There it is. The button Byerly needed to press. The correct nerve to needle. Daryl's posture changes from cool, ambivalent, even relaxed, to... well, angry. Tense. His expression doesn't change much, but there's much more sharpness in it.

He doesn't care about Vor; he's only got the slightest understanding of what those are. But he knows the way Byerly talks. He understands the meaning of his tone, if nothing else. Just another piece of redneck trash. One day, they'll scrape you off their boots.

Daryl stands, staring down at Byerly. "Vor don't mean shit." And he aims a kick right at Byerly's stomach.