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
  }
}


The journey from the House of Black and White had been a long, numbing blur of gray horizons and saltwater, followed by the jagged, biting transition into the frozen silence of the North. Days dissolved into a repetitive cycle of travel, hidden camps, and the relentless, gnawing awareness of the scroll concealed against her skin, an anchor of parchment that felt heavier with every mile. Arya Stark trudged through deep snow on a mountain pass, her boots crunching rhythmically against the frozen crust of forgotten winters. The mountain pass was a desolate throat of stone and gale, winding upward into the breath of the world where the clouds scraped against the jagged peaks. She moved with the economy of motion ingrained by years of training, her shoulders set against the gusts that threatened to push her backward.

Her dark leather tunic, usually supple and quiet, felt stiff with the encroaching frost, the material groaning faintly as she lifted a knee to crest a rising drift of snow. The wind here did not just blow; it hunted, stinging her cheeks with crystalline needles that insisted on finding the smallest gap in her layered protection. Arya ignored the sensation, her focus compressed into a singular, cold point of intent. Her gray eyes narrowed, scanning the treacherous terrain ahead, looking for the telltale shifts in the ice or the unnatural geometry of a mountain path. She felt the weight of her cloak as it accumulated a dusting of white, the fabric pulling at her shoulders, but gave it no mind. Every step was a calculation, every breath a measured intake of air that burned the lungs but kept her alert.

She reached up, her gloved fingers fumbling momentarily with the clasp of her cloak, feeling the cold seep into the leather, before checking her weapons for the fifth time since dawn. The hilt of her dagger was cold beneath her palm, the familiar leather wrap a grounding texture in the chaos of the blizzard. She drew the blade only a fraction of an inch, the steel catching the dim, diffuse light, a sliver of darkness brighter than the ice around it. She pushed it back into place, the click of the sheath a soft sound swallowed by the wind. She checked the small coin on the chain around her neck, its metal biting into her skin, a reminder of who she was supposed to be: nobody, an instrument of an oath that now felt like a leaden chain around her heart.

Her steps slowed as the geography changed, the path narrowing into a squeeze between two monolithic slabs of granite. Here, the wind shrieked, bouncing off the stone faces in a discordant symphony of ice and howling pressure. She leaned her body forward, creating a brace against the gale, her muscles aching with the persistent strain of the incline. The physical toll was profound, a deep, radiating fatigue that made her bones feel hollow, yet she pushed on. There were no thoughts of hearths or fires, only the requirement of the mission. She pressed her hand against the rough stone of the mountain, testing its stability.

As she rounded a sharp bend in the pass, the air grew thinner, more stagnant, and the biting wind seemed to hold its breath for a fleeting moment. She paused, her boots sliding slightly on a patch of slick ice, and caught herself with an instinctive shift in weight. Looking ahead, she saw them: the gnarled, dark roots of a weirwood tree, protruding from the vertical face of the cliff like the veins of some buried titan. Their pale, translucent bark was stained crimson, contrasting violently with the surrounding white. She felt a shiver run down her spine, not from the cold—though the cold was absolute—but from the sudden, jarring recognition of the ancient power embedded in the mountain.

Arya crept forward, her feet finding purchase on the frozen earth between the roots. She moved closer, her hand straying to her belt, her fingers tracing the pommel of her weapon. The roots seemed to guard something, twisting into the rock face in a way that defied the natural erosion of the pass. They were silent, yet they felt watchful. She stood motionless for a heartbeat, listening to the silence of the high peaks, a silence so profound it made her ears ring. The isolation was total. There were no birds, no small creatures burrowing in the snow, only the suffocating presence of the mountain and the hidden, waiting space that the roots seemed to protect.

Her breath came in ragged, visible plumes, frosting the edges of her scarf, and she could feel the heat draining from her limbs. She did not know if the target knew she was coming, or if her arrival was already a scripted beat in a song she hadn't yet finished learning. She felt the internal struggle of her identity, the wolf snarling beneath the mask of the faceless, but she suppressed it with a practiced, brutal hand. She would fulfill the duty. She would reach the cave. As she moved closer to the thickest knot of the wooden fingers, she saw it: the dark, jagged fissure concealed behind the gnarled trunk of the tree. The entrance was a narrow mouth in the rock, exhaling a ghostly, frozen mist. Arya Stark reached the entrance of the concealed cave, shivering from the cold, her body trembling with the transition from the exertion of the climb into the static, heavy chill of the cavern's maw.

