It had happened a long time ago.
He had been five-years-old, his face not yet distorted from those damned flames.
Sandor had been walking silently through the woods, or as quiet as a five-year-old could be as he swung his little wooden sword down upon tree branches, pretending that they were dragons or evil lords like he had heard in songs and stories.
He had been so young then, Sandor remembered, and he felt like millions of lifetimes had passed between that little boy who had wanted nothing more than to be a knight to the now grown up angry man who hated them from their shiny incrusted armor to their damned sers.
Nether-the-less, Sandor had been advancing on a lower tree branch, seeing instead a huge fiery dragon, when he had heard it.
It was an awful sound, well it had been to him back then, and he remembered jumping and swinging around trying to find the source. He remembered it had fell out of the sky, almost hitting him. It had scared the wits out of him, and he approached with his sword raised, getting ready to strike. Whatever he thought it could have been, Sandor could no longer remember, but he did remember that when he finally saw it, the thought was wiped from his mind and instead he saw a poor little bluebird thrashing on the ground.
It had the bluest feathers he had ever seen and its belly had been white with its throat the orange red of a peach. The bird's left wing had been twisted back, an arrow struck through it right between the bones of its upper tips. It had tried fluttering away when it saw Sandor approaching it, but couldn't because of the pain and instead it screeched horrifically, almost like it was begging for mercy.
Although now he probably would have just killed it without a second thought, he didn't then and instead felt sympathy for the bird. Sandor had knelt gingerly by it, carefully removing the arrow; the bird had nipped at him but Sandor had been able to get the damn thing out of its wing and hid it carefully in a bush.
He had never been complete fool, even back when he believed knights to be good and noble; Sandor had known that the only person who would be cruel enough to shoot down a nongame bird would be his elder brother Gregor. And if Gregor had figured out that Sandor help his prey get away, then the bird wouldn't be the only one with something broke.
Picking it up, the bird no longer tried to harm Sandor's fingertips and so he had held the bird in his hands. It had amazed him to see how small the bird was, it practically fit in only one of Sandor's hands. But that wasn't too bad of a thing since he was then was able to placed the bird in his pocket, hiding it completely, and then Sandor had quickly raced home.
He remembered that he took care of that damned thing like it was a child. From having seen stable hands and kennel masters heal dogs and horses, Sandor had carefully patched the bird's wing up in a sling and hid it under his bed, but not in a wooden box or such. It was a wild bird, and wild birds shouldn't be lock up in cages was what his pathetic excuse was for keeping it free.
Sandor remembered that he was overjoyed to see that his treatment was working and slowly the weeks past and the tiny bluebird had gotten steadily better, and with every day that past, the more Sandor had gotten attached to that bird.
He named it Skyburn, Sandor remembered. Why, he could no longer remember. He couldn't even remember either it was a girl or a boy, probably didn't even know, but that bird was his Skyburn and he loved that thing more then he liked to admit.
But Sandor could remember that it use to sing for him, whenever he was alone in his room fuming about Gregor or crying about a new bruise that he had gotten. It would chirp to him softly and sing him a sweet song that would always lift his spirits a bit. He also remembered how that thing walked; like a damn highborn or something, but that thing always walked with its head out and like it had nothing to be ashamed about.
But the day that Skyburn had healed fully had arrived; much to Sandor's disappointment, but he remembered that he was still going to let it go. Wild things weren't meant to be caged, he remembered he told himself. And when the time came, he had put Skyburn in his pocket and raced out of his room.
But Skyburn never got its chance to be free.
He had run into his brother on the staircase. Gregor had heard Sandor talking to his bird, and demanded that he take it out for him to see. Afraid, Sandor remembered that he did as he was told but begged Gregor not to harm it. Gregor promised, but like always, he broke his promise.
As soon as Sandor had handed Skyburn to him, Gregor gave it one swift look before snapping its neck in two. Sandor remembered his elder brother had handed Skyburn back into Sandor's hands, telling him never to take his stuff again. And he had left after that, leaving the five-year-old Sandor to look at his little bluebird be consumed by blood like a flame.
Sandor didn't know why he suddenly thought of Skyburn, but today, bring his little bird back to her room after her beating from Joffrey he suddenly realized how much she was like the bluebird.
Her deep blue eyes like its blue feathers, the fiery red hair like its red throat, the way they walked, their little singsong chirping, and both were two little birds that got hurt.
Wild things weren't meant to be cages; Sandor remembered his younger self saying as he put Skyburn into his pocket.
Maybe I wasn't such a fool after all, he thought, watching his little wild northern bird look broken but determined to live past the pain, I'll make sure they don't break your neck, little bird, he thought stopping as they reached her room, and I'll try to get you out of your cage. After all, you are a little red bird, and you aren't meant to be in this cage.