"This is Admiral William Adama," the President says, and there's an uncharacteristic roughness of tone when she says the man's name that makes Iroh think she is accustomed to a more familiar form of address.

"Good to meet you, General."

"It is an honour, Admiral."

Iroh smiles and their eyes meet over their firmly-grasping handshake, and that's all it takes for them to recognise each other as soldiers of the truest kind. It's a relief. Iroh admires Laura Roslin intensely and the woman has a way of letting her reddish hair fall across a white shirt that reminds him of certain firebending techniques, but she is no soldier.

"You have a son, I recall. An excellent commander?"

"My son is no longer a member of the military," the man says stiffly, and Iroh decides not to point out that he was making a comment about skill, not title.

Instead he says, "Ah. I have a nephew, myself -- currently at a most troublesome age," and he smiles again, and the atmosphere shifts from two soldiers to two men who have had to deal with adolescent males. Well and good, Iroh thinks.

Roslin laughs; accusingly, but without bitterness. "Maybe I should be grateful for never having been blessed with a son."

Iroh is still looking at the Adama. "You are blessed with a very capable head of state, I think," he says politely, testing, and the Admiral's face creases in pleasure. So Iroh adds, "And beautiful, too," just so he can watch the man cough and move an inch closer to the President, voicelessly and almost unconsciously defining the boundaries of his command.