Blackwood House Game Of Thrones Novels & Stories

Lana's POV Blackwood Lodge was less a lodge and more a stone fortress grafted onto the side of a mountain. It was beautiful in a stark, lonely way, all sharp angles and thick, ivy-covered walls. The air was colder, thinner, and so quiet you could hear the wind mourn through the pine trees a mile away. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a very scenic prison. Dorothy, bless her, saw it as an adventure. “We’re in a castle, Lana!” she’d chirped, her little hands pressed against the cold glass of the massive living room window. “Are there dragons?”

Blackwood. Finally, the moment arrived. Zeke moved to the center stage. The lights dimmed, focusing a spotlight on him as he tapped the microphone. The room instantly fell silent and everyone’s eyes made their way to where he stood with a small smile on his face, eager to hear his speech. “Good evening, Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for your extraordinary generosity tonight, the Blackwood family is forever in your debt.” He began, his voice amplified, filling every corner of the vast room.

Blackwood Ridge rose out of the forest like a tombstone. It was a massive hunting lodge built from dark timber and stone, perched on a sheer cliff overlooking the valley. It had only one approach: a narrow, winding road that was currently covered in ice and lined with Iron Hounds. We crouched in the tree line, five hundred yards from the main gate. The army of freed wolves, Ashren’s Silver Creek warriors, and Gregor’s Green Valley troops waited in the shadows. They were silent, grim, and ready to die.

The Great Hall of the Blackwood Keep had become a battlefield of competing realities. On one side was the "Clean Room Protocol," a world of shadowless white glass and sterile logic. On the other was Lyra Thorne, a woman who had turned her own agony into a shield of violet shadow.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 The yacht lurched as a drone dived low with its slipstream rattling the mahogany panels of the cabin. The calm, bourbon-smooth face of Silas Blackwood finally cracked. He turned toward the navigation screen with his violet eyes narrowing at the digital image of Julian Thorne’s mocking face.

Upon arriving at the Blackwood main house, it felt deserted. Not empty—but eerily quiet, in an overly orderly way. The main building stretched out, flanked by north and south wings separated by a stone garden and a long glass corridor. Not to mention the other buildings, also grandly constructed—residences of Mr. Arthur's children, grandchildren, and in-laws. "The north wing," said Damian, pointing to the shadier building. I immediately followed Damian as he headed toward the north building of the Blackwood estate. Uncle Jasper and Aunt Amira lived there. So did Lily.

She was looking for a specific section: The History of the Northern Coast. She found it near the back of the room, tucked away in a corner where the shadows were deepest. She ran her fingers over the books until she found a thick volume with a dark blue cover. It was labeled with the Blackwood family crest—a silver tree with deep roots. When she pulled the book from the shelf, it felt lighter than the others. She laid it on a reading table and opened the cover.