Every other genre picks its hour. A wedding happens when it happens, in a room someone else booked.

Visiting a venue in good weather tells you little. The useful scout asks where the light goes if it rains, if the ceremony runs late, if the reception moves indoors. Knowing the fallback position in each room is worth more than any lens.
Tungsten uplighting against daylight through a window, with a coloured wash from the dance floor, produces skin tones that no single white balance will rescue. The practical answer is usually to commit to one source and let the others fall where they will, rather than trying to balance three.
Some rooms cannot be made to look good, and the time spent trying is time not spent photographing people. Recognising those rooms early and moving to a workable corner is a skill that reads as experience in the final set.
A photographer moving quickly with two bodies will come back with more than one carrying a complete kit and setting it up. Weddings reward mobility far more than optionality.
Once the lights go down the available-light approach stops working, and pretending otherwise produces a set that falls apart in the last third. Decide in advance how the evening will be lit, test it before the guests arrive, and accept that the look will change — a reception that matches the ceremony in tone usually means one of them was lit wrong.