Tyrion Lannister straightened up in his chair. It was the end of afternoon and sunset was coming. The end of the day, though it was no end for him.
His duties as Master of Coin were tiresome, even more than those he had when he was acting Hand of the King it seemed.
In fact, Tyrion worked as hard as in these times, the difference was he couldn’t enjoy it. When he was acting Hand, people would bow before him, pay him respect even if they had none for him.
He was also able to neutralize his sweet sister schemes and plots against him.
He discovered that he was very good at wielding power and enjoyed it, even if that was to protect his repulsive nephew.
But he was also proud of what he did at this time, he felt useful for his family and, even more surprising, for the people.
His father had trusted him enough to name him at this position, going as far as calling him “son”.
Well, he hadn’t called him that, but for probably the first time he had acknowledged him as his son. Tyrion had wanted to prove himself worthy of House Lannister and he had.
He managed to control Joffrey more than Cersei would ever have been able and he saved the city, leading its defenses during the battle.
For that he earned his ugly scar… and the less desirable position on the Small council.
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