The wealth coming in on the sleek ships has dwindled to scraps from hard won bargains. New treaties with the Earth Kingdom ensure trade rather than plunder. The two powerful nations are too intertwined to allow a complete break, however much some in the Earth kingdom might want it. Zuko spends hours poring over correspondence: trade agreements, reparations, repatriations.
This is his real work: carefully and patiently undoing some of the damage that was done; promoting trade and growth; finding homes and occupations for men who only knew war.
Outside his office, treacherous and spiteful whispers steal through the halls.
Zuko ignores it. He knows that his assassination is only a matter of time.
He works to forge a better future. He puts all of his strength and all of his wit into this end so that it might live on.
Some day, tomorrow or next month or next year, the poison or the dagger or the scorching inferno will find him. The headaches that already plague him will consume his mind and his gut. He'll sweat and bleed and expire on silk sheets and then all those elegantly dressed, perfectly formal courtiers will finally be able to bow their last formal bows to his pyre.