kitchens are busy, the guards rotate at the gates, and the tasks remain what they were yesterday. Perhaps it is just the fog."

He offered a small, tentative smile, trying to mirror the calmness he clearly expected to see on her face. To him, the world was a series of tasks clearly defined by a hierarchy that he never questioned. Brienne watched the way he tightened his stance, trying to look the part of the squire she had trained him to be. It was a role he played with such sincerity that it made her chest ache.

"There is a rhythm to Winterfell, it is true," Brienne replied, stepping closer until she could smell the faint scent of oil and horsehair clinging to his clothes. "But even the most practiced rhythm can be interrupted by a hand you cannot see. Do you ever wonder if your service is truly your own? Or if you are simply a weight added to a scale that balances things you cannot begin to comprehend?"

Podrick looked startled, his eyes wide and bright. He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching instinctively toward the sword he had been sharpening. "I serve, Ser. That is the nature of it. The King is wise, and the peace we hold is better than the fire that came before. If there are things I do not see, perhaps it is because I am not meant to bear such sights. I trust the path. I trust my duty."

His voice didn't waver, yet there was a soft, frantic quality to his words, a desperate need for the world to be as simple as he claimed it to be. He reached out to pick up the cloth, meticulously buffing a smudge of rust from the crossguard, as if the act of cleaning could scrub away the sudden shadow she had cast over their morning. Brienne watched his hands—the small nicks and callouses of a young man who had seen too much war but still clung to the notion that righteousness was a tangible armor.

"Trust is a heavy burden," Brienne said, her gaze drifting past him to the gatehouse. She thought of the letter, of the seal she had broken, and of the invisible, chilling eyes that surely looked down upon this very courtyard. The idea that someone else was orchestrating the movements of every soul in the North felt less like a thought and more like a fever, a sickness that had entered her blood.

"But a necessary one, surely?" Podrick persisted, his voice dropping into that quiet, respectful tone he used when he felt he was overstepping. He looked up at her, waiting for a nod of approval, for the familiar rhythm of command to return to their conversation. "If we are but pieces on a board, Ser, is it not our duty to be the best of those pieces? To ensure that the square we occupy is held with honor?"

Brienne felt the sharp, cold bite of the letter in her belt deepen. She looked down at him, at the brow furrowed by a naive optimism that she had once shared. It wasn't stupidity, she realized; it was an anchor. Podrick survived because he chose to keep his eyes on his blade rather than the horizon. He chose clarity over the suffocating, tangled truth of the masters.

"Honor is in the choice, not the position," Brienne whispered, though she knew the words were a hollow comfort. She felt a profound, aching distance between them—the gap between his desperate need for innocence and her forced, agonizing awareness of a larger, darker game. She felt the weight of her own history, the failures that had built her into the knight she was, and she wondered if the letter was the final price of that flawed service.

She realized then that her questions were only adding to his fear, and that fear would be the undoing of his dedication. He was not meant to see the seams in the world; he was only meant to survive within them. The dissonance in her soul, the knowledge of the watchful eye that turned men into puppets, was hers alone to carry. She had been searching for a shared burden, a confirmation that they were both being led astray, but finding his blind, earnest belief only confirmed her own terrifying isolation.

Brienne looked at him one last time, measuring the youth in his eyes against the cold reality of the task that waited in her mind. He was so far from the truth of their existence, and in that, he was truly free, however illusionary that freedom might be. She was the one who was shackled.

She let out a slow, measured breath that curled into the freezing air. The silence between them felt brittle, prone to shattering if she spoke a single word of what was in her heart. She couldn't tell him, wouldn't expose him to the same darkness that had consumed her peace of mind since the moment she opened that scroll.

"You are younger than you look, Podrick," she said finally, her voice steady and closed. She straightened her shoulders, pushing down the urge to confide in him, to ask him if he had felt the strange shifts in the air these past weeks. It wasn't fair to pull him into a war he lacked the steel to fight. She would bear it, as she had borne every other weight placed upon her duty.

"Go back to the smithy," she commanded, her tone dropping into the professional, clipped cadence of a superior. She needed him away from her, needed to preserve this simple, uncomplicated version of him, even if it meant lying to his face about the security of their world. "Finish the maintenance on the blades. We do not know when they will be needed again, but they must be ready."

Podrick immediately stood straighter, his confusion momentarily washed away by the familiar relief of an order. He saluted, a quick, sharp movement of his hand, and turned back to his work with renewed vigor, the rasp of steel once again filling the space between them. Brienne watched him for only a second longer, the dissonance in her chest quieted but not silenced. She turned away from him, her eyes fixed on the distant, fog-shrouded wall of the keep, her pace measured, her back straight against the unseen gaze she could feel crawling across her skin. «The Direwolf's Mark», part 2. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

Consulting the Squire. The Direwolf's Mark — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

Consulting the Squire

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 — Consulting the Squire

Part 2: Consulting the Squire