Daryl doesn't know what Byerly is saying. He understands the words, sure, but the rhythm holds little meaning. It's all a litany of senselessness, yet it's in a language Daryl understands: insults, one after another. It's in strange moments like this that grief catches up with him. Flailing in the snow with a drunk, Daryl thinks, Christ, he misses Merle.

Of course, he lands flat on his back. That's always how it is. He strikes out as soon as he can, aiming a firm kick for Byerly's face, his throat, anything. Daryl will fight dirty if he has to. Rage clouds his judgement. He wants to hurt this man.