Yjörlan the Mad

Yjörlan was the runt of his litter, small and sickly. Third born to King Valak. He barely survived to his adolescence, and had it not been for his mother and older brother, he would not have. He always strived for his father's love and acceptance, to hear his father say he's proud of him. He dreamed of being a king, of having his own pride. He strived for perfection, for greatness. Always being a meticulous planner, he was great in battle.
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By battle, of course, I mean beetle wars. While he was young, he would raise and train beetles. He barely ever lost, and when he did, he would learn from the enemy and become victorious in the next battle. He never liked to lose, but sometimes it is necessary. Yjörlan had approached his father one evening, though the conversation was mostly one sided. He explained his plans to his father, who then ridiculed him. His father said to him, "Be a king? How can you be a king, if you cannot even grow a mane? You are small, and weak. You wouldn't last an hour."
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Yjörlan was… Nothing. He couldn’t explain how he felt. He felt like everything he wanted was just ripped from him in a few sentences. Yjörlan was devastated, no, he was angry. He was furious. All through the week, every rise and fall of the sun. All he could feel inside his empty soul was rage. Yjörlan had noticed things now that he wasn’t so blind with his pride. His father never looked at him, never spoke to him, never wanted anything to do with him. Yjörlan, now driven by hate, crept into the den where his father slept, slaying him. The pride heard Valak’s pained roar, rushing in to see Yjörlan standing over the bloody king. He declared himself King, having slayed the previous.
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He now wears Valak’s skull as his crown.