The journey from the House of Black and White had been a long, numbing blur of gray horizons and saltwater, followed by the jagged, biting transition into the frozen silence of the North. Days dissolved into a repetitive cycle of travel, hidden camps, and the relentless, gnawing awareness of the scroll concealed against her skin, an anchor of parchment that felt heavier with every mile. Arya Stark trudged through deep snow on a mountain pass, her boots crunching rhythmically against the frozen crust of forgotten winters. The mountain pass was a desolate throat of stone and gale, winding upward into the breath of the world where the clouds scraped against the jagged peaks. She moved with the economy of motion ingrained by years of training, her shoulders set against the gusts that threatened to push her backward.

Her dark leather tunic, usually supple and quiet, felt stiff with the encroaching frost, the material groaning faintly as she lifted a knee to crest a rising drift of snow. The wind here did not just blow; it hunted, stinging her cheeks with crystalline needles that insisted on finding the smallest gap in her layered protection. Arya ignored the sensation, her focus compressed into a singular, cold point of intent. Her gray eyes narrowed, scanning the treacherous terrain ahead, looking for the telltale shifts in the ice or the unnatural geometry of a mountain path. She felt the weight of her cloak as it accumulated a dusting of white, the fabric pulling at her shoulders, but gave it no mind. Every step was a calculation, every breath a measured intake of air that burned the lungs but kept her alert.

She reached up, her gloved fingers fumbling momentarily with the clasp of her cloak, feeling the cold seep into the leather, before checking her weapons for the fifth time since dawn. The hilt of her dagger was cold beneath her palm, the familiar leather wrap a grounding texture in the chaos of the blizzard. She drew the blade only a fraction of an inch, the steel catching the dim, diffuse light, a sliver of darkness brighter than the ice around it. She pushed it back into place, the click of the sheath a soft sound swallowed by the wind. She checked the small coin on the chain around her neck, its metal biting into her skin, a reminder of who she was supposed to be: nobody, an instrument of an oath that now felt like a leaden chain around her heart.

Her steps slowed as the geography changed, the path narrowing into a squeeze between two monolithic slabs of granite. Here, the wind shrieked, bouncing off the stone faces in a discordant symphony of ice and howling pressure. She leaned her body forward, creating a brace against the gale, her muscles aching with the persistent strain of the incline. The physical toll was profound, a deep, radiating fatigue that made her bones feel hollow, yet she pushed on. There were no thoughts of hearths or fires, only the requirement of the mission. She pressed her hand against the rough stone of the mountain, testing its stability.

As she rounded a sharp bend in the pass, the air grew thinner, more stagnant, and the biting wind seemed to hold its breath for a fleeting moment. She paused, her boots sliding slightly on a patch of slick ice, and caught herself with an instinctive shift in weight. Looking ahead, she saw them: the gnarled, dark roots of a weirwood tree, protruding from the vertical face of the cliff like the veins of some buried titan. Their pale, translucent bark was stained crimson, contrasting violently with the surrounding white. She felt a shiver run down her spine, not from the cold—though the cold was absolute—but from the sudden, jarring recognition of the ancient power embedded in the mountain.

Arya crept forward, her feet finding purchase on the frozen earth between the roots. She moved closer, her hand straying to her belt, her fingers tracing the pommel of her weapon. The roots seemed to guard something, twisting into the rock face in a way that defied the natural erosion of the pass. They were silent, yet they felt watchful. She stood motionless for a heartbeat, listening to the silence of the high peaks, a silence so profound it made her ears ring. The isolation was total. There were no birds, no small creatures burrowing in the snow, only the suffocating presence of the mountain and the hidden, waiting space that the roots seemed to protect.

Her breath came in ragged, visible plumes, frosting the edges of her scarf, and she could feel the heat draining from her limbs. She did not know if the target knew she was coming, or if her arrival was already a scripted beat in a song she hadn't yet finished learning. She felt the internal struggle of her identity, the wolf snarling beneath the mask of the faceless, but she suppressed it with a practiced, brutal hand. She would fulfill the duty. She would reach the cave. As she moved closer to the thickest knot of the wooden fingers, she saw it: the dark, jagged fissure concealed behind the gnarled trunk of the tree. The entrance was a narrow mouth in the rock, exhaling a ghostly, frozen mist. Arya Stark reached the entrance of the concealed cave, shivering from the cold, her body trembling with the transition from the exertion of the climb into the static, heavy chill of the cavern's maw. «The Faceless Choice», part 2. Fanfiction — Game of Thrones.

Arrival at the North. The Faceless Choice — Game of Thrones fanfiction | Fanfica

Arrival at the North

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 — Arrival at the North

Part 2: Arrival at the North