In truth, the moment King's Landing fell and the Targaryen dynasty crashed down, the nobles in the capital who supported Robert were eager to push him onto the Iron Throne immediately.
By all rights and traditions, the coronation should have been held right then, amidst the cheers of victory.
Among his supporters, a few, like his foster father Jon Arryn, truly had the best interests of Robert and the realm at heart. But the majority were driven by self-interest; after all, the rewards for crowning a king were naturally immense.
But Robert stubbornly waved them off.
A faint flame still burned in the depths of Robert's heart—he was waiting. Waiting for word from Ned. Waiting for his beloved Lyanna Stark to be escorted safely back to his side.
He had sketched that scene in his mind countless times: before all the lords of Westeros, he would not only be crowned King, but he would also wed his destined Queen, sharing that glory with her.
What came instead was news that struck his heart like a blade of ice.
Ned returned, bringing with him the crushing news of Lyanna's death, instantly shattering all of Robert's hopes and joy.
The wine of victory turned bitter; the crown of the future seemed meaningless. In the days that followed, immense grief swallowed him whole. He drowned himself in endless ale and melancholy, rejecting all proposals for a celebration.
It wasn't until time gradually dulled the sharpest edges of his pain, until Dragonstone fell and the unification of the realm was complete, and until Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, and others repeatedly pressed him with matters of state, that Robert finally managed to pull himself out of his stupor and accept reality.
During those days submerged in alcohol and memories, he had resisted all suggestions of coronation and marriage, as if sitting on that iron chair would be the ultimate betrayal of his lost love.
A king could grieve, but a kingdom could not be without an heir. The Seven Kingdoms waited with bated breath, needing a clear future. In the end, it was Lord Jon Arryn, shouldering the duties of the Hand, who came before Robert and broke through the King's wall of sorrow with unavoidable reality.
"Your Grace, the realm needs stability. The dynasty needs to continue," Lord Arryn's voice was steady and earnest. "Cersei Lannister, the only daughter of Lord Tywin, is your most suitable choice. This marriage will not only win the full financial and military support of the Westerlands but will also eliminate potential strife, uniting the kingdom as one."
He paused, then spoke another irrefutable truth. "Furthermore, looking across the Seven Kingdoms—bloodline, family status, age... there is no other noblewoman truly worthy of the position of Queen, no one else who can stand beside you."
These words, like a cold rain of reality, woke Robert from his immersion in the past. He remained silent for a long time before finally nodding heavily. The crown he had dreamed of sharing with Lyanna had become an inescapable duty, and Cersei Lannister was the only and inevitable choice to fulfill it.
Just as Tyrion had said, one might dislike her personality, temper, arrogance, and unreasonableness, but one would absolutely like her looks and figure. It just so happened that Robert was a man who appreciated a face and a body. He did not resist Cersei's beauty, nor her body. Though heartbroken over Lyanna's death, as a man and a King, in the long days to come, he would end up sleeping with a woman—or many—every night anyway.
Robert had long since accepted this...
---
When Jon Arryn finally persuaded Robert to accept this political marriage, the seasoned Hand immediately proposed holding the coronation and wedding as soon as possible. In his view, affairs of state were piling up, and every day the throne remained empty was another day of risk.
This seemingly reasonable proposal was rejected by Robert without hesitation. He stood up abruptly from his seat. The eyes that once burned with the will to fight now shone with a completely different light.
"When we raised our banners in rebellion," his voice was low and powerful, seemingly cutting through the smoke of countless battlefields, "it wasn't just me. Euron's Iron Fleet supported us at sea, Ned held the North, Oberyn responded at the Dornish marches... I may be the one sitting on this Iron Throne, but this glory never belonged to me alone!"
He looked around the council chamber, his gaze burning.
"If I don't see them at my coronation, what difference is there between Robert Baratheon and a lonely man? What a dull feast that would be!" His tone became unquestionable, carrying the authority of a king. "Wait! Wait until this winter passes completely. Wait until everyone can gather in King's Landing. Then we will hold this celebration. My glory should be shared with them."
These words were spoken with finality, carrying Robert's unique stubbornness mixed with boldness and loyalty. Jon Arryn looked at the King who had rekindled his old spirit, knowing further persuasion was useless. He could only sigh inwardly and push all arrangements back.
And so, this delayed coronation and wedding were set for the spring of 284 AC, when all things would revive. Only the place that should have belonged to his Queen was filled by another.
---
When the agenda for the coronation and wedding was finally put on the table and everyone asked Robert for his specific requirements for the celebration, the new King simply waved his hand indifferently.
"Rules? Procedures? You and the Maesters decide!" He laughed boldly, then his eyes lit up, as if returning to those hot-blooded days of rebellion. "I just want it lively! Make it grand! Let all of Westeros remember this day!"
He grew more excited as he spoke, slapping the table. "Right! We must hold a tourney to celebrate!"
Seeing everyone's surprised expressions, he reigned in his enthusiasm slightly, adding as if making a huge concession, "As for the scale... it doesn't need to be too big."
He rubbed his chin, thinking seriously for a moment, and finally found a suitable reference.
"Just make it twice as big as the Tourney at Harrenhal."
At these words, Jon Arryn's face instantly turned as black as the bottom of a pot. He took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, his voice squeezed through his teeth.
"Your Grace, the treasury's gold was long ago drained by the war. Even if there were any left, the Seven Kingdoms are in ruins—rebuilding towns, settling refugees, rewarding the armies—which of these does not require Gold Dragons?"
The old Hand emphasized his words with heartache. "What we need now is thrift, not a tourney that could bankrupt the realm!"
Under Robert's persistence—like a child demanding a toy—Jon Arryn finally sighed. Like an old father facing a willful nephew, he compromised helplessly.
"Very well, Your Grace," he rubbed his brow, his fatigue mixed with indulgence. "We will do as you say and hold a tourney."
However, the shrewd Hand had his own countermeasures. He strictly controlled the scale, sending invitations only to the Crownlands and a few neighboring houses. Distant great lords—like Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands—didn't receive even a word of notice.
As for the prize money, it was compressed to the extreme. Compared to the massive fortune at Harrenhal that could buy a castle, the prize pool of merely twenty or thirty thousand Gold Dragons seemed exceptionally shabby.
And so, a tourney nominally to celebrate the King's coronation and wedding began to be prepared quietly within a limited scope.